Full Synopsis

In this captivating reimagining of two beloved universes, Harry Potter's journey takes an unexpected turn when he interrupts Voldemort's final gambit for ultimate power. A botched ritual leaves Harry transformed into the unwitting avatar of Hades, the ancient Greek god of the underworld. After falling into a 68-year magical coma, he awakens to a world that has both moved on without him and kept him at its center—as a polarizing figure revered as a savior by some and reviled as a betrayer by others.

Seeking purpose in this new reality, Harry is unexpectedly pulled into the small, chaotic town of Sunnydale. Summoned by demons intending to unleash Satan himself, Harry instead finds himself bound to a young woman named Dawn Summers. Dawn, already reeling from her mother's illness and the shocking revelation of her own origins as the mystical Key, finds solace in Harry's enigmatic presence. Together, they begin to uncover the mysteries of their shared destinies while battling demons, both literal and personal.

Meanwhile, Buffy Summers and her Scooby Gang wrestle with the arrival of this powerful and mysterious figure who claims not to be the devil—but whose abilities suggest otherwise. As tensions rise, alliances are tested, and enemies circle ever closer, Harry must navigate his fractured past, an unfamiliar world, and a bond with Dawn that grows stronger with every shared moment.

Inspired by ForgerOfLies' original story, this richly woven tale blends the dark humor and action of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with the mythic undertones and moral dilemmas of Harry Potter. Featuring gripping character dynamics, morally gray decisions, and a slow-burn romance, The Morningstar's Rebirth is a journey through redemption, identity, and the power of choice.

Will Harry embrace his new role as an avatar of balance, or will the darkness within him consume everything he holds dear? Only time—and his connection with Dawn—will tell.

Chapter 1

The Temple of Shadows loomed like a monstrous relic in the heart of the forest. Its jagged columns clawed at the stormy sky, while faint torchlight flickered through shattered windows, casting eerie shapes on the crumbling stone. The air was thick, heavy with an ancient magic that seemed to hum with anticipation.

Inside, Voldemort stood at the center of an intricate ritual circle, carved deep into the temple floor. The runes glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the shard of obsidian at his feet. Threads of molten gold wove through its surface, radiating an unnatural energy that bathed Voldemort's pale face in an otherworldly light.

"Tonight," Voldemort intoned, his voice reverberating through the chamber, "we transcend mortality. Tonight, I claim dominion over death itself."

The gathered Death Eaters knelt in reverence, heads bowed. Bellatrix Lestrange, positioned closest to the circle, trembled with excitement. "Your power will rival the gods themselves, my lord," she said, her voice thick with adoration.

Voldemort's thin lips curled into a smile devoid of warmth. "The heavens will bow, Bellatrix. Death itself will kneel."

He raised the ancient tome in his hands, its yellowed pages covered in arcane symbols only he could decipher. With his wand in hand, he began the incantation.

"Ανακαλώ τη δύναμη του Κάτω Κόσμου. Άνοιξε τις πύλες, άσε την ουσία να περάσει!"

("I summon the power of the Underworld. Open the gates, let the essence pass through!")

The artifact flared to life, glowing with an intensity that sent shadows crawling up the walls. The runes around the circle ignited in blinding light, and the ground beneath them trembled. A golden beam of energy shot upward, piercing through the broken ceiling and into the swirling clouds above.

Voldemort's laughter rang out, sharp and triumphant. "The power of gods is mine! Not even death will hold dominion over me!"

The heavy temple doors slammed open with a deafening crash, extinguishing half the torches. A wave of cold air swept through the chamber.

"Voldemort!"

The name rang out like a curse, and every head turned. Harry Potter stood in the doorway, his clothes torn and bloodied, but his green eyes burned with determination.

Voldemort turned, his expression twisting into a sneer. "Potter. Your inability to accept defeat is almost admirable."

"This ends here," Harry said, stepping forward, his wand steady in his hand.

"Fool," Voldemort spat, gesturing for his Death Eaters to intercept Harry.

Before they could act, Harry struck first. Stunning spells shot from his wand, felling several Death Eaters in quick succession. Chaos erupted in the chamber as spells ricocheted off the walls, but Voldemort raised his hand sharply.

"Leave him. He is mine."

The Death Eaters hesitated but obeyed, retreating to the edges of the room. Voldemort stepped forward, his wand aimed at Harry. "You don't understand the power you're interfering with, Potter."

"I understand enough," Harry shot back, his voice steady. "I understand that it's not yours to take."

