Kelorus' Fictions

I’ve been passionate about writing for many years. Life (work and financial struggles) forced me to take a break, but now I’m back—more motivated than ever to keep creating stories that you’ll enjoy. Some of you may already know me from FanFiction.net or AO3, where I write under the name Kelorus. While I still love fanfiction, my goal is also to share original works, crafted to reach a broader audience. Your can support me on https://patreon.com/Kelorus_Fictions

[kelorusfictions]

✨ Welcome to Kelorus’ Fictions!

✨ Welcome to Kelorus’ Fictions! 📖 Read my fanfics on AO3 & FFN ⏩ Get early access & bonus chapters on Patreon 🖼 Check illustrations and extras here!

🔓 All main chapters are always free on AO3 & FFN — Patreon is only early access + extras.

Patreon’s not a paywall, it’s survival — health’s bad, money’s worse. Support keeps me writing and housed.

[kelorusfictions]

The Rise of the Warlock (HP AU) Chapter 06 : Heavy Responsibilities / Bonus Chapter 01 : The Marquess' Tribulations ✨

(Harry Potter Fanfiction — AU : Rise of the Warlock Rewrite)

⚠️ Author’s Note:

chapters 1 to 4 are available for on Fanfiction.net and Ao3..

Upcoming chapters are also posted in early access on Patreon: Support & Read Early. ✨ There is no paywall: every chapter will always be released for free. Patreon is just about timing — supporters are rewarded with early access 💜

Patreon’s not a paywall, it’s survival — health’s bad, money’s worse. Support keeps me writing and housed.

In the sixth Chapter, Harry Dumbledore (yes, he's been adopted) learns more about his lineages while the bonus chapters tell us more about Elisa before her death.

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Tale of the French Prince / Prince de France — Book 5, Chapter 02 and Bonus Chapter 01 ✨

“It seems our little duel is coming to an end. How regrettable.” — Jarax

In the bonus chapter available on my page, the famous duel between Jarax and Voldemort happens with its consequences on muggles and inhabitants of Little Hangleton.

As for Chapter 02 named Dreams and Deliberations, we learn more about Tellus, the truth and James Potter comes bearing a gift...

📖 The story is available on FFnet (up to Chapter 11 of Book 4): 👉 Read on Fanfiction.net and Ao3

🔥 All the next chapters (including this one) are already available in advance on Patreon: 👉 Support & Read Early on Patreon (so up to 6 chapters ahead)

⚠️ Important: All chapters will inevitably be posted for free reading — there is absolutely no paywall. Patreon is only about timing: those who choose to support me are simply rewarded with early access to the chapters. Everyone will always be able to read the full story in due course ✨

[kelorusfictions]

🍷🪙🔪Wine, Gold & Schemes : Book 7, Bonus Chapter 02 : The Wedding of Ashara and Vincenzo🍷🪙🔪

Westeros is not prepared for an Isekai that actually means something.

Wine, Gold & Schemes is an isekai that does not preserve canon out of politeness.

The MC is not here to observe. Not to comment. Not to gently “nudge” events.

He is here to break the board, replace the rules, and build something that was never meant to exist.

This story deliberately overturns canon — not through random chaos, but through economics, long-term planning, and consequences that cannot be undone.

📖 Chapters 1–6 of Book 7 are available to read on: – AO3 – FanFiction.net

📌 Wine, Gold & Schemes is now complete. The saga that began with intrigue, manipulation, and calculated disruption reaches its official conclusion here.

(Bonus chapters and additional content exist beyond the public release.)

⚠️ Content warning (18+) This bonus chapter contains an explicit smut section.

✨ And this is not the end.

The sequel, Steel, Gold & Salt, shifts the scale entirely: from schemes to empire-building, from political games to open rebellion, from avoiding canon… to rendering it irrelevant.

✨ Enter a Westeros where an isekai protagonist does not exist for flavour — but to change history permanently.

— Explicit excerpt below —

Ashara dissolved beneath the sensation, waves of pleasure racing through her like lightning. She felt herself climbing higher and higher, teetering on the edge. Vincenzo sensed it — and refused to let her fall just yet. Withdrawing his hand for a moment, he met her gaze, moistening his fingers before continuing.

Time itself seemed suspended. Torchlight danced along the curves of her body. He was firm as steel, yet deliberate, determined that she not only feel pleasure, but crave it. He was Vincenzo Bardatto — and he would not allow his wife to remember this night with anything but desire. Many women had cried out in his arms before. She would be no exception.

His hand returned, exploring more deeply now, moving with practiced rhythm, never neglecting the sensitive point that demanded constant attention. Beneath him, Ashara was lost in sensation, swept into the fever she had long imagined.

His mouth returned to her breast, drawing from her a cry louder than any before. A victorious pride flickered through him at her reaction.

Working now with three fingers, slowly preparing her, he continued his delicious torment, ensuring she would welcome him fully — without discomfort, guided only by warmth and longing.

“By all the gods… that feels good…”

Vincenzo released her breast and smiled. “By all the gods? Oh… such praise.”

[kelorusfictions]

🍷🪙🔪Wine, Gold & Schemes : Book 7, Chapter 11 : The Aftermath🍷🪙🔪

Westeros is not prepared for an Isekai that actually means something.

Wine, Gold & Schemes is an Isekai that does not preserve canon out of politeness. The MC is not here to observe, to comment, or to “nudge” events gently.

He is here to break the board, replace the rules, and build something that was never meant to exist.

This story deliberately overturns the expected course of canon, not through random chaos, but through economics, long-term planning, and consequences that cannot be undone.

📖 Chapters 1–4 of Book 7 are available to read on: – AO3 – FanFiction.net

📚 Wine, Gold & Schemes is now complete. The saga that began with intrigue, manipulation, and calculated disruption reaches its official conclusion here.

Later chapters — including Book 7 up to Chapter 11 and bonus chapters and images — currently exist beyond the public releases. Check my profile.

That said, the book is not entirely finished yet.

Before the eBook release, two bonus chapters will be published:

One covering the royal wedding of Robert Baratheon and Julia.

One focused on the marriage of the MC and Ashara, including an optional SMUT section, skippable without losing any plot-relevant information.

🌊 And this is not the end.

The sequel, Steel, Gold & Salt, shifts the scale entirely: from schemes to empire-building, from political games to open rebellion, from avoiding canon… to rendering it irrelevant.

✨ Enter a Westeros where an Isekai protagonist does not exist for flavour, but to change history—permanently.

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Mage – Book 3: Back already? ✨

Harry Potter’s story takes an unexpected turn in The Mage. This total rewrite throws most expectations straight into the bin.

📖 Chapters 1–14 of Book 2 are available to read on:

AO3

Fanfiction.net

📚 Book 2 is complete, and Book 3 is already underway. Later chapters — including Book 2 up to Chapter 16 and Book 3 up to Chapter 04 — currently exist beyond the public releases.

✨ Dive into a reimagined tale of Harry Potter, the Black family, and a magical world where nothing is ever quite as it seems… and where cosmic shifts leave lasting marks.

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Tale of the French Prince / Prince de France — Book 4, Chapter 14 ✨

“Power answers intention. Chaos answers impulse.”— Atlas Academy, Planar Conduct.

If Chapter 13 opened the door to the Multiverse, Chapter 14 shows how quickly a single human flaw can slam it in your face.

Adrien knew the Cup was trapped. He knew the enchantment was unstable. He knew he had to take the risk alone.

But jealousy moves faster than caution, and in the final heartbeat of the task, Henry’s impulsive grab turns a calculated danger into a magical disaster. The Portkey erupts, the plan collapses, and all three boys are hurled into a graveyard where a ritual is already unfolding.

⚜️ The moment when one spark of envy chuck the plan out of the road-plan.

📖 The story is available on FFnet (up to Chapter 7 of Book 4): 👉 Read on Fanfiction.net and Ao3

🔥 All the next chapters (including this one) are already available in advance on Patreon: 👉 Support & Read Early on Patreon

⚠️ Important: All chapters will inevitably be posted for free reading — there is absolutely no paywall. Patreon is only about timing: those who choose to support me are simply rewarded with early access to the chapters. Everyone will always be able to read the full story in due course ✨

[kelorusfictions]

The Rise of the Warlock (HP AU) Chapter 01 : The Fate of Elisa Potter ✨

(Harry Potter Fanfiction — AU : Rise of the Warlock Rewrite)

⚠️ Author’s Note:

All chapters are available for free reading on Fanfiction.net.

Upcoming chapters are also posted in early access on Patreon: Support & Read Early. ✨ There is no paywall: every chapter will always be released for free. Patreon is just about timing — supporters are rewarded with early access 💜

Patreon’s not a paywall, it’s survival — health’s bad, money’s worse. Support keeps me writing and housed.

Ballroom, British Ministry of Magic, London 31st October 1981

The festivities had been underway for at least two hours, organised for the occasion by the government under Milicent Bagnold.

The objective was simple enough: to reassure the wizarding public under the Ministry’s rule amidst the present unrest. People spoke of war only in hushed tones, whether in Britain or across the dominions. The British Ministry of Magic had retained the scale of Empire, unlike the Muggle world, which had long since shrunk into the Commonwealth.

And no matter where one lived, fear was universal stoked by the terror campaigns of Voldemort, the self-styled Heir of Slytherin and Dark Lord, and his Death Eaters. Things might have been brought under control early on, and the violence curbed, if not for the support of certain old families—those with seats on the Wizengamot—who chose to back him.

Worse still, many families, still haunted by the horrors of the previous war against Grindelwald, had chosen to look away. For the first five years, clashes were sporadic, almost tolerable. But something shifted. The semi-aggressive tactics turned lethal. Stunners gave way to hexes that killed without hesitation.

This change is what allowed Milicent Bagnold to win the 1980 election, rising to the highest office—Minister for Magic. Backed by Albus Dumbledore and Bartemius Crouch Senior, she enacted a new policy—decisive, brutal, and effective.

The Auror Office, along with the Hit Wizards, were authorised to use lethal force. A full pardon was extended for the use of Unforgivable Curses—so long as the target bore the Dark Mark.

The tide of this so-called war turned quickly, and Death Eater casualties began to mount. Among the most prominent was Evan Rosier, sole heir to Bertram Rosier. And now, a Ball was being thrown—to rally the troops and project the absolute strength of the Ministry of Magic.

“I’m surprised to see them here,” said Milicent, eyeing certain guests across the room.

Bartemius, watching the same cluster of familiar faces, gave a low, gruff noise of disapproval. Several families had turned up—families known to have sympathies with Voldemort, though nothing could ever be proven. That was the strength of the Death Eaters—their masks.

And with the Wizengamot having blocked legislation that would have required screening all Ministry entrants for the Dark Mark, there was no legal way to stop them—save for catching them red-handed.

“Trying to prove their innocence, perhaps. What do you think, Barty?” she asked, glancing at her son.

He nodded.

“That’s a direct order from that lunatic,” said the younger Crouch, voice level and precise. “And I don’t know how much longer I can stomach this charade, Father.”

Bartemius looked at his son, eyes shaded with regret. It had been his idea for Barty to go undercover, pretending to be a loyal Death Eater. In return, he’d allowed his son to continue his hidden relationship with Sirius Black.

Few knew the truth: Barty Crouch Junior was a spy. Only Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black (his secret lover), Bartemius, Milicent, Amelia Bones (Head of the Auror Office), and Alastor Moody (her deputy and Barty’s mentor) were aware of it.

The Potters approached the Minister and Crouch. Their footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor, the hall draped in deep violet and lit by suspended crystal chandeliers. They stood out amid the swirling silk and brittle smiles.

As always, their presence drew every eye. James carried himself with a natural authority—less arrogance than the ease of someone used to being followed. Lily, on his arm, stood tall and steady, her gaze sharp and ever-watchful.

Behind them walked Dumbledore, more silent than usual, observing without appearing to. He read faces, measured alliances, noted gestures between enemies. He understood these gatherings. They weren’t for celebration. They were for gauging fear.

Milicent welcomed them with a composed smile—the kind a woman wears after too many years of ruling among impatient men.

“We’re glad to see you, James,” she said, shaking his hand. “Your presence gives people hope. You represent something the Ministry can’t manufacture—belief.”

“I’d rather be needed as a soldier than paraded as a symbol,” James replied, voice steady.

Bartemius Crouch nodded slowly.

“You’re far more valuable alive and visible than dead in a ditch. The Dark Lord knows that. Every time he fails to kill you, his grip weakens. That’s its own kind of warfare, and you’re fighting it well.”

James didn’t look convinced, but didn’t argue. His eyes swept the hall, resting briefly on familiar faces—families he knew played both sides.

“And at the front?” he asked at last.

Bartemius exhaled through his nose.

“It’s shifting in our favour—which means we’re wasting our time here. Some families have lost their heirs—like the Rosiers. Others are simply hiding.”

James gave a single nod. No further details were needed.

Lily, meanwhile, had caught sight of someone across the floor—dark hair pinned back, a warm smile, and a vivacity out of place in a room like this. She crossed the distance with a confidence that only comes between old friends.

“Alice!” she called, beaming.

The two women embraced, relief softening their shoulders. They’d met at Hogwarts, bonded in the Order, and Lily had chosen Alice as Harry’s godmother.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Lily said. “Didn’t bring Neville?”

