The screams had stopped.
For a moment, silence reigned inside Potter Castle. The thick wooden door remained shut, and Harry stood unmoving, his hand resting on the stone wall beside it, heart pounding like a war drum. His knuckles were white from how tightly he clenched his fist. Then—at last—the latch clicked.
The door creaked open, and the old midwife stepped out, her wrinkled face pale with sweat, her apron stained red. But in her arms, wrapped in soft furs, was a child—a newborn, alive and squirming.
"He lives," the midwife whispered, breathless. "Your son."
Harry blinked. The midwife stepped forward and placed the bundle in his arms.
A small, warm weight pressed into his chest. The baby let out a soft, mewling cry and squirmed under the folds of his swaddling. Harry gently moved the fabric aside—and stared.
The child's hair was impossibly white, soft as snowdrift, already thick atop his small head. When he blinked, Harry saw eyes the color of crushed amethysts—Targaryen eyes.
He didn't speak. He simply stood there, holding the boy, breathing in the scent of newborn skin and blood and milk, and for a long, fragile moment, the world narrowed to just this child. The resemblance to Rhaegar was faint, but there. Harry recognized it. And yet—
"I am not the kind of man who judges a child for the blood he bears," Harry whispered to himself, brushing his finger gently across the boy's cheek. "You're mine now. My son."
But the moment was broken when the midwife stepped closer, her expression turning grave. "My lord," she said softly. "There is more… Lady Lyanna… the bleeding won't stop. We've tried all we can."
"What?" Harry's voice was sharp, laced with panic.
"We've packed it, applied pressure. But it's too much. Her body is exhausted. We… we don't think she'll last the night unless—unless a miracle happens."
Harry didn't hesitate.
He turned and ran down the hall, his boots echoing off the stone. He burst into his chambers and flung open a wooden chest near the hearth. There it was—still intact after all these years. The tiny, beaded moleskin pouch Hermione had once carried across war-torn Britain.
"Undetectable Extension Charm…" he muttered, fumbling with his wand, and then reached inside.
His arm disappeared up to the elbow. "Essence of Dittany… where is it…"
His fingers brushed against cool glass. He pulled it out—a small bottle, glowing faintly in the firelight. He didn't even wait to close the pouch. He turned and sprinted back through the corridors, shouting:
"Move! Get out of the way!"
He shoved the door open, where the women inside turned, startled by his return. Lyanna lay pale and limp on the bed, her chest rising with shallow breaths. Blood soaked the sheets beneath her.
"Use this," Harry said, thrusting the bottle into the midwife's hands. "A few drops—on the wound."
The old woman gave him a look, unsure.
"Do it," Harry growled.
She nodded and moved quickly. With practiced hands, she uncorked the vial and dripped the silvery liquid along the worst of Lyanna's tearing. A faint sizzling sound filled the room. Then—gasps.
Before their eyes, the torn skin knit together, the swelling vanished, the blood slowed, then stopped. One of the younger women pressed a clean cloth against Lyanna's side—then pulled it back, eyes wide.
"There's nothing," she whispered. "Nothing. Not even a mark."
The midwife looked at Harry, awe shining in her eyes. "By the Seven… or whatever gods you serve… what is that potion?"
Harry only exhaled in relief. "Something… from a time long past. It saved my life once. Now it's saved hers."
Lyanna was still unconscious, her lips pale, but her breathing was stronger now. More even.
Harry walked slowly to her side, still carrying the baby. He looked down at her, his voice soft.
"You gave me everything," he said. "I won't let you leave me."
He sat beside the bed, one hand holding hers, the other cradling their child.
And in that quiet chamber, for the first time in hours, peace returned to Potter Castle.
The first rays of dawn spilled through the narrow windows of Potter Castle, casting a soft glow over the furs and stone walls. The chamber was quiet save for the slow crackling of the hearth and the quiet rustle of cloth as Lyanna stirred from her long sleep.