Their duel began with a flash of green and red light, their spells colliding midair in an explosion of force. Voldemort moved with the precision of a predator, his Killing Curses narrowly missing Harry as they carved deep gouges into the stone floor. Harry countered with a relentless barrage of spells, forcing Voldemort to retreat toward the ritual circle.

"You cannot win, Potter!" Voldemort snarled, his voice rising with fury. "I have conquered death before, and now I will master it!"

Harry's wand glowed brightly as he deflected another curse. "Conquered it? You've done nothing but fear it your entire life!"

The artifact at Voldemort's feet pulsed erratically, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface as the magic within began to destabilize. Harry's scar burned fiercely, but he pushed through the pain, focusing on the source of the energy.

The ground quaked beneath them as the temple's structure began to give way. A deafening roar echoed from outside, and the gathered Death Eaters froze in terror. Through the shattered ceiling, a massive form descended—Nyxtharion, his scales gleaming like molten silver, his eyes burning with ancient fury.

The dragon landed with a thunderous crash, its wings folding as it roared again, flames spilling from its jaws. Voldemort's expression faltered for the first time, his gaze snapping toward the beast.

"You brought a dragon, Potter?" he hissed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"I didn't bring him," Harry said, stepping forward. "He chose to fight."

Nyxtharion lunged, swiping his massive claws through the air as Voldemort barely managed to dodge. Flames lit up the chamber, casting wild shadows as the dragon attacked with feral precision. Harry used the distraction to close the distance, his wand aimed at the artifact.

"Don't!" Voldemort screamed, his composure cracking as he hurled a Killing Curse at Harry.

Nyxtharion intercepted the spell, his tail slamming into Voldemort and sending him sprawling. Harry raised his wand, channeling every ounce of his magic into a single spell.

"Reducto!"

The spell struck the artifact, shattering it into a blinding explosion of golden and black light. The energy surged outward, engulfing the entire chamber. Harry was thrown backward, his body crashing against the stone floor.

When the light faded, Voldemort lay crumpled near the ruined circle, his body writhing as the remnants of the ritual's magic consumed him. He turned his gaze toward Harry, his crimson eyes filled with hatred.

"You… took it… from me…" Voldemort rasped, his voice weak.

Harry staggered to his feet, his wand trembling in his hand. "No one should have that power."

Voldemort's body convulsed, and with one final scream, he dissolved into ash, his essence scattered into the void.

The victory was short-lived. The remaining energy from the ritual surged toward Harry, wrapping around him like a shroud. He gasped, his body glowing faintly as the magic seeped into his very being.

"Harry!" Ron and Hermione's voices echoed as they rushed into the chamber, their faces pale with horror.

Nyxtharion roared, positioning himself protectively between Harry and the ruins of the ritual. Harry collapsed to his knees, his vision swimming.

"I'm fine," he whispered, though he could feel the lie in his own words. "I just need a minute…"

His body gave out, and darkness claimed him.

~Scene change~

The ruins of the Temple of Shadows lay silent, shrouded in smoke and ash. The crater at its center, where Voldemort had made his final stand, glowed faintly with remnants of ancient magic. The oppressive hum of the artifact's power was gone, leaving only the acrid tang of scorched stone and the eerie calm of a battle ended.

At the heart of the devastation, Harry Potter lay unconscious. His clothes were torn and scorched, and faint veins of gold shimmered beneath his pale skin, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

Hermione knelt beside him, her trembling hands brushing soot and blood from his face. "Harry," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Please wake up."

Ron stood a few feet away, his wand gripped tightly, his eyes scanning the ruined landscape for any remaining threats. Dirt and sweat streaked his face, and his chest heaved with exhaustion. "He's breathing," Ron said, his voice shaky but firm. "That's something, right? He's alive."

"But look at him," Hermione said, her tone laced with panic. She gestured toward the faint golden glow emanating from Harry's chest. "That—what is that? What did Voldemort do to him?"

"I don't know, but whatever it was, it's over now," Ron said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. He cast a wary glance at Harry's motionless form. "We stopped Voldemort. That's what matters."

Hermione shook her head, her tears falling freely. "It's not that simple, Ron. That artifact—it wasn't just Dark Magic. It was something older, something more dangerous. I don't think we can even begin to understand what's happened to him."

Nearby, the remnants of Voldemort's forces were in disarray. The Death Eaters who hadn't been struck down during the battle were fleeing into the shadows, their panic as palpable as the magic still lingering in the air.

Bellatrix Lestrange was dragged away by a trembling Lucius Malfoy, her wild eyes still locked on Harry's prone form. "This isn't over!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the ruins. "Harry Potter will pay for this! The Dark Lord's power will rise again!"