“No,” said Frank, appearing beside them. “Mum insisted on keeping him at the manor. You know Augusta—she reckons the old place has outlasted plagues, wars, and three goblin uprisings. She thinks it’ll hold against Voldemort too.”

James cracked a grin.

“If anyone can stare down a Dark Lord, it’s Augusta.”

For a moment, the conversation lightened. Almost felt like peace. But it didn’t last.

From the shadows of a nearby column, a figure emerged. Severus Snape was approaching. His robes seemed to devour the light. He cut through the crowd like it wasn’t there.

James spotted him immediately, jaw tightening. He remembered the pact: no public hostility—not in front of Lily.

Snape gave a brief bow to Dumbledore, then the Potters.

“Dumbledore. Potter. I apologise for the interruption—but I must speak with you.”

“Is it urgent?” asked Bartemius, already narrowing his eyes.

“Vital,” said Severus, flatly.

His voice had no tremor, no drama. It was the tone of a man who only spoke when it mattered.

Milicent stepped in beside them, hands folded, attentive. Before Severus could continue, Alastor Moody strode up, brisk and grim. His magical eye whirled wildly; his hand rested on his wand.

“Don’t know what you’ve come to say, Snape—but my scars have been burning for an hour. That’s never good.”

Severus held Dumbledore’s gaze. There wasn’t time to explain. He dropped his Occlumency shields.

Dumbledore understood immediately, reaching out with his mind. The memories rushed in—the Lestrange manor, Lucius Malfoy’s voice, anxiety in his expression, and the name: Peter Pettigrew.

When Dumbledore withdrew, he looked deathly pale.

“James,” he said, sharply, “where is Peter?”

“At home,” said James, caught off-guard. “He wasn’t feeling well. Why?”

Lily’s brow furrowed.

“My gran always said she didn’t trust him,” she added. “Said there was something… off.”

James gave a nervous chuckle, but it faded under Dumbledore’s stare.

“We have to leave. Now,” said Dumbledore. “Peter’s the traitor.”

The room fell still. The only sound left was the far-off music—out of sync with the silence that had fallen.

“You’re joking,” James said. “That can’t be. Peter? No. You’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” said Dumbledore. “Tonight’s Samhain. He’ll strike tonight.”

Lily had already gone pale. She understood before James did.

Milicent placed a firm hand on Bartemius’s shoulder.

“Go,” she said simply. “I’ll stay and maintain appearances.”

“Understood,” said Bartemius. “I’m coming with you.”

He turned to Moody.

“Gather the Hit Wizards. Meet us at Godric’s Hollow.”

“On it,” Moody grunted, vanishing into the crowd.

Dumbledore raised his wand, nodding once to the Potters. Severus fell in beside them without a word.

Together, they moved swiftly through the ballroom. Conversations fell silent around them. Eyes followed. The music continued, unsure of itself.

And when the great doors of the Ministry closed behind them, the Ball resumed—slowly, cautiously, as though nothing had happened at all.

Godric’s Hollow, English Countryside, A few minutes later – 31st October 1981

The Potters, accompanied by Albus and Bartemius, Apparated not far from the village’s central fountain. James staggered slightly as he realised they hadn’t landed where he’d aimed—and panic flared in his chest.

“There’s an Anti-Apparition barrier around the house!” he shouted, already breaking into a sprint.

The others took off after him, tearing down the cobbled lane towards the house now visible in the distance. Albus noted that Bartemius was keeping pace without difficulty, eyes fixed dead ahead.

“The Fidelius has been broken!” the old wizard called.

He was nearly matching James stride for stride, proof that age didn’t always blunt a wizard’s edge. Or perhaps it was simply the kind of speed born of war.

James, still running, realised Bartemius could see the house as well. The older man said nothing, eyes locked on a window on the upper floor.

Suddenly, he raised his wand.

“Down!”

A protective charm burst forth the same instant the upper storey exploded in a deafening roar.

The blast was so fierce that James and Lily were thrown to the ground, while Albus and Bartemius ducked behind the magical shield that absorbed the worst of the blast. Fragments of stone and wood rained around them, crashing to earth in a cloud of choking dust.

“Harry! Arthur!” Lily screamed, struggling to her feet.

“Gran!” James shouted, already running again.

They charged through the rubble like mad things, clambering over debris towards the shattered remains of the house. Bartemius and Albus followed, wands raised, moving with greater caution.

Despite the blast, no spells lit the air—no sign of Voldemort himself.

Something was wrong.

They reached the ruined entrance. The door had been torn clean off its hinges, half the roof caved in.

“Gran? Where are you?” James called out as he stepped inside.

He stopped dead.

The ground floor was in ruins. The walls were scorched, the furniture nothing but ash. Wood and glass littered the floor—but amid the wreckage, something still moved: part-melted animated sculptures, flickering faintly with life. Remnants of his grandmother’s transfiguration magic.

James recognised her style instantly. It was her work. Old Elisa Potter had stood her ground. Even weakened, she’d conjured something extraordinary. He had inherited his skill in Transfiguration from her.

“Save the admiration and get upstairs!” barked Bartemius, already climbing the broken staircase.

He was certain the explosion had come from above. That’s where they’d find Elisa and the children—if luck was still on their side. But even he had to admit, judging by the carnage, the Marchioness Potter had put up one hell of a fight.

He led the charge, Dumbledore right behind him. James followed at a run, Lily close behind. The portraits lining the walls were in an uproar, calling out for help. The loudest was that of an elderly man, pale with fright. Next to him, a sleeping figure slumped in a painted chair.

“Finally! Someone!” the old man shouted.

“What happened, Grandad?” James asked without slowing.

“That little bastard!” he snapped. “White as milk, with red eyes! Elisa took the children upstairs while he—he strolled around like he owned the place!”

A third painting, that of Paige Potter née Moody, looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“He stopped in front of us to deliver a monologue!” she huffed. “A monologue! Like some poncy theatre queen! Went on about his victory and his looks—absolutely unhinged.”

James stopped short as the pieces clicked into place. Lily, meanwhile, had turned to the portrait of Henry.

“She’s not dead,” she said, pointing at the slumped figure. “She’d be awake if she were.”

Albus and Bartemius paused. She was right.

“Or she’s bleeding out while we stand here having a chinwag!” Bartemius snapped. “Move!”

Wasting no more time, they continued the climb. With a sweep of his wand, Dumbledore cast a Reparo on the debris cluttering the landing. Broken shards and splinters leapt back into place, reforming the corridor in seconds.

They pressed on toward the nursery. The Potters had agreed with Elisa that if evacuation became impossible, that room would serve as a final stronghold, reinforced with heavy enchantments.

Among them: the Circle of Peace—a rare charm that sealed a room against entry for seven minutes. Its casting required complex ingredients and free-given unicorn blood, and demanded immense magical strength.

“For Merlin’s sake,” James muttered, “why didn’t we get the alert?”

Albus glanced sharply around the corridor as they advanced.

“Did Peter know about the alert?”

The silence that followed was answer enough. James’s eyes told the story—yes, he knew. He must have passed it on. Voldemort had likely deactivated the spell using the override phrase.

They reached the nursery. It was half in ruins. Again, Dumbledore raised his wand—but this time, the repair spell resisted. Whatever magic had been unleashed here was dark, ancient, and powerful.

But the Elder Wand was not a mere fable.

Dumbledore forced the spell through, and the room slowly reassembled itself, dust settling in thin clouds.

And then they saw her.

Elisa lay at the edge of a wide, red circle traced meticulously on the floor. The blood formed archaic symbols encircling two cribs. Within them, the children slept, bathed in pale light. Elisa lay outside the circle, her body exposed by the magic that had reknit the walls. Her chest still rose and fell.

Clutched in one hand was a shattered glass hourglass.

Before the circle lay a smouldering black cloak. Nearby, a wand—white, unmistakable—rested on the floor.

“Sweet Merlin,” James breathed.

He stepped forward, but Albus raised a hand to stop him. Lily, moving toward the children, froze at the same gesture.

“Wait!”

Bartemius had already noticed what had caught Dumbledore’s eye. A faint scratching sound—like claws on stone. Then a quiet squeak.

They all turned in unison.

Near an overturned chest of drawers, a rat trembled. Its fur stood on end, its eyes wild.

James didn’t think—he just moved. He crossed the room in one bound and kicked.

The rat flew across the room, landing on its back in a shower of sparks. Its body twisted, stretched—and in a blink, Peter Pettigrew lay where it had been, clutching his ribs and screaming in pain.

“You filthy traitor,” James growled. “I’ll kill you!”

Peter raised his hands in a pathetic attempt to shield himself.

“James, wait! I can explain!”

“I do hope your explanation is worth hearing,” Bartemius said, stepping forward, wand pointed directly at him.

Peter turned deathly pale at the sight of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Of all those present, he feared Bartemius most—not Dumbledore, not even James.

No, it was Crouch—the man known in whispers as “The Unforgiving Judge”—who haunted his nightmares. The Judge-in-Chief of Council of Magical Law.

Bartemius did not take his eyes off Peter. His wand remained level, unwavering, his stance straight and shoulders square. His face was unreadable.

Regardless of setting—even with a vanished Dark Lord and a dying aristocrat lying on the floor—he was still Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

There was no hesitation in him, no faltering at the unexpected. Every incident had to be logged. Every witness heard. Every crime filed and accounted for.

“You gave up a secret protected by a Fidelius,” he said, voice neutral. “Let me repeat it clearly, so you understand: you knowingly broke a high magical oath of protection. And you did so in service of a war criminal.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again, fumbling for words. His voice cracked.

“I… I didn’t mean… I didn’t want to… he made me—”

“A line I hear far too often,” Bartemius cut in, calm as ever. “But magic does not lie. The Fidelius broke. We saw the house. We entered. That means the Secret-Keeper spoke. You were the Secret-Keeper. The rest is just decoration.”

Peter turned a sickly white.

“You don’t understand what he is, sir. He can kill with a look, he can—”

“He can, yes. But you did. That’s the difference,” said Bartemius. “And it’s on that difference that I shall judge you.”

Dumbledore was no longer listening. He’d knelt beside the circle, placing a hand gently on the bloodied floor, eyes tracking the symbols and the path of crimson ink.

He had seen such rituals before—long ago, in books not kept in the standard Restricted Section of Hogwarts, but locked away beyond it. Old magic. Druidic. And Elisa’s father had belonged to a very ancient line—perhaps even Merlin’s own.

Not that anyone knew, not officially. Such things were never written down. Drawing attention to such bloodlines was to invite the wrong kind of eyes. After all, Merlin was a name held in awe. So were the Peverells… and the Pendragons—through Morgan le Fay, or rather, Morgan Pendragon.

“An exchange ritual,” he said quietly.

James looked up.

“What does that mean?”

“It means your grandmother traded her life for the children’s,” replied Dumbledore, without softening the blow. “It’s an old Druid rite. The first person injured by an intruder beyond the protective circle offers up their life before the next day begins. In return, all others are shielded.”

Lily looked down at Elisa. The old woman was still breathing, but each breath was thin and laboured.

“Why?” Dumbledore asked, eyes fixed on hers. “You knew the cost of such magic. Why this one, of all choices?”

Elisa parted her lips. Her voice was rough, cracked with weariness.

“Because it was my time, Alby. It had to be me. The hourglass stopped. Death comes for us all—and tonight, she came for me.”

She shifted her hand slightly, revealing the shattered hourglass clutched in her fingers. Dumbledore closed his eyes, a deep sorrow pulling at his face.

They had known one another since childhood. Elisa was older than Albus—by quite a stretch. She’d once been a professor at Hogwarts, filling in after Professor Figg had perished during the Goblin Rebellion.

Dumbledore had been her apprentice in all but name. Their friendship had grown quickly. He had even stood as best man at her wedding to Henry Potter.

Dumbledore raised his wand, his throat tight.

“Tempus.”

A glowing clockface shimmered into the air above them. 11:34 PM.

Bartemius flicked a glance at the magical clock, then at the old woman.

“She hasn’t much time left,” he said flatly. “We need her statement. Now.”

He turned back to Peter.

“As for you, Pettigrew, you will remain silent until I permit you to speak.”

Peter didn’t get the chance to argue. A Stunner shot from James’s wand and hit him square in the chest. He went rigid and fell back against the wall, frozen.

Bartemius nodded his thanks to James.

Lily, now kneeling by the cots, looked up.

“We need to get her to St Mungo’s.”

“No,” said Elisa, voice hard and final. “No Healer can return what I’ve already given. This kind of magic is like a contract. And it’s time to pay what’s owed.”

James clenched his jaw, eyes wet with fury and grief.

“There had to be another way, Gran. I—”

“There was,” she interrupted gently. “I told you Samhain isn’t a night for merrymaking. I told you not to go.”

James flinched, as though struck.

“The hourglass stopped after they left, didn’t it?” Dumbledore asked, his voice heavy.

She nodded slowly, her breathing slowing even further.

Dumbledore laid a hand on her shoulder.

“You could’ve told us.”

Elisa shook her head faintly.

“Alby, I still know my divination. There was only one other path.”

She glanced sadly at James, who stood frozen in guilt.

“All the other outcomes led to the children’s deaths. Don’t ask me why—I couldn’t say.”

Bartemius frowned.

