Chapter 135: Chapter 135: Ancient Magic

The section labeled Ancient Magic was smaller than Arthur expected.

No looming shelves. No sprawling tomes bound in dragonhide. Just a modest collection—a few thin, leather-bound books, several scroll tubes, and stone tablets sealed behind delicate glass. It didn’t look like the key to unfathomable power. It looked like a forgotten corner of the library.

Curious, Arthur picked up the thinnest book. No title. The leather cover was cracked with age, the pages inside yellowed and brittle. The writing was uneven, clearly the work of multiple hands. It wasn’t a formal treatise. Not even a proper manual. Just scattered notes, musings, and warnings.

Ancient Magic, he quickly realized, wasn’t a separate branch of spellwork. It was magic in its rawest, purest form—before wands, before incantations.

Arthur frowned, flipping to the next page. No clear definitions. No instructions. Just observations—some thoughtful, some cryptic, many bordering on maddened ramblings.

But as he moved from one source to the next, a pattern began to emerge.

Ancient Magic was raw and primal. A force older than wizardkind’s attempts to control it. It wasn’t cast so much as called upon—a reaction from the universe itself, usually in response to powerful emotions or irreversible choices. Love. Death. Sacrifice. Rage.

It was magic born from life’s extremes.

One scroll noted that Hogwarts itself had been built on foundations of Ancient Magic, which is why the castle endured like no other structure in magical Britain. That was why the school had stood for over a millennium and why it was still considered the safest place in the country.

As Arthur read deeper into the fragments, pieces started falling into place.

Lily Potter’s protection. That hadn’t been a clever charm or a spell in an old grimoire. It was Ancient Magic, born of love and death.

The so-called blood wards at Privet Drive—Dumbledore had always been cryptic about their nature. But Arthur now suspected they weren’t “wards” in the usual sense. They were something older. Stronger.

Why the Horcrux hadn’t destroyed Harry… why Quirrell had burned to ash at a mere touch…

Arthur leaned back, breath shallow.

It was all Ancient Magic.

And maybe… maybe Arthur had used it too.

The night his parents were murdered, the magic he unleashed hadn’t felt ordinary. It had been raw, instinctive, devastating. Not accidental magic—ancient magic.

Even some of his more extreme training incidents, where spells went far beyond his intent or control—were those not examples of Ancient Magic bleeding through?

He kept reading. Hours passed.

But no book explained how to tap into it.

It wasn’t a system. It was more like a force of nature—triggered by truth, emotion, and intent.

Still, Arthur was hooked.

This was new. Something beyond anything he had studied before, in either of his lives. A source of power untouched by modern magical theory.

And he needed it.

He had grown powerful—skilled, focused, and dangerous. But he had also hit a ceiling. He could continue growing in strength, refining his skills and building his magical core. But none of it would help him break through the limits he now sensed around him.

To move beyond. To match gods and celestial beings.

He needed something more. Ancient Magic could be that path.

He didn’t expect quick results.

But he made a decision that night: he would pursue it. Study it. Understand it—even if it took years.

—

The weeks that followed settled into a steady rhythm.

Arthur spent his mornings discussing business strategies and football scores with Daniel. Afternoons were reserved for his research into ancient magic—quiet hours filled with forgotten languages, intricate diagrams, and cautious experimentation.

Every weekend, Arthur would Apparate to Hogwarts for training sessions.

Harry’s progress was remarkable—under Flitwick’s technical instruction and Moody’s practical paranoia, the boy was becoming genuinely formidable.

“Again!” Moody barked one Saturday afternoon. “Death Eaters won’t give you tea breaks!”

Harry dodged a conjured Bludger while simultaneously deflecting hexes from three directions. His enhanced reflexes served him well, but Moody’s scenarios grew increasingly sadistic.

“Good!” Flitwick squeaked from his perch. “Now add the Protego variation I showed you!”

Arthur watched from comfortable conjured chairs with Sirius, occasionally calling out corrections. These sessions had become as educational for him as for Harry—seeing master duelists teach had filled gaps in his self-taught style.

“He’s getting scary good,” Sirius muttered, nodding toward Harry—who’d just redirected a hex so precisely it rebounded and wrapped a trainee Auror in their own binding spell.

“He needs to be,” Arthur replied. “The battle ahead won’t pull its punches.”

“Think he’s ready?” Sirius asked quietly.

Arthur watched Harry flow through a complex spell chain, each movement precise and deadly. “He’s as ready as anyone can be for their first war.”

“Comforting.”

“Would you prefer lies?”

Sirius grimaced. “Sometimes.”