Ron turned his head sharply, his jaw clenching. "Let them run," he muttered. "They won't get far. The Ministry will find them."

"Forget them," Hermione snapped, her eyes never leaving Harry. "We have more important things to worry about right now."

Ron swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his wand. He nodded, but his gaze lingered on the retreating Death Eaters. The fire in his eyes hadn't dimmed, but he forced himself to focus on his best friend.

Hermione leaned closer to Harry, her brow furrowed in deep concern. The golden veins beneath his skin pulsed faintly, an otherworldly rhythm that seemed to echo in the air around them. She pressed her ear to his chest, confirming that his heart was still beating, though it sounded strange—slower, heavier, as if something beyond human was stirring within him.

"What do we do about him?" Ron asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Hermione hesitated. She didn't have an answer, not this time. For years, she had prided herself on always having a solution, a plan, a way forward. But this…this was beyond anything she had ever studied.

"We take him home," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We figure it out from there."

Ron crouched beside her, his gaze softening as he looked down at Harry. "You mean Grimmauld Place?"

"No." Hermione shook her head. "That's too risky. If there are any Death Eaters left, that's one of the first places they'll look."

Ron frowned. "Then where?"

Hermione glanced toward the horizon, where the faint light of dawn was beginning to creep through the trees. "Hogwarts," she said firmly. "We'll take him to Hogwarts. If anyone can help, it's McGonagall. And…" She hesitated, her voice trembling. "And Dumbledore might have left something behind. A clue. Anything."

Ron nodded reluctantly. "All right. Let's get moving before anyone comes back."

With great effort, the two of them managed to lift Harry, his weight awkward between them as they struggled through the ruins. Nyxtharion, who had been perched silently on the outskirts of the battlefield, lumbered closer. The dragon's molten silver eyes fixed on Harry, a low rumble emanating from its throat.

"Nyxtharion," Hermione said cautiously, unsure of how to address the massive creature. "We need to get Harry to safety. Will you help us?"

The dragon lowered its head, its gaze intense but gentle. Without hesitation, it crouched low, allowing Ron and Hermione to carefully place Harry onto its back. The golden glow from Harry's chest seemed to intensify, reflecting off the dragon's shimmering scales.

"Let's go," Ron said, climbing up behind Harry. Hermione hesitated for a moment, her eyes scanning the temple ruins one last time, before she joined them.

With a powerful beat of its wings, Nyxtharion launched into the sky, carrying them away from the destruction. The ruins of the Temple of Shadows grew smaller and smaller, disappearing into the forest below.

As they flew, Hermione held onto Harry tightly, her mind racing with unanswered questions. What had Voldemort unleashed? What had Harry absorbed? And, most troubling of all, was he still entirely himself?

Ron sat behind them, his hand gripping his wand, his jaw set in determination. "We'll figure it out," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "We always do."

Hermione didn't respond. She looked down at Harry's face, pale and peaceful despite the chaos that had unfolded. The golden light pulsing beneath his skin was a reminder of the price they had paid, the price Harry had paid, to end Voldemort's reign.

As Hogwarts came into view on the horizon, a faint glimmer of hope stirred in Hermione's chest. Whatever had happened, whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them together.

For now, Harry was alive. And that was enough.

Two Days Later: Headlines and Whispers

The morning edition of The Daily Prophet screamed from every street corner:

"HARRY POTTER STRIKES AGAIN: THE DARK LORD FALLS!"

Bylines proclaimed Harry Potter as both hero and enigma. The article, penned by Rita Skeeter herself, spared no sensationalism.

HARRY POTTER, the Boy Who Lived, has done the unthinkable—again. Sources close to the Ministry confirm that the Dark Lord Voldemort is dead, the final battle having taken place in the ruins of a mysterious temple hidden deep in the forested outskirts of Europe. While details remain unclear, what is known is this: Harry Potter is currently unresponsive at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies, his condition described as "unprecedented" by senior healers.

Some celebrate him as the savior who brought peace to the wizarding world. Others whisper of darker possibilities—did Harry Potter dabble in forbidden magic to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? And if so, what will this mean for the legacy of the so-called Chosen One?

Ron flung the paper onto the table in disgust, the sound startling Hermione from her restless pacing.

"They're already turning on him," Ron growled, his face red. "He saves everyone, and they're accusing him of—what, dark magic? Using Voldemort's own tricks?"

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. "You know how the Prophet is. They'll twist anything for attention." She crossed her arms, glancing toward the closed door of Harry's ward. "But we can't ignore what happened, Ron. Whatever Voldemort was trying to do—Harry stopped it, but it left him like this."