“Your Sight is well documented, Marchioness Potter. If that is what you saw, I believe you. I only regret what it cost.”

She looked up at him.

“And by listening to me, you avoided a tragedy of your own.”

He bowed his head. It was she who had counselled him to draw closer to his son—when Barty Junior had begun to drift toward darkness.

She had never said outright what would’ve happened. But Bartemius had a fair idea. His son had a flair for extremism.

“I shall never forget it, madam,” he said, inclining his head.

She offered a faint smile.

“You’ll make a fine Minister of Magic. When the time comes, find your secretary in the Department of Magical Transportation. His bowler hat will be the sign you’re looking for.”

Crouch nodded, mentally noting the clue. He knew of only one man in that office who wore a bowler hat—a mild, unimpressive sort of wizard with ambition far bigger than his frame: Cornelius Fudge.

Always seen in the company of that secretary of his—Umbridge, the daughter of the old caretaker.

“Take my memories. It’ll be easier. I haven’t the strength to recount it all.”

Dumbledore nodded. He raised his wand to her temple. A silver strand, dense and shot through with a reddish shimmer, emerged and curled itself into a crystal vial he drew from his pocket.

He sealed it with a flick.

“It’s done,” he said. “They’ll be kept safe.”

“Good,” breathed Elisa. “Now… bring me Harry.”

Lily froze.

“Harry? What about Arthur?”

“Harry,” Elisa repeated, not looking at her. “Give him to me.”

Lily hesitated. She glanced at Dumbledore, then James. Neither spoke. They knew Elisa did nothing without purpose. At last, Lily stepped forward and handed over her firstborn.

Elisa took Harry into her arms with ceremonial care. She gazed at him for a long time.

“Henry,” she murmured. “That same brow… and that same way of sleeping. Like he’s still listening.”

James’s throat tightened. That’s why she’d always favoured Harry. Not because Arthur mattered less—but because Harry reminded her too much of what she’d lost.

Lily, despite herself, frowned.

“Would you like Arthur as well?” she asked gently.

“Harry is my heir,” Elisa replied. “Great things lie ahead for him. Oh yes.”

She drew him closer. Dumbledore glanced again at the clock. 11:57 PM.

She beckoned to Albus, and he leaned in close to hear her.

“You’ll look after him, won’t you, Alby?” she whispered. “They’ll be wrong, my poor Henry…”

Albus pulled back, unsettled by her tone, by what she might have meant. But before he could ask, the clock downstairs began to strike midnight.

And with the twelfth chime, Elisa Potter drew her last breath.

A silver glow burst around Harry—brilliant and blinding—and another, fainter, encircled Arthur.

“May Death welcome you in her arms, and carry you to your kin,” said Bartemius solemnly. “So be it.”

The others echoed his words.

James trembled. He was holding himself together by threads. The guilt gnawed at him, and he couldn’t meet his son’s eyes.

“What did she mean by heir?” a voice asked.

They turned—Alastor Moody had arrived, flanked by Hit-Wizards.

“My grandmother didn’t hold her title for show, Alastor,” James said, gathering himself. “She was sole heir to Count Felominus Fleamont… and last living descendant of Marquis Ominis Gaunt.”

The Auror captain looked down at Elisa, eyes narrowed.

Few knew she was his distant great-aunt. Perhaps the Potters were the last of their shared line.

“You mean the Gaunts—as in, those Gaunts? The ones He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named claimed descent from? The ones tied to Duke Slytherin himself?”

James simply nodded.

And in his mind, he recalled the odd trait his grandmother had always noticed in Harry—those strange, inherited features.

And his favourite toy: a little plush serpent that hissed when squeezed, covered in tiny Celtic runes.

Alastor remained silent for a moment. He’d seen his fair share of crime scenes, but this one was different. There was something lingering in the air—something ancient. He could feel the old magic left behind by the woman who’d cast it.

“In that case,” he said finally, “the body must stay here until the ritual Mediwizards arrive. She was Gaunt by blood, Potter by marriage, and Fleamont by birth. You don’t move a body like that without the proper rites.”

Bartemius nodded.

“I was going to seal the property regardless,” he said. “This is now officially a scene under the jurisdiction of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. No Auror, no matter their clearance, acts here without written authorisation from me. You’ll handle everything.”

Alastor gave a low grunt of irritation.

“She was family, Crouch. Of course I’ll handle it.”

“And make sure the traitor’s placed in an Animagus-secure cell.”

Dumbledore rose to his feet, tucking the vial containing Elisa’s memories into an inner pocket of his robes—the one reserved for things he could not afford to lose.

“I’m returning to Hogwarts,” he said. “I need to examine these memories straightaway. I must know exactly what Voldemort attempted, and what Elisa saw.”

Bartemius turned towards him.

“I’m coming with you. I won’t let evidence of this magnitude fall outside the authentication chain. There will be an investigation. There will be records. There will be a trial. I intend to make sure nothing is contestable.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “Then we go together.”

James looked up sharply.

“And us? What are we supposed to do?”

Bartemius regarded him seriously.

“You’re going to St Mungo’s. Immediately. You report the attack. You tell them your home was assaulted by You-Know-Who, that the Marchioness gave her life protecting the children, and that the traitor has been arrested. You do not mention the ritual. You do not mention the circle. You do not mention Druids. Is that clear?”

Lily nodded at once.

“Yes.”

James hesitated for a moment, then nodded too.

“Yes. All right.”

Dumbledore added, his voice gentler now:

“Lily, James—the world will be celebrating by morning. Be careful. Once word spreads that he’s fallen, the press will be relentless.”

Alastor growled under his breath.

“They likely know already,” he said, drawing their attention. “While we were passing through the Ministry, some wizards were clutching their arms—left forearms. Looked like they were in agony.”

They understood immediately. Voldemort’s defeat had rippled outward through his Mark.

“We’ll be careful,” Lily said quietly. “Maybe the Mediwizards at St Mungo’s can tell us more?”

“A sound suggestion,” Dumbledore agreed. “But don’t take their word as gospel. Even the best get it wrong sometimes.”

James nodded again, eyes fixed on Arthur in Lily’s arms. He still hadn’t looked at Harry, who now lay nestled in Lily’s other arm. She stared at the boy with a strange blend of awe and resentment.

Dumbledore noticed both their expressions. He understood what had unsettled them. Elisa’s final words had wounded. By naming Harry her heir, she had not only overlooked Arthur—but she had likely disinherited James of half his future estate, if not more.

Because lineage didn’t always equate to inheritance. Not in families like the Peverells. Or the Gryffindors. Some legacies had requirements.

“I want Gran’s body treated properly,” said James, eyes now on Alastor. “She’ll be buried next to Grandad. At the Potterie.”

Alastor gave a grunt. “The Potterie.” A plain name that disguised a place of enormous magical significance.

“Let’s move,” said Dumbledore, heading for the door. “There’s no time to lose.”

“I’ll stay,” said Alastor. “I’ll wait for the ritual Mediwizards. Stubbins!” he bellowed to one of the Hit Wizards. “Seal the perimeter! And if anyone gets within twenty paces of this house, I want them in a cell before they can say Quidditch!”

He lifted his wand and traced a series of glowing runes in the air, which settled softly around Elisa’s body. Slowly, a crystalline coffin formed, enclosing her in a luminous shell.

“She deserves the best,” said Alastor, voice gruff. “At least until the Healers get here.”

He signalled to two of the Hit Wizards who’d arrived behind him.

“Take Pettigrew to the Tower of Procedures. Full isolation. No contact, no visitors. Log the arrest time: 11:35 PM, Samhain night. Provisional charges: high treason during wartime through deliberate breach of Fidelius, active participation in a terrorist organisation, and conspiracy to overthrow magical governance.”

The two men nodded and lifted Peter’s petrified body like a parcel. No one spoke. No one protested. No one wept for him.

Lily held the children tighter.

“James. Let’s go.”

James took one last look at Elisa’s body. She looked utterly at peace within the crystal—like a figure from a fairy tale, a sleeping queen laid to rest.

“Thank you, Gran,” he whispered.

Alastor gave them a nod.

“St Mungo’s will want to put on a show. Take them straight to the protected ward. Tell them it’s a Ministry matter. I’ll come once the body’s cleared.”

“Understood,” said Lily.

She took James by the arm, and they Disapparated, carrying their sons in their arms.

The room fell quiet.

Only Dumbledore, Bartemius, Alastor, and the body of Elisa remained.

“We’re leaving,” said Dumbledore. “The sooner we see those memories, the sooner we’ll understand what he tried to do here.”

“And the sooner we control the narrative,” Bartemius added.

“Exactly.”

Alastor dropped onto a chair, which he righted with a flick of his wand.

“I’ll stay,” he said simply. “Bring me the death certificate. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“Thank you, Alastor,” said Dumbledore.

“She taught me my first Protego,” Moody replied, eyes still on the crystal coffin. “There’s no bloody way I’m leaving her alone.”

Dumbledore and Bartemius exchanged a glance. Then, without a word, they Disapparated—one to understand, the other to control.

The Potter home sank into silence once again, broken only by the footsteps of the Hit Wizards patrolling outside.

And Alastor Moody sat alone, watching over the woman who had once raised him when no one else had.

[kelorusfictions]

Wine, Gold & Schemes : Chapter 1 (1 of Arc 1: Braavos) : New Body, Old World and Poisoned Inheritance

Here's the first chapter of my Isekai Got/Asoiaf Fanfiction (already 57 chapters). This fictions is a crackfic, thus meant to be enjoyed for the fun and easy-going life of the main character:

POV MC (Vincenzo Bardatto) Master's Bedroom, Bardatto Villa, 285 After the Conquest (AC)

Bloody headache. That was the first thought that punched its way into my skull when I woke up. Felt like one of the dwarves from The Hobbit had gone to town on me with a warhammer—probably Dwalin, the bastard.

And just as I dared to crack an eye open, I slammed it shut again with a scream. The migraine had evolved into a full-blown cyclone, and it didn't take long to figure out why. A flood of memories—not mine, mind you, at least not ones I'd lived—crashed into me like a freight train. People say migraines feel like getting hit by a car. This? This was standing in the middle of a motorway and getting steamrolled by a convoy of lorries.

Thankfully, the pain eventually fizzled out, and I could begin to make sense of the mess.

Somehow—I couldn't tell you how—I'd landed in one of the few worlds I absolutely loathe. And to top it off, I had no clue why. Last night I'd knocked myself out with a couple of tramadol tabs—yeah, I'm an addict, sue me—and now I wake up in a bed the size of an indoor pool, draped in silk and satin, surrounded by goose-down pillows. Not some grimy bunk either—this thing was a four-poster monstrosity that looked like it cost ten months of my salary, easy.

Luckily, the memories started to click. Turns out I'm the only son of some ludicrously wealthy merchant in Braavos. And when I say wealthy, I mean the kind that would make Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos sob with envy. My "father" was named Atello Bardatto—dealt in spices, owned a chunk of the Arsenal, and ran a fleet big enough to make most admirals sweat.

The cherry on top? The Bardattos are one of the twenty-three founding families of the Iron Bank. So naturally, I now live in a bloody mansion overlooking the Purple Harbour.

Bad news? Well, judging from how I "received" these memories, the poor bastard whose life I've hijacked is probably dead—soul-dead, metaphysically wiped. I experienced everything from a third-person view, so clearly, they weren't my memories. Meaning my soul replaced his. Vincenzo Bardatto, apparently.

Also, what a shite name. No offence to lovers of Latin, Spanish, or Italian-sounding names, but surely we could've done better. I'd have preferred something French—since I was French… I think? Gods, this whole situation's a bloody labyrinth.

Second piece of bad—or possibly good—news: dear old dad's dead. Slipped a week ago on one of the countless staircases in this marble-coated deathtrap of a villa and cracked his skull like an egg. Not surprising, really—everything's polished stone, from the floor to the railings. One wrong step and you're décor.

Still, things could've been worse. I'd always fancied the idea of reincarnating in another world—read enough stories about it, sounded like a laugh. Though I wasn't exactly hoping for Martin's world of all places. Trust my luck to land in one of the few universes where the mortality rate's worse than a hooker's dignity on a Friday night at the Bois de Boulogne.

Putting those cheerful thoughts aside, I decided to get up. Took me a moment to escape the cocoon of decadence—layers of silk and drapes, so much it was almost obscene. I waddled out like a newborn deer and promptly choked on my own spit when I caught sight of myself.

There was a full-length mirror across from the bed. My reflection? Golden, wavy hair framing a face sculpted like some artist had poured all their genius into it. My skin gleamed like polished bronze. But the eyes—those eyes. Twin sapphires laced with molten gold, so piercing and divine it was almost sacrilegious. No wonder Vincenzo had been shagging everything that moved—people probably collapsed at the sight of him.

And the body? Let's just say the ancient Greeks would've snapped their chisels in shame. Like a statue, but living, breathing… and well-endowed. Thankfully, this sculptor hadn't skimped on that department.

I rummaged through the wardrobe and picked out a sleek black silk shirt, black leather trousers, tall boots, and a purple belt with a golden buckle. Not exactly flamboyant, but according to the memories, colour was for peasants. The rich wore grey, purple, navy, black—hues of control and quiet power.

A few knocks at the door, followed by a voice:

"My lord? May I come in?"

