Prologue:
Before we begin, there are a few things you should know.
Youāve heard this story before. Or some version of it.
A boy. A scar. A cupboard.
There were wands and witches and an unsettling number of snakes. A prophecy, or maybe two. And quite a lot of running about in the dark.
But that wasnāt the truth.
Or ratherāit was a truth. One truth, told by a bigot with bad hair and an unfortunate addiction to Twitter.
Stories are like trees: infinite possibilities spun out from a single trunk, branching into timelines and wild, fantastic foliage.
Perhaps you heard one version from a rather stunted, sad-looking branchāwhere a boy-wizard was raised as a lamb to slaughter in a world that didnāt love him, only to grow up and become a wizard-cop in a world that hadnāt learned a single lesson.
This is a different telling.
Some might even say a more⦠ahem ... accurate one.
Because long before a baby was left on a doorstepā
Long before the Statute of Secrecy, or the Ministry of Magic, or even Hogwarts itselfā
There were gods.
Real ones. Old ones.
The kind who donāt fit neatly in books.
The kind who donāt stay quiet just because you stopped believing in them.
Theyāve been waiting. Watching.
Gathering names like pearls. Power like breath.
Waiting for the world to ripen again.
And it is.
Ripe.
Overripe, perhaps. Just on the edge of bursting.
This is a story about magic, yesābut not the kind you can bottle or point from a wand.
Itās older than that. Wilder. Hungrier.
The kind of magic that remembers when humans first lit fire and wondered what watched them from the dark.
Our boy still has a scar. He still begins in a cupboard.
But this time, heās not so naĆÆve. Not quite so willing to be molded by dotty old men and a careless, stodgy world.
This time, heās a boy with teethā
Full of secrets and shadows.
And the wizarding world has no idea what itās in for.
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