—

Back home, Arthur began noticing strange behavior from Winky.

“Master needs more Blood-Replenishing Potions and bruise salve!” she chirped one evening, arms already loaded with empty vials.

Arthur glanced up from his desk. “Again? We restocked just last week.”

“They… expired?” she offered, too quickly.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Potions don’t expire in seven days, Winky.”

“They do if you leave them near heat! Or light! Or… while cleaning! Yes! Blood stains are very stubborn!”

Her big brown eyes blinked innocently, but Arthur didn’t buy it for a second. And yet—he let it slide. It wasn’t like her to lie, but this wasn’t the behavior of a mindless servant either. She was changing, growing. Becoming something more than just a house-elf.

Later that evening, Arthur caught a glimpse of her in what could only be described as ninja attire—form-fitting black cloth that disguised her distinctive elf features. From a distance, she could pass for a small human teenager.

“Winky?” Arthur called, tone light. “What exactly are you wearing?”

“Winky is… practicing Halloween costume!” she’d squeaked before vanishing.

Arthur stared at the empty space she left behind, lips twitching. He had a good idea what she was up to—but he chose not to investigate. Everyone deserved their secrets. Even vigilante house-elves.

Still, when he saw her again a few minutes later—clearly trying to sneak in unnoticed—he spoke, calm but firm.

“Winky.”

She stopped instantly, caught red-handed. “Yes, Master?” she said with exaggerated innocence.

“If you’re playing in the Muggle world,” he said gently, “do not break the Statute of Secrecy. Or the Covenant.”

Her ears drooped just a little. “Winky knows. Winky does not use magic on people. Winky only… protects.”

“That’s good,” Arthur said with a sigh. “Just stay safe.”

Her eyes went wide, then sparkled with a proud little nod before she scurried off into the shadows.

—

All the secrets came spilling out the moment Aurora appeared at Arthur’s doorstep unannounced.

“We need to talk,” she said, without so much as a greeting, brushing past him into the sitting room.

“Hello to you too,” Arthur said dryly, closing the door behind her. “Tea?”

“This is serious.” Aurora’s voice was tight. “Have you restarted your war against the Hand?”

“No.” Arthur settled into his chair. “I’ve been focused on personal projects and helping Harry prepare for the war that’s coming. Why?”

“Because someone has been tearing through Hand operations across Europe. Clean. Efficient. One-person infiltration. Tactically precise—like special forces—but the escape patterns?” She shook her head. “Nothing makes sense. Locked rooms. No signs of entry or exit. Witnesses mention shadows moving. It’s magic, Arthur. Someone’s using magic.”

Arthur kept his face neutral, though he already knew exactly who was behind it.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “But I’ve been otherwise occupied.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she said sharply.

“I’m not. Though…” He made a show of thinking. “You could ask Winky about it.”

Aurora’s eyes narrowed. “Winky? Why her?”

Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, he called out, “Winky!”

The elf appeared with a soft pop, dressed in her usual fashionable ensemble. “Master called?”

“Aurora has some questions,” Arthur said pleasantly, “about mysterious assaults on criminal organizations. Perhaps you can help.”

Winky’s eyes widened. “Winky knows nothing! Winky is good elf who stays home and cleans!”

Aurora’s tone turned cold. “Winky, are you involved in attacks on the Hand?”

“You is being very rude,” Winky huffed. “Winky will not answer rude people. Winky is leaving now!”

“Don’t you dare—”

Pop. She vanished.

Aurora turned on Arthur, furious. “She’s involved. You know she’s involved.”

“She’s not my slave, Aurora. She’s free to make her own choices,” Arthur said calmly. “I neither condone nor condemn actions I haven’t witnessed.”

“This isn’t a game!” Aurora snapped. “The Hand has powerful allies in both worlds. If they find proof of her involvement, there will be consequences. The Covenant—”

“—is just parchment,” Arthur cut in, his voice hardening. “A contract honored only by those with something to lose. Meanwhile, criminal organizations hire rogue mages and the governments sit paralyzed.”

Aurora exhaled sharply. “Arthur, listen to me. The heat from your last campaign hasn’t faded. If they connect this to you—”

“They won’t,” he interrupted. “And even if they do, the governments—both magical and mundane—should be more worried about what happens if they force my hand. I am not someone they can control. If I go rogue, I don’t play fair.”

“You’re talking about thousands of wizards, Aurors, even soldiers with guns hunting you down. You won’t win.”

Arthur gave her a cold smile. “Try me. It’s been a while since I truly let go.”

Aurora stared at him, eyes burning with frustration, then turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled.