Recognised it instantly—my steward, or whatever passed for one here.

"Of course, come in!" I called.

He stepped in, elderly and modestly dressed. From the memories, he'd raised me since my mother—Ezzali Bardatto, née Valera—died in childbirth along with the baby. Father had been shattered, retreating into business and neglecting me completely while keeping his trade empire afloat.

"Are you all right, my lord?"

I blinked a few times before meeting his gaze—he must've noticed me spacing out. Need to stop doing that or he'll catch on.

"Just… thinking about father. The funeral was beautiful, wasn't it?"

Apparently Vincenzo had buried dear papa yesterday and then drank himself into oblivion. Maybe that's when I slipped in. He probably died in a drunken haze while I was knocked out on pills.

"A fine tribute, my lord. Though, if I may…"

"My father wouldn't have wanted me drinking like a fish?"

Caspar—his name, now I remembered—nodded solemnly, shooting me a disappointed look. Oi! Not my fault, blame the last guy. But he couldn't know that, could he?

"I swear it won't happen again. It was a one-time thing."

"If you say so," he replied, voice dripping with doubt.

I sighed inwardly. Convincing him was going to be an uphill battle. My predecessor—Vincenzo—had been a full-time libertine, party animal, and serial bed-hopper. Well, bed, chaise, barn, gods know what else. I had a hazy memory involving a goat…

"Would you like me to bring you a tonic, my lord?"

"A tonic?" I asked, not quite getting it.

What, for my hair? Because apart from that and Schweppes, I didn't really know any other kind.

"For your headache, after all that alcohol," he said, voice perfectly neutral.

Ah. Couldn't he just say hangover like normal people? Then again, thinking about it, that word probably doesn't exist here. Fine, I'd take care of that.

"Oh, for the hangover! No, no need, I'll be fine."

"The hangover?" he replied, raising an eyebrow.

Bloody hell, he raised it like Christopher Judge. Classy.

"Yeah, I made that one up! A hangover's the state you're in after drinking too much. The idea is that the effects sort of hang over from the night before—like your body's still dragging the party behind it, whether it wants to or not."

"Well, that is an interesting expression. In that case, I shall use it."

I flashed him a wide smile, which made him blush. I knew it—I really was so gorgeous even men blushed like bashful virgins just from looking at me. Although in this case he was an old man, so—no thanks.

"You've also received some letters," he told me.

"Anything interesting? More marriage proposals?"

Apparently, I was in demand all across the Free Cities—and beyond. Women would show up at the villa every day, tearing each other to shreds like starved piranhas, while men fought duels of honour. Every day, someone got injured, and occasionally, someone died.

And the letters were the same story. Constant proposals, and even Lys had been begging me to join their "courtesans" in exchange for a literal mountain of gold.

"Twelve new proposals of marriage, my lord. Four from noble houses, three from wealthy merchant families, and even one from a Triarch of Volantis."

I flinched slightly at that last part. If I remembered right, the Triarchs were among the rulers of Volantis, not to mention some of the richest and most powerful men in the world. And let's not forget—they were descended from ancient Valyria, the so-called 'Old Blood'.

I may not have liked Martin's world, but I knew it inside out. Geek once, geek forever.

"I see. I'll read them later. Anything else worth knowing?" I said, with a slight smile.

"The Triarch sent a gift of spices and rare silks. He also promised a villa within the Black Wall if you agreed to spend a night with him. Lastly, a magister from Pentos has offered a ship in the hope of sharing a dinner."

I snorted.

"So I've got the chance to become one of the rulers of Volantis, I could get a villa for a single night of debauchery, and I've earned myself a boat. I hope it's a nice one at least?"

"Very fine, but not suited for cargo. Clearly modified for a pleasure cruise through the canals."

"Interesting, very interesting…" I replied.

Not like I was going to turn down the gift. I arched my back slightly, bones cracking—I still seemed to have kept that habit from my previous life.

"I'd like to have breakfast. I'll read through those so-called proposals while I eat."

"Right away, my lord."

He left the room swiftly, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

To sum it up, I was rich, powerful, and influential. I had a fleet of merchant ships, and a seat at the Iron Bank's council, which gave me even more clout. The only problem? I had absolutely no idea how vast my commercial empire actually was—my predecessor had never followed his father's business, never bothered to look at the accounts or inventory.

That clearly wasn't going to fly. If I'd learned anything in my previous life, it's that you always need to know what you own—especially in trade.

I'd sort that out. Right after breakfast.

______________________________________________________________

​I didn't waste a single moment in the days that followed—I set about taking stock of my assets.

After all, that's the absolute basics of being an investor: know exactly what you own. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for having chosen the economics track in high school, not to mention that PFEG class back in year ten.

And truth be told, what I owned was impressive—I had no complaints.

To start with, and probably the most important in my opinion, I owned 60% of the Braavosi Arsenal. I used to think that fortified island belonged entirely to the Sealord, but that wasn't the case at all. He held 20%, and the remaining 20% was split among others. In fact, the Sealord's share accounted for Braavos' war fleet, while my 60% covered the docks and shipbuilding companies.

I also had a merchant fleet of around twenty ships, carrying goods to coastal and river cities across Essos. Another ten ships formed a flotilla dedicated to trade with Westeros—mostly King's Landing, Gulltown, Sunspear and White Harbor.

I also owned farms that grew thyme, marjoram, dill and wild mustard, which were traded for saffron and chili peppers in Volantis, and for black pepper and cloves in the Summer Islands. On top of that, I had salt marshes that supplied me with salt.

But the biggest surprise was the three mines under my name: one for copper, one for silver, and one for iron. The only issue? I had zero data on the remaining reserves. No geological surveys, no prospecting reports—nothing.

I didn't want to start making business plans only to discover the mines were tapped out. I began thinking about how to conduct a proper survey, bearing in mind the lovely technological delay this bloody world suffered from.

I'd have to ask the master miners for a report. They should be able to handle that. But the reports would take time to reach me—the mines were far to the south, in the mountain range that separated us from the rest of Essos. Actually, since the mines were relatively close to one another, I owned an entire town built between them, sitting on one of the rivers that flowed into the Braavosi sea.

Next, I turned my attention to my property within Braavos itself. About ten warehouses—two of which were in need of renovations—my villa, of course, and several other houses that were currently rented out. Not bad at all.

I also held multiple contracts, several with Lorath, Pentos, Myr, and Lys. Why nothing with Tyrosh? No idea. But it made me curious. I also had contracts with Volantis, Qarth, and a prince from the Summer Islands. Mostly spice trade, sometimes minerals. Unsurprisingly, nothing formal with Westeros—just open exchanges.

The first real problem appeared in the form of a bloody book listing people who owed debts to my father. Debts recorded only in that book—no contracts, nothing.

I knew full well that in Braavos, a person's word held weight. But to me, words were air. I quickly realised most of the agreements—proposals, contracts, debts—hadn't been written down at all. Just handshakes and verbal promises.

Not acceptable. Not even remotely. If I'd learned anything in France, it's that everything must be written down and documented.

Second problem? The damn measurement system. I'd completely forgotten that in Martin's world, everything ran on the cursed Imperial system—with inches, feet, leagues, and other medieval nonsense. And it applied to everything. Gallons, quarts, pints for drinks, stones and pounds for weight. A bureaucratic nightmare.

Thankfully, I had a degree in English, and those early classes were all about converting Imperial to metric.

Problem was, I didn't have anything to do the conversions with—no rulers with centimetres, no measuring jugs with litres marked on them. Don't even get me started on weight.

That would be one of my projects. But first, I had to deal with the lack of proper contracts.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "This is going to be a headache."

I'd send out messengers to collect debts—some were long overdue, but my father had clearly let them slide. For future contracts and outstanding debts, I'd need to create a standard agreement—something I could use to put everything in writing. No more handshakes. Everything on paper.

Then I'd "invent" the metric system, relying on what I remembered. I could also "invent" a few basic instruments—right-angled squares, protractors, that sort of thing. Nothing too complex once I had the first one: a ruler.

______________________________________________________________

​I was pulled from my thoughts by a knock at the door.

"My lord, a message from the Iron Bank."

Caspar handed me a sealed scroll, which I eyed with contempt. Yet another thing that needed changing—these damned scrolls. I missed white paper so much… Thankfully, I knew the basics of how to make it. Thank you, Arte and C'est Pas Sorcier.

I opened the damned thing and sighed. One of the Bank's representatives wished to meet—no doubt to discuss my situation, given my father's death.

"Have a lavish dinner prepared for tonight—we're expecting a distinguished guest."

"Right away, my lord. Shall I have a cask of good wine opened?"

"Yes, and bring me a glass now. I'll decide whether it needs decanting."

He gave me a strange look before heading out. Don't tell me they don't even know what wine decanting is? Searching through my memories—I realised they didn't. Not a clue. They didn't even have decanters, just served everything in metal pitchers. Barbaric. Thankfully, my villa did have crystal carafes.

I grabbed a blank bit of parchment. With a quill and ink, I sketched a wide-based, slender-necked decanter with a long spout and a handle. Nothing like the crude pitchers they used around here.

Caspar returned with the glass—thankfully, crystal.

"If I recall correctly, there's a master glassmaker who arrived in the city recently, isn't there?" I asked, eyeing the wine suspiciously.

The colour was promising, no doubt. The smell? Slightly sharp. I took a sip without swallowing, closed my teeth, lips curled back, and sucked in oxygen with a noisy slurp. Best way to aerate wine in the mouth and taste all the notes.

Honestly? Not bad. But my technique wasn't exactly elegant, judging by the look Caspar shot me.

"Indeed. Master Saliori arrived a week ago to set up his own business. He's looking for investors, but many fear reprisals from Myr."

Ah, right. I'd forgotten Myr held the glass monopoly—and they weren't shy about murdering the competition.

"Give him this drawing. Tell him that if he can produce a glass decanter matching my design, I'll be his investor."

"Is it wise to defy Myr?" Caspar asked, shooting me a cautious glance.

"They'd never dare touch me. I'm too rich and powerful for that. Can't say the same for Saliori…"

"As you wish."

He left with the parchment, while I returned to planning how to recover those long-overdue debts.

______________________________________________________________

​Several hours later, I was woken up. I'd fallen asleep at my desk after managing to cobble together a crude centimetre ruler. I'd used barley grains someone had brought me—if I remembered correctly, a grain of barley was about 5 mm long. For the base, I'd folded another parchment in half to make a straight edge. After that, it was just a matter of marking lines every grain. And there it was: a twenty-centimetre paper ruler.

"My lord, the representative from the Iron Bank has arrived. Dinner will be served shortly."

"Already? No need to keep him waiting then. And could you find me a carpenter—someone who can reproduce this in wood? The measurements must be exact."

I handed him my ruler as I made the request. He looked at it curiously, probably wondering what on earth it was, then nodded.

A few minutes later, I met the famous representative. I nearly choked when I recognised Mark Gatiss—what version of Martin's world was this? The books or the bloody show?

"Lord Bardatto," he said in a silky voice. "I am Tycho Nestoris, representative of the Iron Bank."

"A pleasure," I replied, shaking his hand. "Wine? It's rather good."

He nodded as I poured him a glass. I could've asked a servant, but I wasn't used to delegating yet.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, taking a seat opposite him.

The servants had already started serving our plates.

"As representative of the Iron Bank, it is my duty to ensure that the transition of your estate proceeds without friction. Your father, the late Atello Bardatto, was a respected man and a longstanding associate of our institution. His ventures were prosperous, and we would like to see that prosperity continue. Furthermore, as his heir, you now take your place among the Keyholders of the Iron Bank."

I nodded, pouring myself a fresh glass of wine and taking a moment to swirl it before replying.

"I thank you for your diligence, Master Nestoris. My father wasn't merely a merchant—he built commercial empires. And if we're talking continuity, I can assure you my ambition is no less."

Tycho offered a polite smile, raising his glass slightly before taking a sip.

"That is precisely what we had hoped to hear. The Iron Bank holds your family in high regard, particularly in relation to Braavosi trade. As a Keyholder, you will now have a seat at the Bank's councils. It will be expected of you to take part in strategic decisions. We are here to discuss future opportunities and how we might continue working together. Your influence and position are assets we'd like to see flourish."

I took a bite of the dish in front of me, taking a moment to consider. My father had been a shrewd businessman, and I knew his dealings with the Iron Bank were built on trust and long-term vision.

"My father always knew how to seize opportunity and surround himself with the right allies. I intend to do the same—and push further. I have expansion plans that may interest the Iron Bank. Do you know of Master Saliori? A gifted glassmaker looking to establish himself in Braavos. I want to fund his business to produce glass of unmatched quality—particularly wine decanters that could revolutionise how wine is consumed."

Tycho raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

"A bold investment, especially considering the potential backlash from Myr."

"Myr wouldn't dare come after me directly," I said with a crooked smile. "And if I have your support, this venture could become an extremely lucrative one—not just for me, but for the Iron Bank as well. Why rely on Myr when we could build a monopoly right here in Braavos?"

Tycho took a moment, drumming his fingers lightly on his glass.

"Interesting. The Iron Bank only invests in ventures that are both promising and secure. If you can demonstrate your project's viability and potential yield, we may consider supplementary funding."

I smiled, pleased with the opening he'd just offered.

