The Silverthorne Manor slept under the soft hush of late afternoon, its old stones glowing faintly gold in the summer light. High above the central halls, the attic remained untouched by most of the household—a place of forgotten trunks, dust-veiled memories, and things even magic seemed reluctant to disturb. Yet Pip and Briony moved through it as if they had always belonged there, their small Niffler bodies weaving between stacked crates and old, fabric-covered furniture with deliberate purpose. They did not speak, but their behavior carried a strange certainty, as though something in the attic had called to them rather than the other way around. Mira followed closely, her footsteps quiet against the wooden beams, while Draco walked beside her, glancing around with mild curiosity and growing unease. The air here felt different—older, heavier, layered with the residue of forgotten enchantments. Even the dust seemed suspended in patterns rather than chaos. Somewhere beneath the silence, something was waiting to be remembered.
Pip suddenly paused at a large trunk pushed against the far wall, partially hidden behind an old, cracked mirror frame. Briony climbed up onto it without hesitation, tapping the lid with a soft, insistent motion. The trunk itself was unremarkable at first glance—dark wood reinforced with iron bands, slightly worn at the corners, as if it had traveled far before ever arriving here. But carved carefully into the surface, almost as if meant to be hidden rather than displayed, was a name: Theron Rowan. The moment Mira read it, something in her chest tightened. Draco had noticed immediately, his gaze sharpening as he stepped closer. The name felt familiar in a way that did not belong to memory alone. It belonged to stories not yet fully understood. Slowly, Draco exhaled. “Rowan…” he repeated, almost uncertain. “That’s Verus’s bloodline name, isn’t it?”
Mira nodded slowly, her fingers hovering just above the carved letters without touching them. Verus Rowan—the son of Salazar Slytherin and Cassandra Elowen—had carried the Rowan name in old records she had studied. The coincidence felt too precise to ignore, as though history had folded in on itself here in this forgotten attic. Pip gave a sharp little squeak, as if urging her onward, and Briony scratched impatiently at the trunk’s latch. After a brief hesitation, Mira placed her hand on the lid and unlocked it with a quiet charm. The seal released with a soft click that echoed unnaturally in the stillness. Draco shifted closer without speaking. The trunk creaked open.
Inside, the contents were arranged not like discarded belongings, but like carefully preserved artifacts meant for eventual rediscovery.
At the very top rested a medallion unlike anything either of them had ever seen. A heavy silver chain lay coiled around it like a sleeping serpent, each link forged thick and strong enough to survive decades of hard travel. The pendant itself was a circular disk of darkened silver, worn smooth in some places by age and use, yet still remarkably intact. Rising from the center was the sculpted head of a wolf caught in mid-howl, its jaws open and fangs bared toward an unseen sky. Every strand of the wolf's fur had been painstakingly engraved, flowing outward in layered waves that gave the creature an almost lifelike appearance. Around the outer edge of the medallion ran delicate carvings of crescent moons, leaves, winding vines, and symbols neither wizarding runes nor any magical alphabet Mira immediately recognized. The silver possessed an unusual sheen—not polished brightness, but the quiet glow of moonlight reflecting off winter snow. It looked less like jewelry and more like a badge carried by someone who had survived impossible things. Even resting motionless in the trunk, the medallion seemed alert somehow, as though listening.
Beneath it lay two katanas—one forged in dark, tempered steel with a blade that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, its hilt labeled Oathbreaker. The other was silver, almost luminous, with a colder, sharper elegance; its name—Gravebright—was inscribed along the scabbard in a script neither Draco nor Mira immediately recognized. Alongside them were stacks of journals bound in weathered leather, and a thicker diary positioned deliberately at the center, as though it had been intended as the trunk's core truth.
Draco swallowed quietly.
"This doesn't look like anything from the Wizarding World," he murmured.
Mira did not answer immediately.
Her eyes had already locked onto the medallion.
