The snow began to fall softly from the sky, a delicate curtain of white that blanketed the cobblestone streets below. The evening brought with it a quiet darkness, as the world became enshrouded under the soft glow of moonlight. Streetlamps flickered to life, one by one, casting pools of light across the sleepy village square. At the center of this tranquil scene, seven children stood in a tight circle, their breath visible in the chilly air.

Among them, a boy with golden-blonde hair stood at the forefront. His frame was slightly broader, and he was taller than most of the boys around him, his stature giving him an air of quiet authority. He wore an elegant trench coat, tailored perfectly to him, and beneath it, a fine suit—far more formal than what was typical for such a cold evening. His peers were dressed in an assortment of winter attire, but beneath their cloaks and scarves, one could glimpse the traditional wizarding garments each of them wore, a subtle yet unmistakable nod to their heritage.

They all gazed in silence at the statue before them—a family of three immortalized in stone, forever frozen in time. The mother sat tenderly cradling a small child in her arms, while her husband stood at her side, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Snowflakes gathered gently on their stone heads, forming makeshift caps, and the baby, wrapped in his mother’s embrace, seemed impossibly serene.

“That’s him,” someone murmured softly, breaking the silence. "That’s the boy who lived."

"The Potters," Nicholas echoed in a quiet, astonished voice, his gaze fixed on the statue. His eyes traced the contours of the figures, lingering on the baby who had become a symbol of hope and defiance in the face of unspeakable darkness.

Draco, standing beside him, was speaking in an excited tone, recounting the tale of the Potters with the confidence of someone who had heard it a hundred times. His voice rose and fell, carrying the story of how James and Lily Potter sacrificed their lives to save their son, and how the infant boy—Harry Potter—had survived the Dark Lord’s curse.

"The Dark Lord himself," Draco said, his voice filled with dramatic flair, "was defeated the night he tried to kill that baby. He was the most feared wizard of our time, and yet, a mere child stopped him. It’s why he’s famous... Why they call him 'The Boy Who Lived.'"

Sounds of awe and amazement rippled through the group as the other children listened intently. Even though they all knew the story, hearing it told in this place, in front of the Potters' memorial, seemed to give it new life, grounding the legend in something tangible.

Pansy Parkinson, dressed in an exquisite fur-trimmed cloak, her dark hair framing her sharp features, chimed in, her voice dripping with skepticism. “And yet, he’s nothing more than a half-blood, is he not?” she remarked coolly, her eyes flicking toward Nicholas. “I’ve never understood the fascination. A fluke of magic, that’s all.”

Nicholas’s gaze shifted toward her, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t as interested in the politics of blood status as some of his peers were, though he understood its importance to families like the Malfoys and the Parkinsons. But here, in Godric's Hollow, in the shadow of the statue that honored sacrifice and love, such narrow distinctions seemed utterly insignificant.

Draco shot Pansy a sharp, warning look, his grey eyes glinting with thinly veiled hostility. Blood status had become a sensitive topic among their group ever since Nicholas had revealed his own maternal lineage, something less than pure by their rigid standards. Realizing her misstep, Pansy’s hand flew to her mouth, her usual haughty demeanor faltering. “I didn’t mean—” she began, her voice softening as she glanced nervously at Nicholas, searching his face for any sign of anger or offense. But Nicholas’s expression remained calm, unbothered.

“Regardless,” Nicholas said, his voice measured and deliberate, “the Potters are remembered for more than just their bloodline. They stood against Voldemort when others cowered in fear. That kind of courage... it transcends any talk of blood status.”

The effect of his words was immediate. A ripple of discomfort spread through the group. Several of his peers glanced at one another, their eyes wide in shock. To hear someone speak the Dark Lord’s name so casually, without the slightest tremor of fear, was nothing short of audacious. For most, saying Voldemort aloud was a tacit taboo, a mark of recklessness—or worse, disrespect for the weight of the past.

Nicholas noticed their uneasy reactions, initially confused by their sudden shift in demeanor. Then, like a flash, he remembered George’s words to him during their time together at Skokholm. “There’s no curse in saying his name,” George had assured him with a laugh. “Fear of a name only strengthens the fear of the thing itself.”