Ron gestured angrily toward the paper. "And now the whole bloody world's going to treat him like some kind of… monster!"

The Rise of the Betrayer and the Awakening of Harry Potter

The weeks following the final confrontation at the Temple of Shadows marked a turbulent turning point for the wizarding world. Though Voldemort was gone, his shadow lingered, and in its wake, Harry Potter's actions became the subject of heated debate.

At first, there was only gratitude—a sense of relief that the war was over. But as time passed and the details of the final battle remained unclear, a darker narrative began to emerge. Harry's unorthodox methods, his willingness to adopt tactics far removed from Dumbledore's vision, and his disappearance into an unexplained stasis all became fodder for speculation.

The fracture began within the Order of the Phoenix itself. Once united under Dumbledore's ideals of restraint and mercy, they were now split over Harry's methods.

•Moody and Kingsley: Both Aurors defended Harry, arguing that war demanded hard choices. "The boy did what needed to be done," Moody growled during a heated discussion. "We were losing ground until he started striking where it hurt."

•Molly Weasley: Still grieving the loss of Fred, she found herself unable to reconcile Harry's brutal tactics with the boy she once thought of as family. "Fred wouldn't have wanted this," she said quietly, her voice breaking. "We fought to protect our way of life, not to destroy it."

The Ministry of Magic, still recovering from Voldemort's reign, issued vague and carefully worded statements about Harry's role in the final battle. They offered no answers, only fueling the growing divide. The lack of transparency gave rise to the phrase "Harry the Betrayer," whispered by those who believed the war's cost had been too high.

As the years went on, Harry's name became a symbol—both of triumph and of what happens when a hero strays too far into darkness.

•The Cult of the Lightbringer: A zealous group formed around the belief that Harry was a divine figure, destined to awaken and save the world once more. They camped outside St. Mungo's, leaving offerings and spreading tales of his eventual return.

•The Serpent's Legacy: Descendants of Voldemort's most loyal followers, they whispered of revenge and vengeance, blaming Harry for the Dark Lord's downfall and plotting in the shadows.

Harry's body, untouched by time, became an enigma. At St. Mungo's, he lay in a private ward, his presence a reminder of the war that had shaped an entire generation. His golden veins pulsed faintly, their glow a haunting echo of the power he had absorbed. For decades, healers, scholars, and magical theorists studied him, hoping to unravel the mystery.

Among the more controversial discoveries was the transformation of Harry's blood. It had turned molten gold, rich with a magical essence that defied explanation. Researchers found that it had astonishing properties:

1.Healing Potential: When distilled into a serum, it cured previously incurable magical diseases.

2.Wandless Magic Enhancement: Wizards who took even small doses found themselves capable of instinctive, wandless magic.

3.Addictive Nature: The serum proved dangerously addictive, corrupting those who used it. After several incidents of dependence and magical destabilization, all research was halted.

Hermione, still deeply involved in magical research decades later, ensured that every note, vial, and theory regarding Harry's condition was stored safely. In her final visit to St. Mungo's before retiring, she left these records in a small, enchanted pouch on Harry's bedside table, along with a personal note: "For when you wake up. We never stopped trying."

As Harry lay in stasis, the wizarding world continued to evolve.

•Magical-Technological Fusion: Inspired by Muggle innovation, magical society began integrating technology with enchantments. Mirrors replaced owls as the primary means of communication, magical vehicles became commonplace, and even Hogwarts adapted, offering classes in enchanted technology.

•A New Magical Renaissance: Inspired by Harry's final battle, a new generation of wizards pushed the boundaries of what was possible. Wandless magic, once thought to be the domain of prodigies, became a field of study, though its secrets remained elusive.

But for all their progress, the world could not forget the boy who had saved them—or the cost of that salvation.

In the 68th year, something changed.

The golden veins in Harry's body, which had dimmed to near-invisibility, began to glow brighter. The faint ripple of magic surrounding him intensified, drawing the attention of the healers. On a quiet evening, a young trainee tending to his room paused as Harry's green eyes fluttered open. They glowed faintly, reflecting the molten gold coursing through his veins.

"Balance," Harry whispered hoarsely, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. The word echoed faintly, carrying an unspoken weight. Before the healer could respond, his eyes closed once more.

Nyxtharion, Harry's dragon companion, had remained a symbol of awe and fear in the years following Voldemort's defeat. After transporting Harry to Hogwarts at the conclusion of the Battle of the Temple of Shadows, the dragon lingered in the wizarding world, often appearing when least expected.