The longer she stared at it, the stranger it seemed. The wolf's eyes appeared almost aware beneath the attic's dim light. Tiny shadows gathered within the engraved fur, creating the illusion of movement whenever she looked away and then back again. The chain seemed far too sturdy for a decorative piece, built instead for constant wear during travel, battle, and hardship. There was history embedded in every scratch across the silver surface. Not damage—evidence. Marks left behind by years of use. Whoever Theron Rowan had been, he had carried this medallion for a very long time.
The moment she saw it, recognition struck—not as Mira Silverthorne, but as something buried deeper, something she refused to acknowledge in any spoken way.
A Witcher medallion.
{A/N: What the medallion looks like}
Not from any magical society she had studied here, but from a world she should not have known at all.
A world she remembered only as fragments of another life—Emma Carter, a name she kept locked away even from her own thoughts unless absolutely necessary.
Her expression remained steady, controlled, carefully neutral.
Her expression remained steady, controlled, and carefully neutral. “It seems… symbolic,” she said carefully, her voice measured. “But it also seems to contain some kind of magic.”
Draco frowned but accepted the answer for now, though his eyes lingered on her face as if searching for cracks in the explanation. Mira turned away from the medallion before anyone could look too closely at her reaction. Instead, she opened Theron Rowan's diary.
The pages inside were filled with precise, disciplined handwriting that spoke of survival more than artistry. Theron described being a Witcher in detail that was clinical and unflinching—how Witchers were created through brutal training, physical endurance trials, and alchemical mutations that reshaped the body to survive what others could not. He wrote of being taken as a child into a world not his own, trained among others who had also been remade by necessity rather than choice. He described enhanced senses, resistance to toxins, and the emotional suppression required to function in constant proximity to monsters and fear. Mira read silently, her expression unchanged, but something in her mind tightened with each line. Draco, unaware of the internal conflict, leaned slightly closer to read over her shoulder, though he clearly struggled to understand the terminology. Theron wrote not just of monsters, but of parallel worlds—realities overlapping in ways no wizarding theory had ever fully described. And then came the final revelation: after seventy years as a Witcher, Theron had returned to his original world during an attack on their headquarters, aging outwardly only to what looked like his forties despite his true age. The entry ended with a quiet acceptance that neither world truly belonged to him anymore.
Mira closed the diary slowly, her mind carefully avoiding any recognition that might betray her. Witchers did not exist in this world. That was the rule she needed to maintain. Draco looked at her, waiting for explanation.
“So who was he?” he asked quietly. “A soldier? A curse-breaker?”
Mira hesitated just long enough to be believable. “Something like that,” she said at last. It was a safe answer. A hollow one.
Pip suddenly jumped onto the trunk again, tugging at the medallion with surprising urgency. Before Mira could stop it, the Witcher medallion shifted, glowing faintly, and then—without warning—attached itself firmly to her Silverthorne Constellation Choker. The metal fused with impossible precision, as if it had always belonged there. Draco stepped back in shock.
“Mira—did you do that?” he asked sharply. She shook her head once, slowly, her eyes fixed on the medallion now resting against her collarbone like it had chosen her.
Then, almost as if responding to the first binding, the two katanas reacted next. The steel blade, Oathbreaker, and the silver blade, Gravebright, lifted slightly from the trunk without physical force. Mira’s Vaelori Conduit bracelet on her wrist shimmered faintly, responding to the foreign weapons as though recognizing them as extensions rather than intrusions. The swords rotated once in the air, then slid smoothly into the Conduit’s storage space as if absorbed into a system that had always been designed to hold them. Draco stared, speechless. Mira exhaled slowly, forcing calm into her expression even as her thoughts raced ahead of her control. Something in the attic had just accepted her. Not symbolically. Not metaphorically. But physically. Pip and Briony watched quietly, as if satisfied their task was complete. And in the stillness that followed, Mira understood one thing with uncomfortable clarity: whatever Theron Rowan had been, whatever Witchers were meant to be, the past had just found a way to continue itself—through her.
ns216.73.216.64da2
and then Add to home screen.