Arthur waited a few beats before calling softly, “Winky, come back.”

She reappeared almost immediately, wringing her hands. “Is Master angry?”

“Sit,” Arthur said gently. “Tell me about your adventures with Ariadne.”

Winky froze. “Master knows?”

Arthur gave her a look. “The potions. The outfits. The suspicious trips. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Winky’s ears drooped. “Winky is sorry…”

“I’m not angry,” Arthur said, “just concerned. Is Ariadne using you?”

“No!” Winky straightened, her voice fierce. “Miss Ari is good friend! She tries to make Winky stay away from missions. Says too dangerous! But Winky knows she gets hurt without help.”

“Start from the beginning.”

So Winky told him. Their long chats during Ariadne’s recovery. The odd friendship that blossomed—movie nights, amusement parks, learning about Muggle fashion and interests. Magic and mundanity, trading knowledge and laughter.

Arthur raised a brow. “You could’ve done all that with me.”

Winky giggled. “Master is wonderful. But Master is… boring. Always books. Always training. Never goes to theme parks.”

“Ouch.” Arthur clutched his chest in mock pain. “My own elf thinks I’m boring.”

“Master is not boring!” Winky protested. “Master is just… focused on big things. Winky likes small things too.”

The story continued. How Winky had noticed Ariadne getting hurt and started helping her heal with Arthur’s potions. When Ariadne started getting hurt more, Winky started following invisibly, providing quick rescue from danger.

“No one saw you?”

“No, Master. Winky is careful. Always helps when no one sees. Behind walls. In shadows. Miss Ari forbids Winky every time, says too dangerous. But Winky is strong elf! Winky protects!”

Arthur studied her fierce expression. This wasn’t manipulation—this was genuine friendship. Two lonely souls finding family in each other.

But he needed to be certain.

“Bring Ariadne here,” he ordered. “We need to talk.”

“No! Don’t blame Miss Ari! Winky’s fault, all of it—”

“I promise I won’t hurt her. But this is an order. Your first real one.”

Winky’s eyes welled with tears. But she obeyed.

A few minutes later, she returned with a bewildered Ariadne still in tactical gear.

“What—Hayes? What’s going on?”

“Leave us,” Arthur said, voice firm. “Winky, wait outside.”

“But—”

“Now.”

She vanished, tears in her eyes.

The moment she left, Ariadne started babbling. “I’m sorry. I never meant to involve her. I tried to keep her away but she wouldn’t listen. I’ll leave, never contact her again—”

“Sit.” Arthur’s tone brooked no argument.

She sat.

He leaned forward, tone cold and deliberate. “What are your intentions with Winky?”

“She’s like family,” Ariadne said instantly. “I never had siblings. She’s curious, kind, brave. She reminds me what life feels like. I care about her.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “Is that the truth? Or are you using emotional manipulation to keep a magical asset on your side?”

“No!” Her voice cracked. “I’ve begged her not to help. She insists. I’m terrified she’ll get hurt because of me.”

Arthur examined her, mentally brushing her surface thoughts. Guilt. Affection. Fear—not of exposure, but of losing Winky.

“You’re telling the truth,” he said. “Which creates a different problem.”

“Which is?”

“Winky cares about you. Deeply. That means if you hurt her—through betrayal, manipulation, or by dying—I’ll take it personally.”

Ariadne met his eyes. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Arthur’s voice was soft and chilling. “Because I’m not speaking figuratively. Winky is family. If you hurt my family, I will come for you.”

“Even if I’m dead?”

Arthur smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Death is hardly an obstacle for someone like me. I could bind your soul to haunt a public toilet for centuries. Very educational about human nature, I’m told.”

Despite everything, Ariadne’s lips twitched. “Noted.”

“Good.” Arthur called out, “Winky, come back.”

The elf appeared instantly, tears streaming. “Master, please—”

“I approve of your friendship,” Arthur told her, watching relief flood her features. “But with conditions. No using magic directly on muggles. You can support her, provide healing, even transport—but no offensive magic.”

“Winky promises!” She launched herself at Arthur, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Master! Winky will be careful!”

“See that you are. Both of you,” he added, looking at Ariadne. “The intelligence agencies are watching. Be invisible, or be gone.”

“We will,” Ariadne said.

As they left, Winky chattered excitedly about their next movie night. Ariadne listened with a smile, tension still lingering in her shoulders.

Arthur sank back into his chair, exhaling slowly.

Between Harry’s training, the mysteries of ancient magic, and Winky’s moonlighting as a magical vigilante, his simple life was anything but.

And Halloween was approaching.

So was the war’s finale.

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