"Then we have a preliminary agreement. I'll send you a detailed proposal by the end of the week. In the meantime, we can begin exploring how our mutual interests might align elsewhere."

Tycho nodded, his smile still reserved, but I could tell he was intrigued.

"Very well, Lord Bardatto. We look forward to your report. In the meantime, allow me to offer our condolences for your father. His presence is already missed."

I raised my glass in response.

"To my father—and to the prosperity to come."

Tycho mirrored the gesture, and we toasted—each of us already plotting his own agenda. The game had only just begun.

As we were finishing the meal, a servant entered discreetly and leaned in to whisper, "My lord, Master Saliori has sent word. He wishes to meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss your order and some potential complications."

I nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across my face, then turned back to Tycho.

"Well, perfect timing. If you'd like to see just how profitable this investment might be, I invite you to join me tomorrow to speak with our glassmaker."

The banker raised an eyebrow, though his smile grew a touch.

"I might just be curious enough to see how you intend to challenge Myr. Very well, Lord Bardatto—I'll accompany you. But be cautious. The Myrians are not known for mercy when it comes to those who meddle in their trade."

"Don't worry—I've no intention of ending up like my father." I took one last sip of wine, eyes fixed on Tycho with quiet resolve. "But sometimes, the rules of the game need breaking."

The game had truly begun.

[kelorusfictions]

Credit: Vice or Virtue?

Before reading, do note it is my first time publishing on this website.

A little essay I wrote, I invite you to read it. It's free and may give you some thought about credits, lending and their consequences in our everyday.

[kelorusfictions]

🌙 The Tourney of Whiteshore – Chapter 1: The Tournament That Would Change My Life 🌙

Before we dive in — this chapter means a lot to me. It’s where everything starts: the humor, the tension, the quiet melancholy beneath all the noise.

Think of it as the calm before a storm made of steel, poetry, and secrets.

Enjoy Chapter 1: The Tournament That Would Change My Life.

✨ If you enjoy:

Isekai with sarcasm and bite,

POV shifts full of intrigue,

Medieval fantasy with a touch of dark humor,

And the kind of world where nothing comes free…

👉 The first chapters of The Tourney of Whiteshore are available for free on Patreon (free member tier): Patreon Kelorus_Fictions

© The Tourney of Whiteshore — No copy; reblogs/links welcome.

Chapter 1 :

Seriously, who needs three giant gates just to enter a city? I mean, unless you’re planning to march a mountain with legs through them, it’s downright excessive.

That was the first thing I thought when I arrived before Whiteshore, the tournament city. Three monumental arches, as if the architects had gone on an ego trip and decided: “Why not make a monument to bad taste and excess?”

And yet… it had style. I could grumble, scoff or mutter, but I couldn’t deny how beautiful this city was — hardly surprising, given that it was the capital of the Grand Vale province. And, according to rumour, the largest city after the Empire’s capital.

The sky was clear, the sun beat down just enough, and before the gates, hundreds of people. Merchants, riders, nobles, warriors in shining armour, beggars in rags, troubadours, criers, priests, thieves (probably)… All of them pressed together in a racket of hooves, voices, bells, and colourful curses.

And us, in the middle of that delightful chaos: a man and a child, hoods drawn low, silver masks over their faces, like two ghosts at a fairground.

My father, Henry, moved forward at a steady pace. Unshakeable, as always. Not surprised. Not curious. Just… calm. Which, of course, was the exact opposite of my head, where things were a lot more restless. He held the reins of Puffwind, his mount. A black stallion from the Golden Vale, another province famous for its horses. As for me, I felt like I’d stumbled into the Paris agricultural fair.

Bloody hell, this is what they call a tournament? Looks more like a cattle show on steroids.

Flags cracked everywhere, in garish colours. Some bore stylised emblems — a three-eyed raven, a flaming sword, a golden seahorse — which people displayed proudly as though they’d personally invented war.

And the crowd… My god, the crowd. It was as if the whole continent had turned up. Entire families had pitched tents outside the walls. Hawkers of everything and nothing bellowed prices more ludicrous than their accents. An old woman peddled lucky charms. A man sold “drake’s spit” in bottles that were clearly filled with muddy water. Apparently, anything went if it made a few coins.

I caught myself slowing down. Tilting my head back towards the walls. And for the first time in a long while, I felt a shiver.

Not fear. Not really admiration either.

Just that strange sensation that the world never stopped outgrowing me. A far cry from my cosy life as an office clerk… well, in my previous life, anyway.

______________________________________________________________

“You’re dawdling,” my father said, calm as ever. Gentle, but with that quiet firmness that really meant: hurry up, or I’ll sling you over my shoulder like a sack of flour.

I started walking again with a dramatic sigh — muffled, sadly, by the mask.

“Forgive me, my lord. I was marvelling at the treasures of our glorious civilisation… and its more refined scams.”

He said nothing, of course. But I felt his gaze brush over me, one of those half-amused, half-weary looks, like a smile that had lost its way.

We passed through the gates without the slightest fuss. Not a guard batted an eyelid. My father had that gift: the knack of vanishing in plain sight while being more armed than a paranoid vault. Me? I was just a hooded kid in a mask, nothing worth a second glance. Nobody worries about a boy in a cloak. Classic mistake. Kids could be dangerous — though maybe I was the only one underestimated. Not exactly great for my ego...

And then… we were inside.

The city.

Whiteshore from within was even more… too much. Garlands on balconies, pennants in the windows, flowers hanging like offerings. Buskers playing half-crooked tunes, people dancing barefoot on the cobbles, others already drinking as if victory was in the bag. And this was only the entrance.

The wealthy? Carried like living statues on gilded litters. Haughty faces, eyes lost somewhere in the clouds, as if simply existing among commoners gave them hives.

It was like a medieval orgy directed by someone on hallucinogens.

And then I saw it: the tournament castle.

It towered above everything. A giant of white stone, carved to perfection. Slender balconies, engraved columns, needle-like turrets. Every detail screamed, “Admire me, insect.” The kind of structure no one had built in centuries — either because it cost a fortune, or because no one wanted to spend fifteen years chiselling a balcony.

It literally gleamed in the sunlight.

Enchantments, no doubt. One of those old “forever noble, forever clean” spells. Or else someone spent their entire life scrubbing it each morning. If so, I want their name, their age, and the number of their therapist. The Orinians might have nearly vanished, but their magic still lingered.

I lifted my eyes to the towers, heart pounding a little harder. If all went well, we’d be living in a castle like that. A dream, yes — but more importantly, an opportunity.

______________________________________________________________

We kept on, crossing several districts without slowing. My father walked straight ahead, as if he’d sketched the city himself on a map, Puffwind’s reins still in hand. I followed behind, drawn to every detail like a moth to a flame — except I knew flames burn.

A blacksmith beat his anvil in time with a drummer sitting right beside him. Not sure they were in harmony, but at least the racket was a duet. A little further on, a theatre troupe staged a grotesque joust: two actors on a wooden horse set on wheels, one squealing like a hog being bled, the other brandishing a floppy lance.

I pointed at the scene.

“You think they’re supposed to be you?”

My father flicked it a glance without breaking stride. He chuckled.

“Very funny,” he said. “I hope you’re not referring to the hog…”

I smiled beneath my mask. Not a proper, joyful grin — just the slight tug at one corner of my mouth, because a rare moment had slipped through. My father wasn’t much of a talker, even less the type to crack a joke. But when he did, it felt like a miracle. He hadn’t gone in for sentiment since my mother’s death.

And in that moment, amid the city’s clamour, the heat rising from the stones, the reek of sweat, food, and grime… I had a strange thought.

He’s going to win.

I didn’t know where it came from. It wasn’t logical, not even rational. Just… a certainty. As if the streets themselves were already waiting to bear his name.

But in this world, that sort of thing never comes free. There would be a price… Everything had a price here. The only thing whose price I didn’t know was the reason I was here.

______________________________________________________________

We finally stopped in front of a grand building, all polished wood and pale stone, with a sign swinging from heavy iron chains. A plump boar sat proudly painted there, a crown on its head and a banquet laid out before it.

I raised a brow.

The Crowned Boar.

Meant, no doubt, to evoke nobility, hunting, and tradition. Personally, it looked more like a cut-rate medieval banquet poster.

Still, it had a roof, solid walls, proper glass windows (luxury!), and above all… beds. That alone deserved a medal. My father headed to the small stable beside the inn, tossing a coin to the boy tending the horses. He couldn’t have been more than five years older than me… and already working to earn his keep.

My father returned, and we pushed open the door.

The main hall was built of dark, heavy wood, worn smooth with age. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a few customers were eating or drinking in relative quiet — the sort of clientele that didn’t need to sing to prove they were alive.

The smell? Decent. No roasted rat in a corner. No trace of mould. I’d call that a promising start.

The innkeeper barely looked at us as he came to the counter. Well-fed belly, sharp eyes, the air of a man who judged your worth by the soles of your boots. He greeted us with a neutral nod. Professional. The kind of look that said: “If you pay, I tolerate you. Pay well, and I smile.”

My father stepped forward and spoke calmly.

“One room for two.”

The innkeeper didn’t even glance up.

“I’ve a bed in the upstairs dormitory, if that suits.”

Ah, the social ladder, distilled into a single sentence.

My father didn’t answer straight away. He simply slipped a hand beneath his cloak, drew out a gold coin, and set it on the counter. With one finger, he spun it slowly on its edge.

The metallic hum caught every ear like a charm. The innkeeper froze, eyes fixed on the coin, then straightened as though standing before a king. His tone transformed instantly. Beginner’s magic.

“But of course, my lords. The finest chamber. Two beds. Private hearth. Bath, should you require it. I’ll take you there at once.”

And just like that, a key in hand, a polite smile plastered on his face, he hurried round the counter to lead us up the stairs. Naturally, he scooped up the coin on his way, tucking it into a pouch at his neck.

His behaviour had flipped completely — no surprise there. What I wanted to know was where that gold coin had come from.

We climbed the stairs without a word. The plan was in motion.

______________________________________________________________

The room was… far beyond what I’d expected. Two real beds, no straw pallets. A wall hanging. A rug. A little writing desk with parchment, quill and ink. Even an armchair. And a bowl of apples.

“I suppose we’re rich now,” I said, dropping onto one of the beds.

My father set his satchel at the foot of the other. He slowly removed his gloves, then his hood. Sitting down on the edge, silent as ever.

“What’s with that gold coin?” I asked. “Did you kill a noble? Rob a silk merchant?”

He glanced at me over his shoulder. Not stern, just… patient. The kind of look that said: You asked, so you’ll get the answer. He took off his mask, revealing his eyes. His iris was bright gold, his sclera a paler but still coloured hue. His face was weary, slightly weathered — he was fifty, after all — with hair black as pitch.

“It came from your great-grandfather,” he said.

I arched a brow under my mask. He meant the famous man from whom our bastard bloodline descended. An Orinian — noble blood. Which explained our eyes. He’d died before I was born, but according to my late grandfather, the old Orinian had dropped dead after celebrating his seven hundredth birthday. Quite a contrast to the average lifespan of non-Orinians, who counted themselves lucky to make it to sixty.

“The mute with the white beard no one ever saw?”

“That’s the one.”

I dropped my cloak onto the table and turned to him. I removed my own mask, glad to be rid of it. It was stifling, and masks don’t help. I caught my reflection in the window: a miniature version of him, with the same golden eyes, the same black hair.

“So we’ve a hidden reserve, yet we live like beggars because… what? The thrill of poverty?”

He shook his head, pointing to his eyes.

“No. Because flashing gold invites the wrong questions. And the wrong people. It’s dangerous for us… You know well enough some still fear the return of the Orinians.”

He set a pouch on the table and gestured for me to open it. I didn’t need telling twice — I untied the cord to reveal at least fifty gold coins. Enough to buy a house.

“It’s for you.”

I stared, waiting for more. He added simply:

“If all goes well, we won’t have to hide any longer. I intend to win this tournament.”

The tone was neither arrogant nor dreamy. Just… a promise. A line not up for debate.

I looked up for a moment, then back out the window. We were in the upper quarter, the city sprawling across a steep hill. In the distance I could see the famed White Tower of the castle, slicing the sky like a lance about to pierce the clouds.

“I hope the bed’s good,” I said. “Would be stupid to lose because of a bad back.”

“If I lose, it won’t be the bed’s fault.”

I turned to him.

“And if you win, are you planning to tell them who you really are?”

He didn’t reply at once. He too looked out the window. Then, calmly:

“I’ll remind them what they’ve forgotten.”

Silence fell. Not heavy — solemn. I knew he wasn’t only speaking of himself.

So I nodded, sat back on the bed, and grabbed an apple from the bowl.

I turned it in my hand, thinking how much easier said than done it was. We were Orinians, yes — but Orinians by birth, not by recognition. We had the spark, but no torch to feed it. No tomes, no mentors, nothing.

The old grimoires, the real ones, slept in locked noble libraries. Families proud to guard what they didn’t understand, like children clutching a key without ever finding the lock. Ironic, isn’t it? Those who can’t produce the faintest spark keep the secrets of fire.

Officially, the great Orinian houses are extinct.

But everyone knows some left behind… remnants. More commonly called bastards, or children born on the wrong side of the sheets.

And they were the ones who survived.

No titles. No lands. Just eyes that glowed in the dark, and magic with no manual.