With that thought, Nicholas raised his head and addressed them again, his voice steady and reassuring. “There’s nothing to fear in speaking his name,” he said, his confidence unshaken. “As long as you are under the protection of my family, no harm will come to you. Whatever evil lingers from his legacy, we stand stronger together, and no mere name can change that.”

Despite the composure in his voice, his words seemed to linger uneasily among the group. It wasn’t that they doubted Nicholas’s authority or the power of his family—far from it. But the specter of Voldemort’s reign of terror still cast a long shadow, even after all these years. Each of their parents had told them stories of the dark times, of the chaos and destruction that followed in Voldemort’s wake. For them, Voldemort was not just a name, but a symbol of the darkest chapter in recent wizarding history, reinforced by the graves and memorials scattered across the country.

Yet, in the presence of Nicholas—heir to the revered Gryff family—their fear began to loosen, if only slightly. His unwavering confidence, the weight of his lineage, and the protective aura that seemed to emanate from him offered a strange comfort. As the snow continued to fall gently around them, it was as though a silent vow had been made in that moment—one of courage, unity, and defiance against the old terrors that had once gripped their world.

The silence stretched, but the tension that had filled the air began to ebb, slowly replaced by a renewed sense of resolve. Nicholas, standing tall and composed, represented more than just his family’s future; he symbolized the resilience of a new generation, one that would rise beyond the fears and divisions of the past.

Draco, usually one to revel in pureblood superiority, found himself looking at Nicholas with something akin to admiration. Though he had never voiced it, Draco respected the quiet power Nicholas wielded, not through status alone, but through a sense of self-assurance that went beyond mere titles. He gave a small nod as if to say he understood, even if he did not fully agree.

“Well,” Louis Delacour finally broke the silence, clearing his throat with a slight smirk. “Perhaps there’s something to be said for not cowering in fear of old ghosts.”

A ripple of light laughter spread through the group, the tension that had gripped them moments earlier now dissolving. The statue of the Potters loomed behind them, stoic and serene, as if offering its silent blessing to their newfound resolve. The baby in the statue’s arms seemed to gaze at them with a calm, almost approving expression.

Just as the laughter subsided, an unexpected thwack resounded through the plaza. A snowball struck Louis squarely on the left side of his face, sending a spray of cold, powdery snow all over him. His indignant gasp drew everyone's attention. When he spun around, wiping snow from his cheek, his sharp eyes immediately landed on Draco, who stood a few paces away with an unmistakably mischievous grin. Draco’s eyes sparkled with playful defiance, and he was laughing—hard. Another boy, standing next to Draco, joined in, egging him on.

For a moment, Louis was frozen in shock, his aristocratic composure slipping as a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. But it didn’t last long. With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he grabbed a fistful of snow from the ground and hurled it straight at Draco with startling precision. "You dare challenge a Delacour?" he called out, a playful lilt in his French-accented voice.

That was all it took. The group scattered in every direction, their earlier gravity forgotten in an instant. Nicholas, his serious demeanor replaced by a bright grin, joined in just as quickly, scooping up snow and launching it toward whoever was closest. Pansy shrieked as she narrowly dodged a snowball aimed at her head, while Blaise Zabini, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes, who had been standing aloof near the edge of the group, suddenly found himself ducking and weaving between flying snow.

Louis, determined to exact his revenge on Draco, waged a relentless snowball assault, chasing his friend across the plaza with fierce determination. Their laughter, bright and unrestrained, echoed through the cold evening air, mingling with the sharp sounds of snowballs smacking into coats and boots. The streets of Godric’s Hollow, typically quiet and serene under the cover of night, were now alive with the joyful chaos of the children’s impromptu snowball fight.

Though the village was small and tucked away in the West Country, the cheerful ruckus drew the attention of the few passersby braving the Christmas night chill. They watched with curious smiles, amused by the rare sight of children playing together outdoors in the snow. It had been years since the village had seen such lively energy—especially on a winter's evening—and the scene brought an unexpected warmth to the frosty night.