Though wary of him, many wizards considered Nyxtharion an unspoken guardian, his molten silver scales and immense power a constant reminder of Harry's legacy. The dragon intervened sporadically in key moments, notably disrupting several Death Eater uprisings that sprang up in the years following Voldemort's death.

One such incident occurred twenty years after the Temple of Shadows. A group of rogue Death Eaters, led by Bellatrix Lestrange's nephew, Cassian Blackthorn, launched an assault on a remote magical settlement in northern Scotland. Their goal: resurrect what they called The Serpent's Legacy, a movement meant to restore Voldemort's ideology and, if possible, his essence.

The battle was fierce. The Ministry's Aurors, outnumbered and overwhelmed, were close to defeat when a deafening roar shook the skies. Nyxtharion descended like a storm, his fire scattering the Death Eaters and reducing their hideouts to ash. The survivors fled, their plans in shambles.

But as the tide of the battle turned, the Death Eaters unleashed a desperate gambit—a portal born of dark, unstable magic, designed to banish anything it touched to an unknown dimension. Nyxtharion, sensing the danger to the Aurors and nearby civilians, roared and lunged into the portal, dragging several Death Eaters with him.

The portal sealed with a thunderous crack, and the battlefield fell silent. Witnesses claimed they could still hear Nyxtharion's roar echoing in the distance, though no trace of him remained. The Ministry deemed the portal irreversible, a product of forbidden magic long since lost to history.

For decades, the mystery of Nyxtharion's disappearance became the subject of speculation. Some believed he had been trapped in another dimension, battling to return. Others thought he had sacrificed himself to seal the portal permanently. Whatever the truth, his absence left a void, and his name was added to the long list of those lost in the fight to rebuild the wizarding world.

When Harry stirred again days later, the golden light in his veins grew brighter still. A ripple of magic spread across the hospital, startling even the most seasoned healers. The whispers outside St. Mungo's grew louder: "The Lightbringer is waking."

Hermione's notes remained unopened on his bedside table, waiting for the moment he was ready to face the world again.

Would Harry awaken to a world that welcomed him as a hero—or feared him as the Betrayer?

~scene change~

The world felt muffled, as though Harry were submerged in deep water. Every sensation—sound, touch, light—was distant, distorted, and alien. His body felt heavy, unresponsive, like a marionette with its strings tangled. Slowly, the pressure began to ease, and the world seeped back into focus, piece by piece.

First came the scents: potions, faintly floral with a bitter tang, mixed with the sterile air of a hospital ward. Then came the sounds: muted voices beyond a heavy door, the soft clink of glass vials. Finally, light pressed against his eyelids, seeping through the cracks as his eyes fluttered open.

The brightness stung, and he squinted, forcing his vision to focus. A figure stood at his bedside.

"Harry?" The voice was soft, trembling, and achingly familiar.

He turned his head with effort, his muscles groaning in protest. The woman standing there was older, her hair streaked with silver and her face etched with lines of time and worry. But her eyes—intelligent, warm, and endlessly familiar—were unmistakable.

"Hermione?" His voice came out hoarse, barely audible, but it was enough.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she smiled, her hand covering her mouth to stifle a sob. "Yes, Harry. It's me."

Harry tried to sit up, but his arms gave out beneath him, and he sank back onto the pillows. Hermione moved quickly to steady him, her touch gentle yet firm. "Take it slow," she said, her voice steadying even as her hands shook. "You've been… out for a long time."

"How long?" he rasped, his throat dry and raw.

Her hesitation was slight, but Harry caught it. Her gaze softened, almost as though she was bracing herself for the impact of her words. "Sixty-eight years," she said quietly.

For a moment, the weight of her words didn't register. But when they did, they struck like a Bludger to the chest. Harry's mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his mind struggling to comprehend the number. "Sixty-eight years?" he finally managed, his voice hollow with disbelief. "That can't be right."

Hermione nodded solemnly. "It is. The stasis spell sustained you, but no one expected it to last this long. You… you haven't aged."

Harry lifted his trembling hands, turning them over in the faint light of the enchanted window. His skin looked the same, youthful and unmarred, but faint veins of gold pulsed beneath it, glowing faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat. "What happened to me?" he whispered, his voice tinged with both fear and curiosity.

Hermione sighed, her brow furrowing. "We don't fully understand. The healers think it's related to the magic you absorbed during the final battle, but the details…" She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the faint golden glow around Harry's chest. "There's more to it, Harry. Whatever happened at the temple, it wasn't just Voldemort's magic."