The ancestral estates had been handed to Stewards — loyal managers, bloodless, powerless, but with the right paperwork. And no one asked questions, for generations had passed. To most, the Orinians were nothing more than myth…

But not to all.

Some were glad they’d vanished. Naturally. When an Orinian can reduce a castle to rubble with a snap of his fingers, you learn to love rules, swords, and unremarkable fortresses.

Others, on the contrary… longed for their return.

Because a world without magic is a world slow, dirty, imperfect.

Because once, water ran pure, houses cleaned themselves, fields were fertile all year, and golems did the washing-up without complaint.

A perfect life, they say.

A gilded illusion, perhaps. But who wouldn’t dare dream of it?

My father sighed, shaking his head, while I set the apple back down. It looked juicy, but I wasn’t really hungry. Not yet. I stretched out on the bed.

“We sign up tomorrow morning,” my father announced, shrugging off his cloak.

I was already sprawled across my mattress, arms out, staring at the ceiling as if it might reveal the universe’s secrets. It only offered me a crooked beam and a damp stain. Very poetic.

“We’ve arrived early,” he added. “Best not to draw too much attention.”

“With a gold coin? We went from ‘poor nobodies’ to ‘mysterious rich folk worth watching’ in under two minutes. I’d bet the innkeeper’s already rehearsing how he’ll boast about his windfall.”

He lifted one shoulder. Translation: Yes, but it was worth it.

______________________________________________________________

We spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready. Him, focused on his weapons and armour. Me, on a poem. The poetry trial was coming up, and apparently a blade alone wouldn’t cut it. So I did what I knew best: pillaged Rimbaud and adapted. Doubt anyone here had ever read The Sleeper in the Valley. Unless some necromancer of literature was lurking about.

When evening fell, we went down to dinner.

The innkeeper greeted us with a smile too wide to be sincere. His eyes still glittered with greed, like a merchant who’d sniffed out a gold mine disguised as masked travellers. He set us by the fire, at the best table. Clean cloth. Candle lit. Polished pewter cutlery. Clearly, we’d gone from anonymous passersby to guests worth pampering.

The waitress played the high priestess of taverns.

“Game stew, roasted vegetables, plum compote, house cider,” she intoned with the gravity of a priestess announcing a sacrifice.

“Enjoy, my lords.”

We nodded. And tucked in.

The stew was… let’s say honest. Salty. Lukewarm. The meat had clearly seen more hooves than kitchen knives. Nothing to write a ballad about — but nothing to kill us either. Which, in these parts, was already decent enough.

I set down my spoon, sighed, and declared:

“You know what I miss?”

No immediate reply. My father chewed slowly, as though testing the density of the sauce.

“A steak. Rare. With Roquefort sauce. Fries.”

He shot me a sidelong look. Half-intrigued, half-weary. The kind of look that meant he’d expected this sort of remark. Which, to be fair, he had.

I shrugged.

“I know. You’ve got the gist, but not the full picture. So: steak — beef, tender, grilled. Roquefort sauce — strong blue cheese melted with cream. Salty, sharp, addictive. And fries… potatoes cut into strips, fried in blazing oil. Crunchy outside, soft inside. Perfection incarnate. And probably the cause of every other heart attack where I come from.”

He laid down his spoon slowly.

“You realise you’re torturing me, don’t you?”

I smiled. A real one. Not the brittle kind from bad days. One of those rare smiles that felt good even when the world stayed ugly.

“I’ve got gastronomic nostalgia, that’s all.”

He nodded, the way he always did when we touched on the subject… my subject.

I’d told him everything — why bother hiding it? In a world with magic, and us belonging to a supposedly extinct people, my condition wasn’t exactly outrageous. Extraordinary, yes. But nothing worth jumping off a bridge for.

After all, we were Orinians. The rules of soul, body, time… all fuzzy, relative, bendable. Reincarnation? Just another mystery shelved in the grand library of the strange. This world had seen worse than a foreign mind lodged in a child’s body.

And him? He’d listened. Accepted. As though I’d just moved rooms, not worlds. That was my father all over: act like nothing had happened.

He raised his mug.

“One day, you’ll make it for me. Your steak. With the works.”

“Promise,” I said. “But not here. I like my meat rare, not rancid.”

We clinked mugs with the swill they called “cider.” It was too warm, too sweet, and worst of all… flavourless.

I pulled a face after a sip.

“Seriously. This, or the suspicious water from the cisterns? That’s survival, not dining.”

My father laughed. A real laugh, short but sincere. The sort of quiet chuckle that serves as thanks.

“To strong stomachs.”

“And to the invention of charcoal filters,” I added. “One day. Maybe.”

______________________________________________________________

We finished the meal without hurry and went back up to our quarters.

The room was quiet. Not the empty kind of quiet, but the silence that follows important things — meals, promises, memories.

Lying on my back, eyes open, I raised a hand toward the ceiling.

The light came.

A soft, white sphere hovered above my palm. It pulsed gently, like a weightless heart. I made it spin, contract, expand, shift shape. It danced between my fingers as if it had always belonged to me.

“You’re making progress,” my father said from the shadows.

I jumped, and the light vanished at once.

He was awake. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me — and had probably been doing so for a while.

“You can manifest your power easily. That’s good.”

I sat up a little, cheeks warming. Compliments are always nice, even from him.

“How long have you been watching?”

“Since you raised your hand.”

I shot him a look, almost accusatory. He answered with a discreet smile. Brief. But real.

“You think one day I’ll be able to do more than party tricks? Like our famous ancestors — you know, the ones who could split a continent in two… or destroy one?”

He stood, moved to the window, and gazed outside. I was honestly frustrated. Reborn into a world of magic, into the only people — race, really, because what else could you call the gulf between Orinians and the rest? — capable of wielding it. And of course it had to happen after their extinction, when no mentors or schools of magic remained. A spectacular stroke of bad luck.

“You know… this world never stopped being magical. They say magic died, but it didn’t. It’s eternal. Only the Orinians — us — vanished. The Capital still stands at the centre of the Great Rift. The statues of the old kings still float in endless circles above the city. Not to mention the cleaning and polishing spells still working on buildings thousands of years old.”

He paused, as if weighing his words.

“We repair, but we don’t create. Fallen golems? Patched up with tools, rope, and faith. The bridges of the Great Rift? Still there, majestic, indestructible. But no one remembers how to forge the control rods that open and close them. We know the process. The books explain it. But those who can read aren’t Orinians. And those who could understand… aren’t allowed near the doors.”

I stayed silent. He was right, of course. That was the crux. Magic could only be wielded by Orinians — why, no one knew. So let the common folk dabble all they wanted; the result was always the same: nothing.

Then, without warning, my father raised his own hand.

A light bloomed.

Not as bright as mine, nor as steady. But there it was — solid. A slightly irregular sphere, swaying gently above his palm.

“I was fifteen when I first managed this,” he said.

He turned toward me, the orb still hovering at his fingertips.

“You’re doing it at seven.”

He let the light fade. I caught the faintest note of jealousy in his voice. Nothing harsh.

“You’ll surpass me. Perhaps you already do.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to crack a joke, deflect, lighten the mood. But another part just wanted to hold onto those words. I bit back the urge to say that if I’d been reborn here, it had to be for a reason.

So I nodded slowly.

He sat back down on his bed.

“You’re progressing. And if all goes well… you’ll progress far more.”

He rose again, paced to the window, hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette a dark cut-out against the moonlight.

“I didn’t enter this tournament solely to gain a title of nobility. The title matters, yes — it will open doors. But what matters most is the estate, the castle… and its library of Orinian tomes. It was an Orinian domain once. Not to mention the Great Imperial Library in the capital.”

He turned to me. His gaze was calm, yet taut as a bowstring.

“But only nobles may enter. And none of them has the faintest spark to grasp what they read. They hold the knowledge… but not the key.”

He stepped closer, stopping a few paces from my bed, eyes locking onto mine.

“You could. You could learn. Understand. And perhaps… just perhaps… you are the one the First Emperor foretold.”

A shiver ran through me.

“The message…”

He nodded slowly.

“The one he left, broadcast after the last emperor’s death. One day, he said, an Orinian would return to the throne. And a new dawn would rise for the Empire.”

Silence settled, dense as a vow. He exhaled, as though the thought weighed on him.

“But first, the tournament must be won.”

He pulled the blanket over me with a simple, almost absent gesture — but one that spoke louder than his words.

“Sleep. Tomorrow, there’s much to do.”

I didn’t answer. I stared at the ceiling, yet no longer saw beams or damp stains. Only that idea, that light, that silent certainty.

And for once, it hadn’t come from my hand.

______________________________________________________________

We rose at dawn the next day.

The morning was cool, still tinged with blue, and Whiteshore stretched awake like a great cat roused from sleep. Merchants set up their stalls in silence, servants slipped through cobbled alleys, and the nobles… still slumbered beneath embroidered sheets, oblivious to the noise of the world.

The registration hall stood in the centre of an almost-empty square. A massive structure of dark stone, propped up by thick columns. It looked like a temple, but not the sort meant for gods — rather a pagan sanctuary to bureaucracy, where ink counted for oath and silence.

Inside, about thirty hopefuls were already waiting. Some in gleaming armour, others in silk, all standing stiff as pikes, restless as show horses. A few guards flanked the room — too weary to be menacing, but armed enough to remind everyone who kept order.

We, as always: hoods low, faces masked.

My father walked to the line without a word. I kept to his left, a step behind. The stares came quickly. Slow. Heavy. Calculated.

A masked man, calm, accompanied by a masked child. Not a costume — a signal. And everyone here knew how to read signals.

When our turn came, a scribe lifted his head from a massive ledger. His skin was pale, his hands ink-stained, and his voice smooth as fresh parchment.

“Name of the participant?”

My father answered without pause, without raising his tone.

“The Silver Knight.”

The silence creased like fabric stretched too tight. A ripple ran through the line. A murmur, discreet. Brows furrowed. A stifled laugh. And in the corner, someone mentally filed that name away — as one files away a threat, or a riddle.

“Do you represent a house or a banner?” asked the scribe.

“No.”

“Weapons?”

“Sword. Bow. Lance. My mount is in the stables. A black stallion named Puffwind.”

The scribe nodded, carefully noting each word in his ledger, then slid across a wooden plaque etched with the number 139. He added, in a neutral but perfectly polished tone:

“The trials will begin tomorrow at dawn. Poetry in the morning, archery in the afternoon. Two days later, rhetoric at sunrise, duel in the afternoon. Finally, the joust will take place in four days’ time. The entire day will be dedicated to it.”

My father simply inclined his head and took the plaque. No bow, no remark. He turned on his heel as if he already knew the script.

We left.

Outside, the sun had begun to gild Whiteshore’s rooftops with shy gold. The air smelled of dust, leather, and a taut anticipation — the kind that clings before great events.

I trailed after my father, hands in pockets, eyes still fixed on the hall behind us. That stark building where, without fanfare or flourish, the start of something that might change everything had just been written.

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Rise of the Warlock (HP AU) Prologue part 2 ✨

(Harry Potter Fanfiction — AU : Rise of the Warlock Rewrite)

⚠️ Author’s Note:

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Upcoming chapters are also posted in early access on Patreon: Support & Read Early. ✨ There is no paywall: every chapter will always be released for free. Patreon is just about timing — supporters are rewarded with early access 💜

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Prologue - part 2 :

The Night the World Changed

Lestrange Manor, English Countryside, 31st October 1981

Meanwhile, things were rather different at Lestrange Manor. An ancient French family who had crossed the Channel during the Norman Conquest, the Lestranges had settled into British wizarding society with remarkable ease.

At their head stood the Count Renathal Lestrange — a venerable wizard with a mane of long white hair. His son, Runasthal Lestrange, was among the Dark Lord’s most devoted servants. The two had been schoolmates at Hogwarts in the 1940s, and their loyalty to one another had only deepened through blood and battle.

On this night, the manor was teeming with Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had called it a celebration in the making. The great families were there — the Malfoys, the Rosiers, the Flints, and many others besides. Yet behind their silver masks and dark finery, weariness hung on every face.

They were tired of the war — and worse, many had ceased to believe in their master.

Lord Voldemort stood before a vast mirror framed in gold, set against one of the manor’s oldest stone walls. The room was hushed — solemn, even — save for the gentle crackle of the fire. He gazed at his reflection with almost religious reverence, as though preparing to meet History itself.

His long, pale fingers brushed the collar of his black robes, straightening an invisible crease, adjusting a sleeve that needed no correction. Then he leaned closer, studying the sharp line of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the eerie pallor of his skin. Every detail had to be flawless. He could not abide imperfection — not on himself, not tonight.

“Light, Rodolphus. Softer. The shadows invent wrinkles I’ve never had.”

Rodolphus hastened to obey, his hands trembling as he adjusted the magical torch. He moved as though handling a cursed object — silently, breath held. Voldemort didn’t glance his way; he knew obedience would follow.

“No… not that. Now I look like a snuffed candle. It isn’t the light — it’s the complexion.”

He ran his fingers across his own cheek, his slit-pupilled eyes narrowing, as if searching his reflection for a hidden flaw.

“I refuse to face the world with a corpse’s face. Not yet.”

