Hogsmeade slept beneath a soft mist that curled around rooftops like pipe smoke. The cobbled streets glistened with morning dampness, and the air carried the scent of wet wood, cauldron candies, and something indefinable—perhaps ancient magic, or simply the quietude of a village that knew how to keep secrets.
In the warmest corner of the Three Broomsticks, Nathael Grauheim watched the world with the calm of a predator who'd already eaten. He wore a fine white linen shirt, impeccably pressed black trousers, dark leather boots that made no sound when he walked, and a black cloak edged in silver that fluttered faintly each time he turned his head. Resting on his lap, like a living jewel, was Celestia.
The cat looked… different. It wasn't just her immaculate white fur or her sapphire-blue eyes that seemed to hold distant storms. It was the way she sat—upright, tail coiled with precision, ears slightly tilted forward, as if listening to conversations no one else could hear. Around her neck hung a delicate antique silver collar with a crescent-moon pendant—not mere decoration, but a family artifact, engraved with the Grauheim crest in Norse runes.
"I remember when we first met that Bill Weasley fellow," Celestia said without opening her eyes, elegantly licking a paw. "Outside the Cairo market, wasn't it? He seemed… competent."
Nathael nodded, taking a sip of his heather mead infused with mandrake essence.
"More than competent," he said. "He was precise. Used no more magic than necessary. And his eyes… they didn't look like a treasure hunter's—they looked like someone who understands the dangers of what he touches. There are few wizards like that these days."
"Do you think it's worth making a deal with him?"
"Perhaps. He's a Gringotts curse-breaker. That means he's seen sealed chambers, ancient curses, traps that would make an Auror tremble. If I ever need to open something even I can't disarm… he might be useful."
Celestia let out a soft meow—a sound only Nathael understood as agreement.
"Though," he added, lowering his voice, "I doubt Dumbledore sent him merely out of courtesy. There's something else behind this invitation."
"There always is," Celestia said. "Especially when it involves a man who's rumored to keep a phoenix as a pet."
Nathael smiled but didn't reply. At that moment, the door to the Three Broomsticks creaked open, and a cold northern wind rushed in like an intruder. Behind it loomed a massive figure.
He was a man with a wild beard, kind eyes, and a patched leather coat that smelled of wet dog and damp earth. In one hand he held a pink umbrella; in the other, a pumpkin the size of a small child.
"Nathael Grauheim?" he asked in a voice so deep it made the glasses behind the bar tremble.
Nathael rose with an elegance that contrasted sharply with the newcomer's roughness.
"That's me."
"Rubeus Hagrid," said the man, extending a hand the size of a ham. "Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore asked me to escort you to the castle."
Nathael shook his hand firmly, showing no surprise at the crushing grip.
"A pleasure. And this is Celestia."
Hagrid looked down at the cat, who regarded him with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
"Blimey!" he exclaimed. "A ragdoll! Rare around these parts."
"Yes," Celestia said in a clear, soft voice. "And she prefers not to be picked up by strangers."
Hagrid's eyes widened.
"Merlin's beard! A talking cat!"
He reached out excitedly, but Celestia had already leapt nimbly back onto Nathael's lap, settling as if she'd never been anywhere else.
"My apologies," Nathael said with a polite smile. "She's rather particular about strangers. Nothing personal."
"Oh, of course, of course!" Hagrid laughed. "Magical creatures have their pride—like hippogriffs. Or dragons. Well… ready to head up to the castle?"
The walk from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts was quiet at first. Hagrid trudged along, humming a song about a lovesick troll, while Nathael followed with light steps, his cloak rippling behind him. From her perch on Nathael's shoulder, Celestia watched the forest intently.
"It's odd," Hagrid said suddenly. "Very odd. Talking animals… well, aside from phoenixes and basilisks, they're almost unheard of. And the ones that do talk… they're usually spirits or ancient creatures. How is it that…?"
"Celestia isn't an ordinary animal," Nathael said without looking at him. "She's my companion. And she's been with my family longer than I've been alive."
Hagrid nodded slowly, as if that explained everything and nothing at once.
"The Grauheims… I've heard that name. In the magical creatures archives. They say every member of your line is born with a companion—something like a guardian. But I never thought it was true."
"Most legends hold a grain of truth," Nathael said. "People just prefer to call them 'myths' so they don't have to believe in what they don't understand."
Hagrid didn't reply. He just smiled, a strange sadness in his eyes.
When the castle emerged from the mist, Nathael stopped.
It wasn't the size—he'd seen pyramids, Babylonian towers, cathedrals raised with Celtic magic. It was the energy. Hogwarts wasn't just stone and spells. It was a living organism, breathing ancient magic, hiding secrets in every crack, in every shifting staircase, in every portrait that blinked with intent.
His treasure-hunter's instinct flared like a magical compass.
"There are more relics here than I could find in a lifetime," he murmured.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Celestia said dryly. "We haven't even seen the Restricted Section yet."
Hagrid left them at the castle doors with a clap on the shoulder that nearly knocked Nathael over.
"Professor Dumbledore's waitin' for you in his office. Just go up the stairs that say 'currant rum,' and you know… good luck!"
Nathael nodded, and with Celestia on his shoulder, he crossed the threshold into the most famous castle in the magical world.
The Headmaster's office sat atop a tower, behind a stone gargoyle that let them pass without question—as if it had been expecting them. Inside, Nathael and Celestia found themselves alone.
"Curious," Nathael said, glancing around. "Is Dumbledore leaving us alone in his sanctuary?"
