In the Shadow of What If's

Chapter Thirty-Four: Morrigan

The morning broke quietly over the villa . Sunlight slanted in through the vine-wrapped windows, turning the stone floors gold. Outside, the breeze whispered through the cypress trees and sea air carried the faint scent of salt and rosemary. In the soft hours before breakfast, all was still.

Except for the faint hissing coming from the west wing.

Thomas sat cross-legged on his bed, hands folded gently in his lap as the small, black serpent coiled near his pillow blinked up at him with intelligent golden eyes. She was still small—about the length of his arm, and no thicker than his wrist—but he sensed it wasn't her true size. Not even close.

Her gaze was ancient.

Like staring into the heart of something that had lived through the fall of mountains and the death of stars.

"You are certain," Thomas hissed softly, in Parseltongue, "that you are not a basilisk?"

The creature gave a slow blink. Then her voice, smooth as smoke, slid into his thoughts.

"I am many things. Basilisk is one. Shape is not fixed. Form is chosen. Purpose defines the flesh."

Thomas leaned forward. "Then... what are you really?"

"I am what your people feared. What they worshipped. What they forgot."

The serpent coiled around his wrist gently, curling up his forearm in a slow, fluid motion.

"You may name me, if you wish."

He hesitated. Naming things was... big. Important. Magical.

Her golden eyes held his, calm and knowing.

A name came to him like breath.

"Morrigan," he whispered aloud.

The serpent blinked once. Then again.

Then hissed, pleased.

"So be it."

That peace didn't last.

By midday, the outer gates of Evermoor rang with voices and boots—Ministry boots. Six wizards and witches in high-collared field uniforms had Apparated outside the wards, requesting an audience. Or rather, demanding one.

Fleamont was the first to greet them, with Euphemia already halfway through drafting a letter to the Department of Magical Beasts to preempt whatever was about to occur.

But Harrison?

Harrison was already on the front steps, arms crossed, his wand in his hand but lowered at his side.

"State your business," he said flatly.

The leader of the group stepped forward. A thin man with prematurely gray hair and dark rings under his eyes, wearing a Ministry pin just beneath his collar.

"Director Cedran Rowle. Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. We've been monitoring elevated magical signatures in Southern Italy—ancient, serpentine, transformative—and tracked them to a site in Pompeii."

Harrison didn't flinch.

Cedran continued. "We've since narrowed the source. The magical residue appears to be tied to the creature that hatched beneath the temple. And our readings suggest it is now here. At Potter Villa."

Harrison's silence stretched thin.

"You're asking to see my son's familiar."

"We're not asking, Lord Potter," Cedran said. "We're invoking Article Seven of the Magical Creature Classification Act. If there is an unregistered, dangerous creature on these premises, the Ministry has the right to examine it."