Fragments of memory flashed through Harry's mind—the blinding light of the artifact, the overwhelming surge of power, Voldemort's face twisted in rage and desperation. And then… nothing.

Hermione gave him a moment to process before sitting beside him. There was relief in her expression, but also a deep sadness. "Harry," she began carefully, "the world you're waking up to is very different from the one you left behind."

His eyes darted to her face, searching. "What happened? To everyone? To Ron? Ginny?"

A faint smile broke through Hermione's somber demeanor. "Ron and I married after the war," she said, her voice soft with nostalgia. "We have three children now—Rose, Hugo, and Felix—and grandchildren, too. Ron retired last year. He never gave up on you, Harry. He always believed you'd wake up."

Harry's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. "That sounds like him."

"And Ginny?" he asked, his voice quieter, hesitant.

Hermione hesitated again, her expression unreadable. "She's… she's fine. She married Draco Malfoy."

Harry blinked, certain he'd misheard her. "Malfoy?"

Hermione nodded, her tone firm. "He's not the same person you remember, Harry. After the war, he turned himself in. He worked to rebuild what was broken—he even saved Ron and me more than once."

"Malfoy saved you?" Harry asked, his tone a mixture of disbelief and skepticism.

"Yes," Hermione said firmly. "And Ginny saw that. They've been happy together."

Harry leaned back into the pillows, his mind struggling to reconcile this version of Malfoy with the boy he remembered. "Stranger things have happened, I suppose," he murmured, though doubt still clouded his voice.

"There's something else you need to know," Hermione continued, her tone growing more serious. "The world has changed a lot. The Ministry was dissolved after the war. It was too corrupted, too compromised. We rebuilt it as a council—more transparent, more collaborative."

"And you're on the council, of course," Harry said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"I am," Hermione admitted, "but it's not perfect. There are still divisions. Some people embrace the progress we've made, but others… others cling to the past."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You mean me."

Hermione's silence was answer enough. "There are those who revere you as a hero," she said carefully, "but there are others who see you as the Betrayer. They think you strayed too far from Dumbledore's ideals."

The word Betrayer stung more than Harry expected, though it didn't surprise him. "Even after all this time?"

"People hold onto narratives," Hermione said gently. "Your return will stir up those feelings all over again."

She hesitated before adding, "That's why I need you to come to the council's annual ball next week. It's a commemoration of Voldemort's defeat. Your presence will mean everything."

Harry groaned. "A ball? Really?"

Hermione smiled faintly. "It's more than a ball, Harry. It's a chance to remind people of who you are—the person who saved us, not the person they fear."

After Hermione left, Harry sat alone in his ward, staring out the enchanted window. The city outside was unfamiliar, its skyline dotted with lights that flickered like stars. The weight of sixty-eight years pressed down on him, and for the first time, he felt truly lost.

He glanced at his hands again, the faint golden veins pulsing beneath his skin. The artifact's power had changed him, though how or why remained a mystery.

"I'll go," he murmured to himself, though he wasn't sure he believed it. The world expected him to be a hero—or a monster. But Harry? He wasn't sure who he was anymore.

~scene change~

The hum of conversation filled the grand ballroom, bouncing off the marble walls and shimmering chandeliers that bathed the space in golden light. Wizards and witches in elegant robes mingled, laughter and the clink of glasses blending with the soft strains of a classical melody. Yet for Harry Potter, standing at the edge of the crowd, the festive atmosphere only heightened his discomfort.

He tugged at the stiff collar of his formal robes, his fingers brushing against the faint golden glow of his skin that no one else seemed to notice. His green eyes scanned the room, catching the occasional curious or cautious glance sent his way. A lifetime ago, he might have felt the same nervous energy before a Quidditch match, but now the stares carried a weight that was far more suffocating.

"Still hate crowds, I see," a familiar voice murmured beside him.

Harry turned to see Hermione holding a delicate wine glass, her expression warm yet tinged with concern.

"Some things never change," he said, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

Hermione gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Just try to enjoy yourself, Harry. Tonight's about showing people the real you—not the rumors they've clung to."

Before he could respond, a voice from his past interrupted them.

"Harry."

He turned, his breath catching. Ginny Malfoy—formerly Weasley—stood before him. Though decades had passed, her vibrant red hair retained its fiery hue, pinned elegantly atop her head. Lines of age framed her sharp brown eyes, but her presence radiated a familiar strength.

They stared at each other, the unspoken weight of years and unfulfilled possibilities hanging between them.

"It's been a long time," Ginny said softly, her voice steady but filled with emotion.