Draco, laughing breathlessly, narrowly dodged another one of Louis’s expertly aimed snowballs. "You’ll never catch me, Delacour!" he called, his voice teasing yet filled with playful defiance as he darted behind a tree for cover. Louis smirked, shaking snow from his fur-lined cloak before continuing his pursuit, unwilling to let the challenge slide. Blaise Zabini, who had kept his distance at first, now joined in, launching snowballs with precise aim from his perch by the statue.

Pansy, watching the boys chase each other with snowballs, initially rolled her eyes in mock disdain. “Honestly, boys,” she muttered, though her amusement was undeniable as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Standing beside her were two of her closest friends, Mei-Ling Zhang, a girl from a respected Chinese wizarding family, and Amara Okoye, a sharp-witted witch from a distinguished African lineage.

Mei-Ling, her raven-black hair tied in a neat braid, watched the snowball fight with an air of calm. “I think they’re asking for it,” she said, her voice cool yet playful.

Amara, taller than the rest with strikingly bright eyes, grinned mischievously. “I think we should give them a taste of their own medicine.” She scooped up a handful of snow, expertly packing it into a tight ball.

Pansy raised an eyebrow but was quick to follow suit, gathering snow with a practiced elegance. “They’ll regret leaving us out,” she said, her smile widening.

The three girls silently exchanged glances and, without warning, launched their perfectly aimed snowballs at Draco and Blaise, hitting their targets with precision. “Bullseye!” Amara laughed triumphantly, as Draco spun around, surprised.

The boys turned toward the girls, astonished but ready to retaliate. “You’ll pay for that!” Draco shouted, but Pansy, Mei-Ling, and Amara had already grouped together, their laughter filling the cold air as they prepared for the oncoming onslaught.

Nicholas, the last one to tire, stood amidst the frosty chaos, his breath misting in the cold air as he laughed along with his friends. His golden-blonde hair was tousled from the fray, and his cheeks were flushed a bright pink from the cold.

Eventually, as the snowball fight began to wind down and the cold started to seep into their bones, the group decided it was time to return to the Gryff ancestral home. Still giggling softly, the girls tiptoed delicately through the snow, their heavy winter cloaks trailing behind them. The boys, in contrast, were a ragged lot, most of them looking thoroughly haggard after the spirited snowball match, but still laughing as they exchanged good-natured jabs about who had managed to hit whom the most. Nicholas walked at the head of the group, leading the way through the moonlit streets back toward the grandeur of his family’s ancestral home. His heart was light, his mind at peace, surrounded by friends and the lingering warmth of shared joy.

As they approached the heart of the village, the towering gates of the Gryff ancestral mansion came into view. The gates, wrought from intricate iron and enchanted to shimmer with faint golden hues, bore symbols of protection and legacy. Two stone lions, majestic and lifelike, flanked either side of the entrance, their eyes seeming to watch over all who passed.

Beyond the gates, the mansion itself stood proudly, a grand structure that spoke of ancient magic and historical grandeur. The design of the building, a combination of medieval fortitude and wizarding elegance, evoked the spirit of Godric Gryffindor. Its towering spires were reminiscent of the old castle structures from centuries past, and its stone walls were carved with runes of courage and bravery, said to have been enchanted by Gryffindor himself.

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The windows were vast and arched, framed by gilded metalwork that glistened under the light of the moon. Thick ivy climbed up the outer walls, its tendrils enchanted to never wither, symbolizing the eternal strength of the family. As they stepped onto the cobbled path leading to the main entrance, the immense wooden doors stood before them, ornately carved with scenes of legendary duels, magical beasts, and ancient heraldry. “Wow,” Draco said under his breath as he stared above the large double doors, illuminated by the glow of lanterns, was the Family Crest of House Gryff—a magnificent lion standing on its hind legs, roaring in defiance, a symbol of both power and nobility.

“You seem surprised, Nicholas,” Louis Delacour remarked, his tone tinged with curiosity as his gaze swept across the grand exterior of the mansion. A glimmer of amusement danced in his eyes. “Is this truly your first time beholding your ancestral home?”

Nicholas nodded, his hand resting on the massive wrought-iron door handle. “I’ve only recently learned about this place myself,” he replied, a touch of wonder still in his voice. “It’s strange to think that something so grand could be tied to my family. Grandfather has promised we’ll enjoy our time here, but as for what surprises await inside... I’m as much in the dark as you all.”

