Chapter Text
The summer at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. In the dim kitchen, Leo Potter sat at the long scarred table, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the faint silver lightning scar over his heart visible where the fabric gaped. It had never quite faded since that Halloween night when Voldemort’s curse had struck him there, and taken the life of his twin brother.
Leo was fifteen now, almost as tall as Ron was, but the weight of being the Boy Who Lived hadn’t lightened. Voldemort had returned at the end of fourth year. He had risen in that graveyard using Leo’s own blood in the cauldron, the ritual knife slicing across his forearm. The Dark Lord’s new body had unfolded from the boiling potion like something born wrong, his hiss of triumph echoing in Leo’s ears long after he’d escaped.
The Order had reformed in secret. The Ministry still denied everything, calling the graveyard “hysteria” and Leo’s testimony “the delusions of a traumatized teenager.” They needed something more than Aurors and half-formed plans. What they needed was a powerful hero.
They needed a legend.
Hermione Granger had found the answer.
She’d unearthed a long forgotten grimoire from the Black family library during one of their late-night searches. Its cover cracked black leather that felt unnaturally cold. Deep in the forbidden chapters lay a summoning ritual capable of piercing through time and space itself. Blood as anchor, lineage as key. Leo, through his father’s line, carried Godric Gryffindor’s blood. They would call the founder himself; warrior, sword-bearer, the one who had once stood against Salazar Slytherin and lived. He would stand with them , fight along side them, face and destroy Slytherins last descendant.
They waited until Hogwarts reopened. The castle rested on ancient ley lines; its stones vibrated with centuries of Gryffindor magic. The resonance would make the ritual more powerful, leading to its success.
After curfew, and being back at school for a week, the three of them slipped unnoticed into the Great Hall. The chamber was vast and silent, the enchanted ceiling a deep indigo strewn with indifferent stars. Their footsteps sounded too loud on the flagstones. Leo drew the silver vial from his pocket; his blood, drawn that afternoon in the privacy of the Gryffindor dorms. It was mixed with a potion from the book. The glass was still body-warm; uncorking it released a sharp, coppery scent that made his stomach turn.
They worked in hushed coordination. Hermione traced the runes with careful strokes of the potion, the crimson lines sinking into the stone. Ron placed the candles at the cardinal points. When they lit them, the flames caught with small, eager snaps, casting long shadows that writhed across the walls.
They sat spaced out around the circle, crossed legged and fingers placed just on the edge of blood circle. The chant began low, syllables ancient and heavy, rolling from their throats. The air thickened, pressing damp and electric against their skin. Sweat beaded on Leo’s neck, trickling beneath his collar. The golden glow ignited beneath the runes. It started slow, then sudden and fierce, lighting the hall in molten light. The candle flames stretched tall, heat licking their faces, wax melting in sluggish, hot tears that pooled on the stone as they quickly melted.
Magic pulled at them in deep, relentless waves. Leo felt it hardest in his chest: pain flared suddenly in his heart, white-hot, as though invisible fingers had reached inside and squeezed. His breath hitched, but he kept chanting, voice cracking only once. The incantation built to a shattering crescendo. Then, a blinding flash of gold, searing white behind closed lids. The candles snuffed out in a single violent gust. Darkness crashed in.
Wand tips flared in the dark. Lumos spells blooming from wands held by tired and trembling arms. The circle was empty, the runes and blood vanished as if they had never been drawn.
No towering figure in scarlet robes. No legendary sword. No Godric Gryffindor. Only cooling wax and the faint, scorched smell of spent magic.
Hermione’s voice came first, thin with exhaustion and disappointment. “I must have miscalculated. The blood to potion ratio, or the timing of the lunar cycle. It should have worked. I don’t understand where we went wrong.”
“Ancient rubbish,” Ron muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. “Probably has never worked. We just knackered ourselves for sod all.”
Leo rubbed his tired eyes. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs. “We’re done,” he said quietly. “Let’s head to bed. We’ll check the book again tomorrow. Find where we went wrong. And then try again.”
They gathered the melted candle stubs and slipped out. The great oak doors closed behind them with a heavy, final thud.
In the silence that followed, the air stirred. Unseen, the runes that had faded from the stone pulsed, slow and molten gold humming deep in the castle’s foundations like a heartbeat stirring after centuries of sleep. Then the light died, and the Great Hall fell still.
The castle quietly waited for her father’s return.