Harry nodded, his throat tight. "It has."

Before he could say more, Ginny extended a hand. "Would you give me this dance?"

Harry hesitated, glancing toward Hermione, who offered him a subtle nod of encouragement. Taking a breath, he placed his hand in Ginny's, letting her lead him to the dance floor.

The orchestra shifted to a slower melody, and the crowd parted to make space for them. Ginny's movements were graceful and fluid, her years of confidence evident, while Harry's steps were awkward and hesitant. It had been far too long since he had danced.

"You haven't changed much," Ginny teased, a faint smile curving her lips. "Still hopeless at this."

Harry let out a soft chuckle. "Sixty-eight years of stasis, and I didn't pick up any new skills."

Ginny's laugh was light, but her gaze grew more searching. "You look exactly the same as I remember. It's… strange. The rest of us have aged, changed, moved on… but you're still the Harry we knew."

Harry's expression sobered, his gaze shifting briefly to the floor. "It's strange for me, too."

For a moment, they danced in silence, the weight of unspoken memories between them. Harry forced himself to focus on the present, the warmth of her hand in his and the soft murmur of the crowd.

"Draco's glaring at us," Harry said suddenly, glancing over Ginny's shoulder.

She followed his gaze to where Draco stood at the edge of the ballroom, a glass of champagne in hand and a scowl etched on his face. "He's probably wondering if you're going to step on my toes."

Harry smirked. "Should I be worried about a hex?"

Ginny laughed, stepping back and letting her hand slip from his. "He's mellowed. Mostly. It's good to see you, Harry. Truly."

As she returned to Draco's side, Harry's gaze drifted to a young woman nearby. She was tall, with striking silver-blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and piercing blue eyes that gleamed with intelligence. Her confident posture and easy laughter reminded him of both Draco and Ginny, but there was something uniquely magnetic about her presence.

"That must be their granddaughter," Hermione said, suddenly reappearing at Harry's side. Her voice carried an undertone of amusement.

Harry nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. "She's… remarkable."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Be careful, Harry. That's Valerie Malfoy. Sharp as her grandfather and fearless as her grandmother. A dangerous combination."

Harry was about to respond when a strange sensation coursed through him. His skin prickled, and the air seemed to hum with an otherworldly vibration. The room blurred at the edges, the golden light dimming into a strange haze.

"Do you feel that?" he asked Hermione, his voice low and wary.

"Feel what?" she replied, her brow furrowing as she glanced around.

The sensation grew stronger, resonating deep within Harry's chest. The hum rose to a deafening roar in his ears, and a sharp pain flared through him, forcing him to clutch at his chest. The edges of the room rippled like water, distorting the figures around him.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice sounded distant, distorted, as if she were speaking from underwater.

The world tilted, and Harry stumbled backward. He reached out instinctively, but his hand passed through the air as though it were insubstantial. The last thing he saw was Hermione's alarmed face and Valerie's curious gaze before a blinding flash of golden light consumed everything.

The ballroom fell silent. One moment, Harry Potter stood at the center of the dance floor, surrounded by curious onlookers. The next, he was gone, leaving only a faint shimmer of golden light in his wake.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd, panic spreading like wildfire.

"Everyone, stay calm!" Hermione's voice rose above the din, commanding and steady despite the unease in her eyes. "I'll handle this."

She moved to the center of the room, scanning the faint traces of golden energy that lingered in the air. Her mind raced with possibilities, but none offered a clear explanation.

"Where did he go?" Valerie asked, stepping forward, her piercing blue eyes fixed on the spot where Harry had vanished.

"I don't know," Hermione admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. "But I'm going to find out."

As the crowd murmured in confusion and fear, Hermione clenched her fists, her determination hardening. Wherever Harry had gone, whatever had happened, she would bring him back.

The world wasn't done with Harry Potter yet.

~perspective change~

Dawn's Desperation and the Arrival of the Morningstar

Dawn Summers sat on the edge of her bed, her notebook abandoned beside her. The lamp on her nightstand cast a faint amber glow, but the familiar warmth of her room felt hollow tonight. It was quiet—too quiet—and the silence pressed in like a heavy weight.

Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, cutting through her thoughts.

"Who are you?"

Dawn clenched her fists. She knew it was the tumor—she knew it—but the sting of those words didn't fade. How could they, when they felt like a confirmation of her worst fears?

And then there was Buffy. The golden girl, the perfect sister. But even Buffy wasn't perfect when she thought Dawn couldn't hear her.

"She's not even real."