His wand appeared in his hand like a serpent striking. A flash of red light filled the room. Rodolphus fell to his knees, writhing in a brief but merciless Cruciatus. Voldemort hadn’t raised his voice — hadn’t even blinked.

“Precision,” he murmured, “is the courtesy of power. Learn it.”

He turned away from Rodolphus as though the man had never existed, his gaze landing on Narcissa. Kneeling at his right, she was carefully filing a fingernail, her head bowed in silence.

“Put your soul into it, Narcissa. History will remember my hands. Imagine me crushing old Dumbledore with dull nails — grotesque.”

“Of course, my Lord,” she replied softly, not daring to lift her gaze.

Silence was safety. But Bellatrix could never quite master silence.

“My Lord… you need no artifice to be perfect.”

Voldemort’s laughter rang out — high, crystalline, almost merry — the laughter of a man untouched by doubt.

“Bella… perfection alone is not enough. It soothes, it does not conquer. Gentle words win no wars. Fear, however — fear demands theatre. Presence precedes victory.”

He studied himself from another angle, tilting his head as a sculptor might judge his creation.

“Dumbledore understood that. His gaudy robes are silent spells — no one dares to laugh. That is power: to impose absurdity until silence bows to it.”

His eyes hardened slightly.

“Even darkness must be immaculate.”

Still on his knees, Rodolphus dared adjust the torch again. Voldemort turned towards him with glacial slowness, his expression a mask of cold disdain.

“No. Not from below. Do you wish me to look like one of Hogwarts’ gargoyles? I am the Dark Lord, Rodolphus — not a blasted Halloween lantern.”

The Death Eater froze completely. Voldemort approached, placing two icy fingers against his cheek — the touch of something unclean.

“Don’t tremble. Fear distorts the face… and I despise what is ugly.”

He turned back to the mirror, his tone softening, almost musing.

“Good. Tonight, my darlings, we celebrate the return of my perfection — and the dawn of a new world.”

He raised one hand slowly, like a conductor guiding a silent orchestra.

“Tonight, everything changes. Tonight, the world shall remember that I exist — and learn that you exist only through me.”

He lingered, staring at his reflection. His eyes glowed with a strange, almost tender satisfaction. Then, as though only just recalling the others, he added without looking their way:

“Do try to look your best. Even instruments must be worthy of the music they serve.”

He was addressing them all now. With the faintest inclination of his head, he reminded every soul in the room where gravity lay. Voldemort did not speak — he performed. His every gesture, every inflection, was crafted to brand his presence into memory.

Behind their silver masks, the Death Eaters watched in silence — a mixture of awe, terror, and disgust. Some trembled; others forced themselves to stand proud. All knew that a single flicker of expression could spell their end.

He raised his hand, and the room fell silent at once.

“No need for concern, my beauties. You need only appear charming, radiant, imperious.”

He stepped forward, his fingertips brushing the edge of the mirror in a lazy, distracted motion.

“I’m sending you to the Samhain Ball. The Ministry adores appearances—so let us give them a spectacle. Dance. Bow. Laugh. But remember: every smile is a blade, every toast a poison.”

He clicked his tongue, his slit-pupilled eyes sliding toward Bellatrix.

“Bellatrix, my dear.”

She stiffened, straight as a soldier called to attention.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“You’ll remain here. Do as you please, but do not leave these walls. Look after little Lucius’s brat—it’ll be good practice for the child you’ll never have. And, let’s be honest, the less you dance, the better for everyone.”

A nervous laugh escaped from somewhere in the room. Voldemort turned his head slowly toward the sound.

“You’re laughing, Rabastan? Am I amusing to you?”

The Death Eater’s mouth opened, but no sound came. Voldemort took a few unhurried steps toward him, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his tone almost conversational.

“Come now… such a delightful laugh. Why suppress it?”

Then his voice snapped, sharp as a whip.

“This is not a circus. This is the single most important moment of your existence. And I,” he said, spreading his arms, “am its only leading actor. You lot are merely the décor—chandeliers, curtains, carpets.”

His gaze shifted to Lucius, a cruel smile curving his lips.

“You, Lucius… you’d make a splendid carpet. Elegant, costly—and inevitably walked upon. Fortunately, you are my carpet, and I always look after what’s mine.”

Lucius did not flinch. Bellatrix burst into a shrill, manic laugh—too loud, too long, desperate to fill the tension. Voldemort smiled faintly, pleased with the discomfort he had sown. He knew they despised him. He knew they felt humiliated. And he relished the taste of that uneasy blend of fear and devotion.

“Off you go, then, my darlings—my exquisite accessories. Go and ready yourselves for that vanity fair they call a ball. Honour my name. And above all… be beautiful.”

He straightened to his full height, his cloak rippling behind him like a living shadow.

“As for me, I have a meeting with destiny. By tomorrow, I shall be front-page news—and the world will remember that I am its centre.”

He swept his arm in a wide, dramatic arc—so abruptly that Narcissa stumbled and fell. Voldemort did not offer a hand. He merely looked down at her, studied her nails, and smiled.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Even death will have style tonight.”

His gaze drifted across the room, a strange, almost tender gleam in his eyes.

“My loves, my marvels, my masterpieces of decadence… go and celebrate Samhain. Leave me to prepare the miracle.”

With a theatrical flourish, he turned on his heel, his cloak swirling as he departed—like an actor leaving the stage after a flawless performance. It was a gesture he had learnt from Severus himself, to ‘enter legend’, as the man had once put it.

When the door closed, only Lucius, Severus, Narcissa, and Bellatrix remained. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Even the portraits seemed to hold their breath.

Lucius rushed to his wife and helped her to her feet. His features were drawn—his father’s death still weighed heavily upon him.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” she replied, adjusting her hair with mechanical precision. “Not even a scratch.”

She turned to Bellatrix.

“You’ll watch over Draco, won’t you?”

“You know I adore my nephew, ’Cissa. I’ll take good care of him. Go without worry.”

Lucius nodded. He exchanged a brief, heavy glance with Severus—the kind shared by men who realise, far too late, what they’ve become part of. Then they left, their footsteps echoing down the vast, empty corridors.

Severus had not spoken a word. His expression remained impassive, masked by Occlumency so flawless that not even Voldemort himself could have pierced it. Lucius had always admired that in him.

The manor fell still once more—the kind of silence that follows after a storm. Even the portraits seemed to be listening, waiting.

After a few minutes, they left the manor and began walking down the long gravel drive that led to the gates. An Anti-Apparition Charm still surrounded the estate, and the Floo connection had been sealed—forcing them to leave on foot.

Lucius glanced about. The other Death Eaters had already vanished into the mist. It seemed the perfect opportunity for a conversation he had long postponed. He met his wife’s gaze. Narcissa gave a slight nod—permission granted.

They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps muffled by the damp air and the crunch of gravel beneath their boots. At last, Lucius spoke, his tone quiet but deliberate.

“He’s not the same anymore, Severus.”

Snape lifted his eyes.

“Who do you mean?”

“Him. Our dear Lord. You saw it yourself. He’s not the wizard my father once followed.”

Lucius kept his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His voice was calm, almost detached—but each word carried weight.

“My father, Abraxas, was one of the first—one of those they used to call the Knights of Walpurgis. Back then, there was no Mark, no oath, just an idea. He said he wanted to preserve our heritage, our magic, the purity of blood… but it was more than that. It was personal. He knew Tom. Not Lord Voldemort—Tom.”

Severus turned his head slightly.

“I didn’t know the Dark Lord’s name was Tom. You speak of him almost like a friend.”

“I’m not, and never was. But my father was. He admired him so deeply that he forgot everything else. I was a boy when I saw them together. Tom still had that strange charm then—gentle on the surface, but masking something… darker. He didn’t say much, but he always looked too long. My father felt seen by him.”

Lucius paused, his gaze lost somewhere in the fog.

“I think Abraxas was in love with him.”

Severus said nothing.

“He never told me, of course. But I saw it—the way he spoke to him, the letters he burned afterwards. His devotion wasn’t political. He’d have followed him anywhere. And he did.”

Lucius walked on more slowly. Narcissa’s hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, a quiet gesture of affection and support.

“He wanted me to be like him. He made me take the oath, bear the Mark. He called it an honour. Later I understood it was a chain. He wanted to please Tom—to offer me to him as one offers a gift. That’s what I was—a trinket given in exchange for favour.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the habitual gesture of a man trying to steady his thoughts.

“My mother loathed the whole affair—and him most of all. It was a marriage of convenience, Malefoy and Leroy. She despised my father, and he returned the sentiment. I think she knew about his feelings. When she died, he claimed it was a fever. But I always knew that was a lie. The Dark Lord did what he always does—gave his most loyal servant a present. He killed my mother for my father. A wedding gift, one might say.”

Silence fell again. Snape stared at the ground, hands buried in his pockets.

“In return,” Lucius went on, “my father gave him a manor—and access to our vaults. His death, three days ago, put an end to that arrangement. But I’ve renewed the access.”

Severus understood now the source of Voldemort’s wealth. He had seduced Abraxas Malefoy not merely for loyalty—but for fortune. And Lucius, bound by fear and lineage, could not refuse him without inviting death—or worse.

“And you,” Snape asked quietly, “what did he give you?”

Lucius gave a faint, tired smile.

“Me? Nothing. Or perhaps a place at his side. He’s always treated me like a son. I still don’t know whether it’s genuine—or merely practical, to keep the coffers open. But I do know this: after my father’s death, he questioned me. To make certain he still had access.”

Snape frowned.

“So you hate him.”

“No. I know him. There’s a difference. He’s no longer human. You saw it tonight—he’s not a leader, Severus. He’s an actor who’s forgotten he’s on stage. Sometimes I think I’m watching one of those Parisian cabaret performers—men dressed in silk and madness.”

They walked a few more yards before Lucius spoke again.

“It took me years to see it clearly. Tom Riddle died the day he tried to make himself immortal. What’s left is a shadow that still thinks its reflection is beautiful.”

Severus said nothing. Lucius turned slightly toward him.

“You understand why I’m telling you this, don’t you?”

Snape gave a single nod.

“You want to survive.”

Lucius’s smile was thin, weary.

“Exactly. And, if possible, keep my name unsullied.”

They reached the great iron gates. Lucius stopped, running his hand along the cold metal.

“You want to survive too, Severus. But not for yourself. I know that. So listen—when everything falls apart, remember that I spoke to you first.”

Snape stood motionless. Lucius turned to face him.

“Tonight, I thought I recognised a new face among his guests—a small, nervous man, not one of ours. Peter Pettigrew, I believe.”

Snape froze.

Lucius continued, voice steady and low.

“You see what I’m implying. Something’s going to happen tonight. And you know exactly whom to tell.”

He took a few steps back, his expression unreadable.

“Just tell him this—Tom has decided to act tonight.”

Lucius Disapparated before Severus could answer.

The mist closed in again, swallowing the silence whole.

Back to Part 1 ==> Click here !

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Rise of the Warlock (HP AU) Prologue part 1 ✨

(Harry Potter Fanfiction — AU : Rise of the Warlock Rewrite)

⚠️ Author’s Note:

All chapters are available for free reading on Fanfiction.net.

Upcoming chapters are also posted in early access on Patreon: Support & Read Early. ✨ There is no paywall: every chapter will always be released for free. Patreon is just about timing — supporters are rewarded with early access 💜

Patreon’s not a paywall, it’s survival — health’s bad, money’s worse. Support keeps me writing and housed.

Prologue - part 1 :

The Night the World Changed

Potter’s Cottage House, Godric’s Hollow, 31st October 1981

In the quiet village of Godric’s Hollow—famed as the birthplace of a certain illustrious founder—stood the Potter family’s country home.

An old wizarding family of ancient English stock, the Potters had long since traded their Muggle titles for magical ones. All that dated back to the establishment of the International Statute of Secrecy, which had divided the worlds of Muggles and wizards. Though the titles were similar, officially the Muggle lines had died out, their titles reallocated by the British Crown—save for those properties hidden under powerful enchantments.

For the moment, the Potters were at home in their country house. In truth, they had been living there for months—and they were all growing restless.

All because of a prophecy spoken by one Sybill Trelawney, descendant of Cassandra herself. The prophecy might have caused no real trouble—had it not been uttered in public. Albus Dumbledore regretted his decision deeply, though he had to admit that Sybill’s reputation was more that of a fraud than a true Seer. He had hardly expected such a revelation, which was why he had met her in the Hog’s Head, a rather shady little tavern in Hogsmeade—important to him, as it was owned by his brother.

A voice broke the silence.

“Are you quite sure that’s a good idea, Jamesie?”

James Potter—a dashing young man with untidy hair and a mischievous grin—turned round. His hazel eyes twinkled behind his round glasses.

“Oh, come off it, Gran. Of course it’s a good idea. The Ministry needs us, and if we show up, it’ll give the others a boost.”

Elisa Potter, née Fleamont, looked frail but kind. Her age showed in the deep lines that marked her face, yet there was a warm, grandmotherly glow about her.

“Hm… if you say so. But do be careful, dear. He could strike there.”

“I doubt he’d be daft enough to attack us in the middle of the Ministry. Besides, Professor Dumbledore and all the Order of the Phoenix will be there. Not to mention the Aurors. I’ve got great faith in Bartemius Crouch.”