Her eyes fluttered open, and for a brief, blissful moment, she remembered nothing but warmth.
Then she heard the soft whimper of a child.
She turned her head, and there he was—her son—swaddled in blankets, resting peacefully in the cradle beside the bed. Lyanna sat up slowly, her muscles weak but her heart suddenly racing. She reached over with trembling hands and lifted the child.
He was so small. So delicate.
And so unmistakably Targaryen.
Lyanna's breath caught in her throat as the firelight caught his silvery-white hair. It shimmered like moonlight. And when he opened his eyes—those haunting, noble eyes—they were deep purple, unmistakably Valyrian. Unmistakably Rhaegar.
Her heart sank.
"No…" she whispered, voice cracking. "Please… not this…"
She held him closer, burying her face in his soft head of hair, trying to force herself to feel the love she wanted to feel, but the ache in her chest deepened.
She had hoped—prayed—that the child would bear even a sliver of her Stark blood. Dark hair. Grey eyes. Something that said mine. Something that Harry could look at and see his. But no—anyone who looked upon this child would know exactly who his father was.
Rhaegar.
And she—she would be reminded of him every day, in every glance, every smile, every tear the child shed.
Later that morning, Harry entered the room quietly. He carried a tray with fresh bread, stewed oats, and a small mug of warm goat's milk. He paused in the doorway when he saw her—sitting in the chair beside the fire, cradling the child.
At first, he smiled. But then he saw the way her shoulders shook.
He set the tray down and knelt beside her.
"Lyanna," he said gently. "What's wrong?"
She didn't answer at first. Just pressed her face into the child's swaddle and let out a soft sob.
"I—I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know I should be happy. He's alive. He's healthy. But every time I look at him, I see him."
Harry's jaw tensed. He reached out and stroked her hand, careful and slow.
"You don't have to apologize for how you feel," he said. "This wasn't something you chose."
"I didn't want this," she breathed. "I didn't want to raise a boy who looks just like Rhaegar Targaryen. What happens when he grows up? When he rides a horse like him, sings like him, speaks Valyrian like him? What happens when everyone knows?"
Harry was quiet for a long moment.
"I saw you take care of him," he said. "You rocked him gently. You kissed his forehead. That was real. You already love him, Lyanna. But you're afraid."
She nodded. "I'm terrified. If Rhaegar finds out… if he learns that his son lives…"
"He won't," Harry said, voice firm. "And even if he does, he won't have him. Because that child is ours, Lyanna. Not his."
She looked up at him then, searching his face, tears streaking down her cheeks.
"But how, Harry?" she whispered. "How can I make him ours?"
Harry stood slowly and walked to the chest at the foot of the bed. From it, he withdrew a leather-bound book, aged and marked with faded runes. He opened it carefully and turned to a page he had read many times before.
"There's a ritual," he said softly. "An ancient form of magical blood adoption. It's not a trick. It's real. It rewrites the child's very essence—his lineage, his blood, his name."
Lyanna blinked. "You mean… he'd become your son? By magic?"
"Yes. He'll bear my blood, my magic, my name. And the magic will protect him—no one who meets him will see Rhaegar Targaryen. They'll see… our child."
Her lips trembled. "Is it safe?"
Harry nodded. "It's gentle. It requires consent from both of us. The child must be named at the same time the ritual is performed. After that, no spell, no blood test, no vision will ever reveal another truth. Not even a god could tell."
Silence fell between them for a long while.
Then Lyanna looked down at the boy in her arms. His eyes were open now, blinking slowly, filled with innocence and unknowing trust.
"What name will we give him?" she asked quietly.
Harry met her eyes and said, "Whatever name you choose."
The forest was deep and silent, its snow-blanketed floor disturbed only by the crunch of three sets of boots—Harry, Lyanna, and the child swaddled in her arms. They had left behind the crowded cottages of Narnia, where the great weirwood tree—though sacred—was no longer secluded. Too many had begun to gather around it, to pray, to whisper wishes, to sit beneath its crimson canopy. There was no longer any privacy, no longer any quiet for what Harry planned to do.