The words hit her like a slap every time they resurfaced. Dawn shut her eyes, trying to block them out, but they just grew louder, battering her resolve.

"I need to get out of here," she whispered to herself, standing abruptly and grabbing her backpack.

She slipped on her sneakers, shoved the notebook inside, and headed to the window. Buffy was out patrolling. Willow and Tara were buried in research downstairs. Nobody was watching.

The cool night air hit her face as she landed softly in the backyard. She pulled her hoodie tighter around herself and started walking, her destination vague. The mall, maybe. Or the park. Anywhere but home.

The park was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze. Dawn walked with her hands jammed into her pockets, her head down. The cracked fountain at the center was empty, its basin lit dimly by a nearby lamppost. For a moment, the peaceful stillness soothed her.

But then, a sound—like footsteps—shattered the calm. Dawn froze.

"Hello?" she called, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound confident.

The silence that followed was worse than any response.

Suddenly, a figure lunged out from the shadows, grabbing her arm. Dawn screamed and thrashed, trying to break free, but the grip was unrelenting. Cold, rough fingers dug into her skin.

"Let go of me!" she shouted, kicking wildly.

The figure stepped into the light—a demon, its leathery skin and glowing yellow eyes sending a jolt of terror through her. It grinned, revealing jagged teeth.

"Feisty," it growled. "Good. You'll last longer."

Two more demons emerged from the darkness, their hulking forms blocking any chance of escape. Dawn fought harder, but it was futile. The first demon hoisted her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

"Let me go!" Dawn yelled, panic choking her voice.

"You should be honored," the lead demon sneered as they carried her toward the abandoned church on the outskirts of town. "You're going to help us usher in a new era."

The church was crumbling, its stained-glass windows shattered, and its altar coated in a thick layer of dust. The once-sacred space now felt charged with malice, its walls echoing with the guttural chants of the demons.

Dawn was tied to the cold stone altar in the center of a glowing circle. Symbols etched into the floor pulsed with a faint red light, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance with a life of their own.

"This is insane!" Dawn shouted, her voice bouncing off the walls. "You can't just sacrifice people!"

The lead demon smirked, lighting a bundle of incense that filled the air with a sharp, acrid scent. "You'll do more than that, little one. You're the key to summoning a god."

Their chanting grew louder, the symbols around her flaring brighter. The air thickened with static energy, prickling against her skin.

"Enosiel deh'tahma, ke'shal idorai ethmara. Toh'nemel ha'sefar, Luziel-Mornahar, salve'tah dominai. Kom she'elam, voraith nu'kelar!"

("By innocent blood, we call you forth. From the deep beyond, Morningstar of Light, bearer of dominion. Come to the world, deliver us your power!")

The glow of the circle reached a blinding intensity, and the ground beneath the altar began to crack. A pillar of golden light shot upward, shattering what remained of the roof and tearing into the night sky. Thunder roared, and the air vibrated with a deep, resonant hum.

"Yes!" the lead demon cried, his voice reverent. "The Morningstar comes!"

The glow faded, and silence fell. The demons stared eagerly into the center of the circle, their triumph palpable.

But as the light dimmed, the figure that emerged wasn't what they'd expected.

A young man stood in the circle, his black robes pristine despite the debris around him. His dark hair was tousled, and his emerald-green eyes glowed faintly, as though reflecting the golden light that had summoned him. He looked out of place yet impossibly commanding.

Harry Potter blinked, disoriented. The remnants of the summoning magic crackled faintly in the air, but it was the scene around him that held his attention—the bound girl on the altar, the demonic symbols, and the stunned expressions of the creatures that had summoned him.

"Well," Harry said, his voice calm but laced with dry humor as he took in his surroundings. "This is… unexpected."

The lead demon's eyes narrowed in confusion. "This… this isn't—are you…?"

Harry turned his gaze to the altar, his expression hardening as he saw Dawn struggling against her bonds. "Let her go," he said, his voice low but carrying a weight that made the demons flinch.

The lead demon recovered quickly, snarling. "You don't give orders here, mortal!"

"Mortal?" Harry raised an eyebrow, his hand twitching toward his wand. "You might want to rethink that."

The tension in the room thickened as Harry stepped forward, the glow in his eyes intensifying. The demons hesitated, their earlier confidence faltering.

Dawn stared at him, wide-eyed, her panic giving way to something else—hope. "Who are you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling magic.

Harry's gaze flicked to hers, his expression softening for a fraction of a second. Then he turned back to the demons.

"The last person you'll ever threaten," he said.

And with a flick of his wand, the room erupted into chaos.