Louis chuckled, his smile playful. “Perhaps there’s a dragon waiting for us inside. You British wizards do have a rather unusual fondness for them. I wouldn’t be shocked if one were lurking in the shadows.”

“I highly doubt that,” Nicholas said with a laugh, though he caught Draco’s subtle glance, noticing how the Slytherin had taken a small step back. “Besides, how could a dragon possibly fit inside a house like this?”

“Stop with your absurd suggestions, Delacour,” Draco retorted, his voice crisp as he tried to mask his unease. “This is no dragon’s lair—it’s an ancestral home. Nicholas, back me up here. Surely, you don't expect a dragon behind these doors?”

Nicholas merely shrugged, suppressing a grin as he faced the door once more. With a steady push, the grand entrance groaned open, revealing the vast interior within. The grandeur of the place took their breath away, as they stepped into a hall steeped in history and magic.

The entrance hall was nothing like the familiar elegance of the Gryff manor they had known. Here, every corner seemed to whisper of ancient secrets and forgotten legends. The floor was made of polished black marble, reflecting the flickering light from floating, enchanted torches that hovered in midair. Each flame burned a deep crimson, casting a warm but mysterious glow.

Lining the walls were towering suits of armor, each adorned with crests and weapons from bygone eras. The ten statues of armored knights that flanked the pathway leading to the grand staircase were no ordinary figures. Their eyes, embedded with gleaming gemstones, flickered with a faint light, as if watching over the children, and their armor seemed ready to spring to life at any moment.

Nicholas paused, marveling at the enchanted scene. His friends followed closely, equally entranced by the sprawling corridor that led deeper into the heart of the mansion. Above them, the ceiling was enchanted like the Great Hall at Hogwarts Nicholas had read in a book called Hogwarts: A History, but here, instead of stars, swirling clouds of silver and gold magic seemed to shift, ever-changing, telling stories of the house’s long and prestigious history.

"This... this is beyond anything I’ve read about," Draco murmured, his eyes wide with astonishment. "I thought our manor was impressive, but this... this is something else entirely."

Louis stepped closer to a display case that held an array of wizarding antiques, each item glowing faintly as though infused with enchantments long forgotten. One artifact in particular—a silver goblet etched with ancient runes—caught his attention. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he studied the delicate craftsmanship. "I’d wager even this cup has seen more magic than most wizards will in a lifetime," he mused aloud, his voice reverent.

Draco, standing nearby with his arms crossed, smirked. “Probably older than your family too, Delacour.”

The children laughed lightly at Draco's quip. Louis’ face flushed with anger as he turned to Draco, his fists clenching. "Is that supposed to be funny, Malfoy?" he asked, his voice low and tense.

Draco’s smirk didn’t falter as he took a step closer, meeting Louis’ glare with equal intensity. "What, have you got a problem with it, Delacour?" he replied coolly, his tone laced with challenge.

Before the tension could escalate further, Nicholas positioned himself between the two, his expression calm but commanding. "Enough, Draco," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the growing hostility. "This is neither the time nor the place for this, let’s not spoil our evening with pointless bickering." His gaze lingered on both boys, making it clear he expected the matter to end.

Louis exhaled sharply, glancing at the goblet once more before muttering, "Fine." He turned away from Draco, unwilling to press the matter further.

Draco shrugged, feigning indifference, though he didn’t push back. Nicholas’s words seemed to have struck a chord, at least enough to keep the peace for now. The group, albeit somewhat strained, continued through the hall, their attention gradually shifting back to the wonders around them.

Just then, a low creak echoed ominously through the grand hall, and a side door swung open with a soft groan. Emerging from the shadows was an elderly woman, draped in a thick velvet cloak lined with fur, her silver hair swept up in an elegant bun, though a few loose strands fell gracefully around her face. Despite her age, her eyes gleamed with an unsettling sharpness, as if she could see far more than the mere physical world. She observed the children with a knowing smile, the kind that suggested she was far more aware of their presence than they could ever anticipate.

“Ah, Nicholas Gryff," she said, her voice soft. "How marvelous to see you here at last.”