This ritual—sacred, ancient, and intimate—demanded solitude.
They walked for over an hour through the frost-bitten wilderness, until at last, a smaller clearing revealed itself beyond a ridge of sleeping pines. In the middle stood a great weirwood tree—its white bark etched with the face of the old gods, and its blood-red leaves whispering softly in the wind.
The tree was older than Narnia itself.
Waiting there already, crouched near a stone outcropping, was Winter, Harry's mighty white-scaled dragon. The male beast raised his head at their approach, his piercing sapphire eyes falling on the bundle in Lyanna's arms. His rumble was low and reverent—a sound more felt than heard.
"He knows," Harry said softly.
Lyanna nodded. "He always knows."
Winter stepped closer, lowering his massive head and gently sniffing the child. He exhaled a warm puff of breath, coiling around the edge of the clearing like a silent sentinel, his wings folded close to his sides. His massive presence made the sacred space feel protected, enclosed—as if the old gods and dragons watched together.
Harry unslung his satchel and approached the base of the weirwood. With a flick of his wand, he melted the snow in a wide circle around its roots, revealing the dark, frozen earth. From his pouch, he drew the sacred ingredients—powdered bone, salt, ash, and crushed elderflowers. He began to draw the ritual circle, careful and precise, muttering words in the old tongue that twisted the air around him.
Two bulls—gifted by the Essosi settlers—stood nearby, calm as if enchanted. Harry approached with respect and whispered a blessing. With a swift movement, he ended their lives painlessly, letting their blood seep into the circle, staining the runes.
Then, Winter stepped forward. The great dragon used a single claw to slice a shallow line along his forearm, letting a few heavy drops of glowing blood fall into the center.
It sizzled against the ground—powerful, primal, draconic.
Harry and Lyanna knelt opposite each other. Each held a silver dagger. As one, they made matching cuts across their palms and let their blood drip into the runes. The air shimmered with power. The weirwood leaves trembled.
Harry raised his wand. "By blood freely given, and bond willingly formed—let name, flesh, and soul be rewritten. Let essence be replaced, and the child reborn."
The ground trembled.
The weirwood face began to weep red sap.
The baby at the center of the circle glowed—first silver, then crimson, then emerald.
Lyanna gasped as the transformation began. The child's silver-white hair slowly drifted down like feathers, vanishing in the wind. In its place, locks of messy, wild black hair began to sprout—Harry's hair.
The boy's purple eyes shimmered, then deepened, turning to brilliant, unmistakable emerald green.
His cheeks grew rounder. His skin took on a warmer tone. His face—still so small, so new—reshaped itself to resemble Harry.
Lyanna's breath caught. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.
"It worked," Harry whispered, barely daring to believe it.
Lyanna reached out, cradling the baby close to her chest. "He's beautiful," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "And now… he's ours."
She looked up at Harry, eyes shining. "I want to name him Sirius," she said. "After your godfather. For his bravery… and because I want our son to grow up with that strength in his name."
Harry's lips parted in surprise. Then he nodded, swallowing hard. "Sirius Gryffindor. Son of Harry and Lyanna."
At that moment, the weirwood tree gave a groan—deep and creaking. A slender strip of bark, long and slightly curved, fell from its side, landing with a soft thud beside the baby's feet.
Harry stared at it for a long moment.
Lyanna noticed too. "It's a sign," she murmured. "From the gods. They've accepted him."
Harry bent down, lifted the weirwood bark in both hands, and examined it. "It's… perfect," he said, feeling the smooth weight of it. "I'll make a wand from this. When he's old enough… it will be his. Carved from the tree that gave him a new life."
Lyanna held Sirius close, and Winter lowered his great head again, brushing the tip of his snout against the newborn.
The ritual was complete.
And beneath the eyes of the old gods, a new Gryffindor had been born.