He turned as a soft voice came from the stairs. Lily Potter was descending gracefully, a baby in her arms. Behind her, Peter Pettigrew followed, holding another child. The man looked terribly pale.

“Mmm. You can say that because you don’t work for him,” James quipped, nodding to his wife. “He’s an absolute tyrant!”

Lily rolled her eyes and moved to hand him the baby—but before she could, the old lady intercepted and took the infant herself.

“James! Don’t speak that way about your cousin!” Elisa scolded, before looking down at her great-grandson. “Oh, my little Harry—you’re the very image of Henry.”

James held his tongue, though he was tempted to protest. He knew how fond his grandmother was of Harry—named after her late husband, Henry Potter. Sometimes, he pitied her: she had outlived her husband, her son, and her daughter-in-law. She had nearly wasted away from grief until Harry’s birth rekindled her spirit. Her greatest joy, she said, had been the naming of her great-grandson—Harry James Potter, the eldest, bearing his father’s name.

“Not that he’s heavy or anything…” came a weary voice.

James chuckled at Peter’s exhausted look and motioned for the second baby. Unlike Harry, who had his father’s dark hair and his mother’s bright green eyes, the younger twin had inherited Lily’s fiery hair and James’s eyes. Arthur John Potter—named after Lily’s father and grandfather.

“All right, Peter?” Lily asked, concerned. “You look a bit peaky.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said, waving her off. “Just overdid it at dinner, that’s all. My fault—I should’ve stopped at the second helping.”

James grinned. “You say that every time, Petey. One day your stomach’ll finish you off before the Death Eaters do.”

Peter tried to laugh, but the sound came out more like a sigh.

“I think I’ll head off,” he said finally. “Need a bit of rest.”

“As you like,” James replied. “Be careful on your way. If you run into an Auror, tell him you’ve just left our place—he’ll understand.”

Peter nodded, cast one last, uneasy glance at the twins, and Disapparated with a crack. Silence fell—heavy, uneasy.

It was Elisa who spoke first.

“That boy’s not right.”

James frowned. “Gran, honestly, not again. Peter’s clumsy, sure—but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“That’s exactly what people say before they’re betrayed,” she said quietly. “He’s got that shifty look—like someone burdened by secrets. And that Animagus form of his…”

James sighed. “Oh, Merlin’s beard, not this again. You’re not going to start on about animals and souls, are you? Sirius is a dog, Remus is a wolf, and they’re the most loyal blokes I know.”

“Dogs and wolves live in packs, Jamesie,” she replied evenly. “Rats feed on scraps. They survive by hiding.”

Lily stepped in before the argument could go further.

“Grandmother, I understand your feeling, but you know Peter’s not made for confinement. We’ve been cooped up here for months—he’s suffocating, like the rest of us.”

Elisa had insisted Lily call her “Grandmother”—she detested titles and formality. In truth, she was one of the oldest surviving members of English wizarding nobility: the Marquess Elise Potter, née Fleamont, only daughter of the late Earl Felominus Fleamont and Lysiana Gaunt.

“Isolation doesn’t make a traitor,” the old woman said coldly.

“No,” Lily replied, “but it brings out what’s already there. And Peter’s never been comfortable with all this—the Order, the war, the secrecy. You’ve seen him—he sweats just hearing about a duel.”

James nodded, glad to have his wife’s support.

“Exactly. That’s just Peter. A bit of a coward, maybe, a bit awkward—but loyal. He’s never betrayed me.”

Elisa studied him for a long moment.

“You say that as though you need to believe it.”

“I know it,” said James firmly. “Peter’s a friend. And if there’s one thing I learnt at Hogwarts, it’s that you don’t abandon your mates just because they’re scared.”

Lily sighed softly. “You’re right, love. But so is she. Some people you protect best from afar. Maybe we shouldn’t burden him with too much—just in case.”

James shook his head with a grin.

“You two are going to drive me round the bend. We’re already hiding under a Fidelius Charm, watched over by Dumbledore himself, and you want me to start distrusting Peter? No chance.”

Elisa turned her gaze to the fire.

“Trust is a fine thing, Jamesie. But old families learnt long ago—the fire burns those who sit too close.”

“And I’ve learnt that fear loses more battles than war itself,” he said quietly.

For a moment, only the crackle of the fire filled the room, its light dancing on the faces in the portraits.

“This ball at the Ministry unsettles me,” Elisa said at last. “Samhain is no night to parade about.”

“It’s symbolic, Gran,” James replied. “The Ministry wants to prove fear doesn’t rule us anymore. And with Dumbledore and a squad of Aurors there, what could possibly go wrong?”

Lily laid a hand on his arm.

“That’s not what she means. It’s a strange night, James. Even if nothing happens, I don’t like the idea of leaving the children.”

He smiled, reassuring. “They’ll be fine. Gran’s here—no one protects better than you, eh, Gran?”

Elisa didn’t answer at once. She tucked the blanket around the twins, her gaze distant.

“I’ll keep them safe,” she said finally. “That’s all you need to know.”

James kissed Lily, then the children, and reached for his cloak.

“We won’t be long,” he promised.

Elisa nodded silently. As they Disapparated, she stood there for a while, listening to the fire crackle and the soft breathing of the two sleeping infants. Absentmindedly, she reached into her robe and drew out a small object she had carried since girlhood.

Her father, Felominus Fleamont, had been a great wizard—fascinated by the obscure and the arcane. His particular field was chronomantic divination, a rare branch of magic devoted to reading a person’s fate through the flow of time. He had crafted her a small hourglass at her birth—one that had never stopped running.

Until tonight.

Elisa looked at the two babies, sleeping peacefully, and smiled faintly as the family cat curled up between them. Then, softly, she began to hum an old lullaby—one she had once sung for her own son, Fleamont.

“Sleep, my loves, and peace attend thee, All through the night.”

She settled into the rocking chair—one her grandson had brought especially for her weary bones—and the gentle creak filled the quiet room.

“Guardian angels God will send thee, All through the night.”

The chair rocked slowly back and forth as her voice, fragile but steady, carried on the old lullaby.

“Soft the drowsy hours are creeping, Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,”

Her gaze drifted towards the fire, watching the embers crackle and flare.

“I my loving vigil keeping, All through the night.”

With a tender motion, she drew her wand and laid it across her knees.

“While the moon her watch is keeping, All through the night,”

She turned her eyes to the window, where the pale light of the full moon shone through.

“While the weary world is sleeping, All through the night.”

For a few moments, her breath grew shallow.

“O’er thy spirit gently stealing, Visions of delight revealing,”

Her eyes returned to the two sleeping infants, nestled close together.

“Breathes a pure and holy feeling, All through the night.”

She smiled faintly. Deep down, Elisa knew she would not live to see the dawn.

Part 2 ==> Click here !

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Tale of the French Prince / Prince de France — Book 4, Chapter 12 ✨

A moment of calm… or so it seems. After the chaos of the second task, Adrien faces a new kind of challenge — the subtle art of politics.

Between royal confessions, echoes of the Great Cataclysm, and quiet diplomacy over tea and firelight, the true power players reveal themselves. Louis shines here in all his cold majesty — serene, decisive, dangerous. Adrien, meanwhile, begins to forge his own path: clever, measured, human.

But serenity never lasts long… and a certain curious little beetle has heard far too much. 🪲

(A brand-new addition to the rewrite — this chapter brings a political and emotional depth before the third task begins.)

📖 The story is available on FFnet (up to Chapter 5 of Tome 4): 👉 Read on Fanfiction.net

🔥 All the next chapters (including this one) are already available in advance on Patreon: 👉 Support & Read Early on Patreon

⚠️ Important: All chapters will inevitably be posted for free reading — there is absolutely no paywall. Patreon is only about timing: those who choose to support me are simply rewarded with early access to the chapters. Everyone will always be able to read the full story in due course ✨

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Tale of the French Prince / Prince de France — Tome 4, Chapter 11 ✨

Chapter 11 is here — the second trial!🎉 And trust me, this one is completely different from the original one! You'll learn more about Tellus and the Old World!

Between Selkies being former Tellusians, rebellious Merpeople and an angsty Adrien for his soulmate, things don't go the right way for some 👀✨

📖 The story is available on FFnet (up to Chapter 4 of Tome 4): 👉 Read on Fanfiction.net

🔥 All the next chapters (including this one) are already available in advance on Patreon: 👉 Support & Read Early on Patreon

⚠️ Important: All chapters will inevitably be posted for free reading — there is absolutely no paywall. Patreon is only about timing: those who choose to support me are simply rewarded with early access to the chapters. Everyone will always be able to read the full story in due course ✨

[kelorusfictions]

✨ The Mage - An AU OP HP with Worldbuilding ✨

*When law meet chaos*

⚡ What if Harry Potter never went to the Dursleys… but grew up with the Blacks instead? Riches, politics, shady contracts… and one tiny detail: this Harry doesn’t just survive — he makes pacts with extraplanar entities. Yep, Azatas and Aeons literally show up in magical London 🤯. He bends cosmic rules, mixes Hogwarts magic with Pathfinder and Dungeons & Dragons, and turns into a walking anomaly in the universe.

👉 Book 1: explosive inheritances, Ministry schemes, Horcruxes dealt with early, and the Black family rising back into power. 👉 Book 2: Hogwarts reimagined, Harry engaged to Fleur, the creation of the “Wonder Alley” (magical capitalism, but stylish), classes turning into full-on tabletop campaigns, and pacts with beings far beyond wizard comprehension. And let's not forget the battle with those spiders...

📖 Chapters 1–10 and 1 bonus chapter of Book 2 (and book 1) are free to read on:

Fanfiction.net

💫 Want more? Book 2 is available on Patreon with exclusive content, early access, and bonus lore.

⚠️ Important: All chapters will inevitably be posted for free reading — there is absolutely no paywall. Patreon is only about timing: those who choose to support me are simply rewarded with early access to the chapters. Everyone will always be able to read the full story in due course ✨

[kelorusfictions]

✨Gold, Wine & Schemes Chapter 53 — Game of Thrones / ASOIAF Isekai AU✨

⚠️ Author’s Note:

All chapters (up to 40) are available for free reading on Fanfiction.net. On Patreon, readers can access up to Chapter 43, whether or not they provide financial support.

Upcoming chapters are also posted in early access on Patreon: Support & Read Early.

✨ There is no paywall: every chapter will always be released for free. Patreon is just about timing — supporters are rewarded with early access, be they financial or not. 💜

Latest Release: Chapter 53 — “You want me? Then prove your worth…”

Excerpt:

Umber, red-faced and fuming, was already pounding the table again, his voice rolling like a storm.

"The North has what you’re after, Bardatto! Timber, cattle, whole forests! My men can fell and haul faster than any southerner! You want fuel for your glassworks? Seven hells, we’ll give you enough for a hundred winters!"

Karstark scoffed.

"Your men drink more than they work, Umber. And your forests lie at the edge of the world. The Company wants discipline, not empty casks. Our lands offer iron, and the men to shape it. An alliance with weight—not logs soaked in ale."

"Logs we can at least sell!" Umber shot back, rising to his full height, a thick hand already resting on the hilt of his dagger.

"Sell?" Karstark snapped. "Your folk don’t know how to sell. Only how to devour."

The tension rose like a thunderhead. The two squared off, eyes flaring, hands twitching. Bystanders began backing away, sensing where this was going.

Jorah Mormont seized the moment to step in, voice firm.

"Bear Island is the ideal choice. Our harbour’s safe, our sailors loyal, our coasts rich with fish. The Company would find a stable foothold there, far from southern schemes."

"Fish?" bellowed Umber with a crude laugh. "What, you want to pay him in cod?!"

"Sailors, Jorah?" Karstark added with a sneer. "Your women give better orders than you do. You really think Bardatto would send his fleet into your gods-forsaken gale-swept hole?"

"On my island, our women are worth ten of your drunken fools," Jorah barked back, fist clenched and rising.

And before anyone could stop him, another voice cut through the chaos—soft, low, and sharp as a blade.

Roose Bolton.

"The Company isn’t looking for fish. Or drunk lumbermen. It seeks security. My lands offer discreet valleys, obedient villages. Order. Silence. Control."

A chill passed through the room. Even in the growing uproar, Bolton’s quiet menace sliced the air like a cold knife.

Then, from the shadows, a voice rarely heard spoke up—Howland Reed.

"Order, is it? The bogs have repelled invaders for centuries. No one leaves the Neck without our leave. If the Company wants protection, it will find none stronger than the reeds of Greywater."

"In the bloody swamps?" roared Umber with another wheezing laugh. "Bardatto doesn’t want to wade through your frogspawn!"

"Better the bog than blood in the river," Reed answered evenly.

That’s when Lady Dustin stepped forward—stately, composed, her eyes burning beneath a dark gown.

"No, my lords. The Company must establish itself in Barrowton. It’s the North’s crossroads, the beating heart. If you want a place where every path converges, you look to me—not to your frozen dens or stinking swamps."

Tallhart seized the moment, voice booming.

"My ports are more than enough! House Tallhart has always stood loyal to Winterfell, and we will extend that loyalty to the Company!"

"Loyal?" spat a Flint, pushing forward. "Your ports buckle under a stiff breeze. Our coasts offer true harbours—natural, shielded, safe. Bardatto doesn’t want loyalty. He wants stability."

Voices were clashing everywhere now.