Before Nicholas could respond, five small figures scurried out from behind her, their large eyes gleaming with reverence and awe. Dressed in matching tunics embroidered with the Gryff family crest, the small figures hurried toward the group, stopping just a few feet away and bowing so low their long noses nearly touched the floor.

“It’s the young master!” one of them squeaked in a high-pitched voice. “The sole heir of Lord Gryffindor has finally arrived!”

Nicholas, momentarily taken aback, looked to his friends, but before he could gather his thoughts, the elves continued their chorus of adoration.

“We are deeply honored to welcome the heir of the noble Gryffindor line!” another elf piped up, wringing its long fingers nervously as it gazed at Nicholas.

Louis leaned in toward Nicholas, whispering, “They’re house elves, Nicholas.”

Each of the five house-elves bore distinct physical traits, a testament to the long history of their service to the Gryff family. One had enormous bat-like ears that flapped slightly as it moved, its skin a deep shade of green, while another was pale and wrinkled, with large watery eyes that blinked nervously. The third elf was stout, almost chubby by house-elf standards, with short stubby fingers and a slightly upturned nose, giving it an oddly dignified look. The fourth was much taller, almost lanky, with dark gray skin and narrow, sharp features, its gaze more calculating than the others. The last elf was the smallest of the group, barely half the height of the others, with vibrant, almost reddish-brown skin and a head adorned with wild tufts of hair that seemed to defy gravity.

Despite their differences, they all shared the same look of admiration as they gazed up at Nicholas, their wide eyes reflecting the glow of the nearby torches.

“Now, calm yourselves, you eager elves,” the old woman said with a gentle but firm tone, stepping out from the shadows. “I’m sure your young master and his friends have had a long journey and would appreciate a moment's peace.”

The elves immediately fell silent, bowing their heads as the woman approached. She moved with surprising grace for her age, her fur-lined cloak trailing behind her like a whisper of history. “Forgive my lack of manners,” she continued, her voice carrying a dignified warmth. “I haven’t introduced myself. I am Bathilda Bagshot, an old friend of the Gryff family. Your Grandfather entrusted me with the care and management of your ancestral home.” Bathilda’s keen eyes swept over the children as she smiled. “It’s such a lively day to have young souls breathe life into this aging house. I daresay it has been far too quiet for my taste.”

"I remember hearing of you," Nicholas said excitedly, his eyes widening. "You're the author of Hogwarts: A History and so many other books!" His words seemed to spark a wave of excitement among his group. Bathilda Bagshot, though reclusive in recent years, was still legendary in wizarding circles. He could hear the whispers of awe from his friends behind him.

Bathilda’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “I was indeed,” she acknowledged with a slight nod, her tone gentle yet authoritative. She added with a twinkle in her eye, “But now, I am merely an old woman, entrusted to watch over the heir of a dear friend and his companions in this ancient home."

Nicholas glanced at his friends, their faces mirroring the fascination he felt. He then turned to Bathilda and said, "Would it be possible for us to have two rooms—one for the boys and another for the girls?"

Bathilda raised an eyebrow, amused by his politeness. "As the heir requests, so shall it be done," she replied with a graceful wave of her hand. She clapped once, summoning the attention of the house-elves. "You heard your young master," she instructed, her voice gentle yet firm. "Prepare two rooms that will suit the needs of our guests."

The elves, quick and efficient, scurried past the group, their tiny feet barely making a sound as they darted up the stairs and disappeared from view.

Turning back to Nicholas, Bathilda smiled kindly. "Nico, may I call you that?" she asked, her voice softening, and a soft gleam of affection flashed her eyes as she observed Nicholas.

Nicholas nodded, feeling a warmth in the way she addressed him. "Of course."

"Good," Bathilda continued. "Now, follow me to the front parlor. You and your friends may rest there while your rooms are being prepared. I’ll have tea and refreshments brought in."

"Thank you, Madam," Nicholas replied, bowing his head slightly out of respect. As Bathilda led the way down a candle-lit corridor, Nicholas and his friends followed in quiet awe, their footsteps echoing softly on the stone floors. There was something about the mansion—about Bathilda—that made them feel as if they were walking through living history.