"Either he's testing us," Celestia replied, "or he's occupied with something more important."
The office was an orderly chaos: floating books, silver instruments spinning and emitting fragrant smoke, maps that rewrote themselves. But what caught Nathael's attention was an old, wrinkled hat covered in patches, looking as though it had survived a thousand battles.
"The Sorting Hat?" he murmured, stepping closer.
He reached out, but before he could touch it, the hat spoke.
"Ahem!" it said in a raspy voice. "At least ask permission before manhandling a millennia-old magical artifact."
Nathael withdrew his hand, surprised.
"My apologies. I didn't know you were… awake."
"Awake, bored, and slightly offended by the manners of young wizards these days," the hat grumbled. "Though you… you smell ancient. Are you one of those who still sings to trees before cutting them down?"
"Something like that," Nathael said, smiling.
Meanwhile, Celestia had approached the portraits lining the walls. Four of them were particularly animated: a man with a hooked nose and severe expression; a curly-haired woman with a maternal gaze; a mustachioed gentleman in 17th-century garb; and a sharp-faced witch with piercing eyes.
"Phineas Nigellus Black," Celestia said, addressing the hooked-nose man. "My mother used to say you were a talented wizard… but so despised that even ghosts avoided you."
The portraits rustled as if collectively insulted.
"Insolent creature!" Phineas bellowed. "You don't know who you're speaking to!"
"Oh, but I do," Celestia said, licking a paw. "I'm speaking to a portrait who still hasn't learned to keep his mouth shut after death."
"How dare you!" shrieked Dilys Derwent.
"Easily," Celestia replied. "By meowing."
With that, she turned and leapt back onto Nathael's shoulder.
"Celestia," Nathael said, half-amused, half-exasperated, "apologize to the former headmasters."
"I apologize," she said without looking at them, "but I still think Phineas needs a good bath in humility… and maybe a sprinkle of fairy dust for his ego."
Nathael sighed and gave a slight bow toward the portraits.
"My apologies, Headmasters. My companion has… a peculiar sense of humor."
"Peculiar!" Armando Dippet grumbled. "She's brazen!"
"But she's right about Phineas," Everard murmured with a chuckle.
Before the argument could escalate, Nathael shifted his attention to the far end of the room.
There, perched on a golden stand, sat a phoenix.
Fawkes.
The bird regarded him with golden eyes that seemed to hold the dawn itself. His feathers shimmered with their own light, and his presence filled the room with supernatural calm.
Nathael approached slowly, as if afraid to break a spell.
"A phoenix…" he whispered, nearly reverent. "On the black market in Istanbul, one of these would fetch… 500,000 Galleons. Maybe more if it's in good condition."
"And on the menu of my stomach," Celestia whispered back, "it would make an exquisite appetizer. Though I doubt Dumbledore would share."
They both chuckled quietly.
Just then, a soft cough echoed from the doorway.
"I hope you're not planning to take Fawkes as a souvenir," said a warm, humorous voice.
Nathael and Celestia turned instantly, regaining their composure with the grace of those trained never to show surprise.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore entered the office in a purple robe spattered with moons and stars, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. He wore a kind smile, but his gaze… his gaze was like an ancient spell: deep, inscrutable, brimming with knowledge.
"Professor Dumbledore," Nathael said, inclining his head slightly. "An honor."
"The honor is mine, Mr. Grauheim," Dumbledore replied, approaching. "And you must be Celestia."
"In the fur," the cat said with a regal nod. "Or rather, in the cat."
Dumbledore laughed—a warm sound that seemed to dissolve any lingering tension in the room.
"I've heard of your family," he said, settling behind his desk. "The Grauheims. Treasure hunters, keepers of the forgotten, masters of ancestral magic. It's said that each member is born with a magical companion… a bond that transcends life itself."
Nathael nodded.
"That's correct. I received Celestia the day I was born. She came into the world at the same moment as I did—as if she'd always belonged by my side."
"And my parents," Celestia added proudly, "and my grandparents, and their ancestors before them… all have been companions to the Grauheims. We are the oldest. The most loyal. And, if I may say so, the most powerful."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on her.
"I can feel it. Your magic… it's not that of an ordinary familiar. It rivals that of a full-grown wizard—perhaps even surpasses it in refinement."
Celestia purred softly, satisfied.
"Thank you, Professor. Though I didn't need you to say it aloud. I already knew."
Nathael smiled and stroked her head.
"Most of my family have companions too. Some have scarabs that sing in dead languages. Others travel with diricawls that vanish alongside their owners. There's even one in Norway who journeys with a domesticated knarl. But few… very few… have companions of Celestia's lineage. Her bloodline traces back to the first wizards who walked beside the old gods."
Dumbledore fell silent for a moment, watching the fire in the hearth.
"It's rare," he said at last, "for someone so young to wield such mastery over the ancient. And without ever attending a formal school."
"My family prefers home instruction," Nathael said. "Modern schools… forget too much."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore replied. "But sometimes, what they forget is precisely what we need to remember."
A pause settled over the room. The air changed. This was no longer casual conversation—it was the prelude to something deeper.
Nathael grew serious.
"Professor… you are, without doubt, the most powerful wizard of our age. If something is missing from your collection… it must be extraordinarily rare. Why do you need someone like me?"
Dumbledore met his eyes directly. There was no playfulness in his expression now—only urgency.
"I need an object," he said. "One that can track souls."
Nathael raised an eyebrow.
Celestia stopped licking her paw.
And in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, silence grew so thick that even the portraits ceased their murmuring.