…

The long table was resplendent with a sumptuous array of delicacies, each dish a masterful tribute to the diverse cultures gathered under the ancient roof of House Gryffindor. In front of Mei-Ling, an assortment of traditional Chinese dishes gleamed in the soft candlelight—dumplings intricately folded like precious jewels, a fragrant Peking duck with its crispy golden skin, and bowls of delicate jasmine rice that steamed gently in the cool winter air. Elsewhere, the table was adorned with foods representing each of their lineages: French delicacies for Louis, rich Italian dishes for Blaise, Exotic African dishes for Amara, and even the bold flavors of British cuisine, which Draco and Pansy eyed with unexpected enthusiasm.

Nicholas, seated at the head of the table, felt his stomach growl softly. The sight of the feast stirred his appetite, but he knew that as the host to his guests, he must demonstrate restraint. His hands gripped the goblet before him, filled with the finest drinks the wizarding world could offer, as he glanced around at his friends. They too were eager to indulge, their eyes glimmering with the excitement of sampling rare dishes, yet they maintained an air of dignity, fitting for their lineage and upbringing. Even Draco, who prided himself on composure, seemed to be battling the urge to dig in before the meal had officially begun.

The atmosphere was warm despite the cold winter night outside, and a quiet reverence hung over the gathering, though it was evident that everyone was eager to begin the feast. The table, decked with delicate china and ornate silverware, seemed like a snapshot from a different time, a reflection of the rich history that clung to every corner of the Gryffindor ancestral home.

Just as Nicholas considered raising his glass full of Butterbeer to toast the occasion, the door creaked open gently, drawing the group's attention. Bathilda Bagshot entered the room, moving with the quiet grace of someone who had long been familiar with these hallowed halls. Behind her was a girl, her figure partially hidden by the shadows until Bathilda stepped aside.

“I trust you’ve not yet started,” Bathilda remarked with a soft smile, her sharp eyes sparkling with their usual warmth. She then gestured to the young girl standing by her side. “I’ve taken the liberty of inviting a young friend to join us. I do hope that’s agreeable to you, Nicholas.”

Nicholas stood from his seat with the grace expected of his stature, making his way toward the pair. As he neared them, his gaze settled on the newcomer. Hannah Abbott was a girl of gentle features, with long, honey-blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves. Her blue eyes reflected both curiosity and a touch of nervousness, though her posture remained polite and composed. She wore a simple, but elegant set of robes, pale blue in color, that complemented her fair complexion.

Bathilda continued, “This is Hannah Abbott. She lives here in Godric’s Hollow with her family, a fine family of longstanding repute.”

Nicholas offered her a warm smile, extending his hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hannah. I’m Nicholas Gryff, heir to the Gryff family.” His tone was courteous yet commanding, as was expected of someone of his position.

Hannah stepped forward, offering a slight curtsey, her face brightening as she shook his hand. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. Gryff. It’s an honor to be here.”

Nicholas chuckled softly. “No need for such formality. You may call me Nicholas,” he replied, his tone softer now, less formal. “Welcome to my family’s ancestral home. If I may, I’d be happy to introduce you to my friends.”

With that, he offered his arm to Hannah, which she took hesitantly, and together they walked toward the table. Behind him, the rest of the group watched curiously, intrigued by the new arrival. Mei-Ling gave a small, approving nod, while Draco and Pansy exchanged glances of disgust and annoyance; they seemed to have exchanged whispers, Louis and Amara smiled at her, though their focus soon returned to the feast that lay before them.

As they approached the table, Nicholas gestured toward each of his companions in turn. “This is Mei-Ling, Louis, Draco, Blaise, Amara, and Pansy,” he said, pausing as each offered polite nods of acknowledgment. “And now, with Madam Bathilda and Hannah joining us tonight, let’s begin the feast.”

With that, they all took their seats once more, and the clatter of silverware filled the room as each began to savor the rich, diverse flavors laid before them. The anticipation had finally broken, and soon, the room was filled with lively conversation as each of them sampled dishes they had never tried before, each bite a delightful new experience. Even Draco, who usually carried an air of aloofness, seemed genuinely impressed by some of the flavors, exchanging comments with Louis about the finer points of French versus British cuisine.