The Hogwarts Library
The towering shelves stretched endlessly, packed with books radiating ancient magic.
Wanda's eyes sparkled as she scanned the towering shelves of the legendary Hogwarts Library.
"Hermione," she began softly, her voice laced with awe, "is this really...?"
Hermione, standing proudly beside her, gave a small, knowing smile.
"Yes," she said, her voice carrying a faint touch of pride. "This is the Hogwarts Library. It holds the richest collection of magical knowledge in all of Britain." She folded her arms with a familiar, bookish confidence. "I spend most of my time here. The library is practically my second home."
Before Wanda could reply, a sharp, familiar voice rang out from behind the shelves:
"Keep your voice down! The library must remain silent."
Wanda turned just in time to see Hermione stiffen, her shoulders jerking up in startled recognition.
Madam Pince.
The stern librarian's voice was unmistakable. Hermione, despite her love for the library, had faced Madam Pince's wrath on more than one occasion—usually for staying past closing time or accidentally whispering too loudly during research.
Wanda couldn't hold back a giggle. She covered her mouth, eyes twinkling.
Hermione, catching Wanda's amusement, felt heat rise to her cheeks. She quickly cleared her throat and, with a defensive huff, changed the subject.
"Ahem... So," Hermione said briskly, "what kind of books do you usually like to read? I'm quite fond of spell theory myself."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, to a nearby table where Harry sat alone.
Harry was hunched over a thick, weathered tome, his brow furrowed in concentration. His quill scratched steadily against parchment, recording notes with an almost mechanical focus.
Hermione's eyes softened.
Harry had changed.
Not just in his usual guarded demeanor. His entire outlook on learning seemed different—intense, driven. He had become more diligent, more studious... sharper.
The professors had certainly noticed.
Even Snape—of all people—had struggled to find fault in his Potions work lately. Although, true to form, the man still managed to nitpick inconsequential details, his usual venom now lacking its usual sting.
He's... different, Hermione thought. It's like he's... grown up overnight.
Her contemplative gaze didn't go unnoticed.
Wanda smirked and teased lightly, "Hermione... do you like Harry?"
Hermione jolted, her eyes snapping wide open. "W-What?!"
Wanda chuckled softly, crossing her arms. "When he stayed at Kamar-Taj, you wouldn't believe how many young witches were smitten with him." She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. "If you've got feelings, you'd better say something. Trust me—Harry's quite popular."
Hermione's mouth opened and closed in flustered indignation. "I—That's—!"
But before she could fully formulate her retort, Wanda gave her a sly pat on the shoulder and strolled off.
"Just a friendly tip," Wanda called back, her voice airy with amusement. "You'd be surprised how many witches would love a shot with Harry. Even my mentor at Kamar-Taj finds him impressive."
With a soft laugh, she disappeared into the deeper recesses of the library, leaving Hermione behind—red-faced and fuming silently.
Hermione glared at Wanda's retreating figure, but then her eyes involuntarily flicked back to Harry.
The rhythmic scratch of his quill. The furrow in his brow. The faint flicker of power behind his watchful eyes.
A troubling warmth curled in her chest, and Wanda's words echoed annoyingly in her mind:
"If you like him... you'd better say something."
The Restricted Section—Deep in the Library
Wanda wandered deeper into the library, her footsteps muffled against the ancient stone floor.
The air here was different—cooler, tinged with the soft crackle of dormant enchantments.
Few students dared to enter these shadowed aisles. The books here weren't simply hard to read—they were dangerous. Many were enchanted with curses or hexes to protect their secrets.
But Wanda moved without hesitation.
With Professor Credence's loan note tucked safely in her bag, she had unrestricted access—permission that would make most Hogwarts students seethe with envy.
Her fingers brushed along the worn spines of the books, each one humming faintly with trapped knowledge.
Kamar-Taj's library may be vast, Wanda thought, but Hogwarts feels... different. Older. More alive.
The Dream Library at Kamar-Taj, built under Lockhart's guidance, was undeniably advanced—filled with stolen treasures, ancient grimoires, and rare texts collected from across dimensions. Yet, much of its content was fragmented, copied, or protected by seals too powerful to bypass.
Here, at Hogwarts, magic lingered in every page. The books themselves seemed to breathe. Some could only be read through touch—others through sound, scent... or even the resonance of one's soul.
It wasn't just knowledge here. It was experience.
A sudden tug on her sleeve broke her reverie.
Wanda turned her head just as Snow, her little companion, flitted off her shoulder with a soft chirp. The tiny dragon glided to a nearby bookshelf, landing on the topmost edge with a flutter of wings.
Then—
With an eager squeak, Snow reached for a thick, ancient tome.
The moment the dragon's wingtip brushed the leather cover—
Flash!
A pulse of silvery-gray light erupted from the book, sending Snow tumbling backward mid-air.
Snow let out an indignant screech, landing in an ungraceful heap on a lower shelf. Furious, the tiny dragon shot back up, eyes blazing and tiny claws bared as if ready to wage war on the enchanted tome.
Wanda couldn't help herself—she laughed, a soft, muffled chuckle behind her palm. Snow, puffed up and scowling, was more adorable than intimidating.
"Aww, poor thing," she teased lightly. "Think you can out-magic a library?"
Snow glared at her, wings flaring dramatically, as though to say, I could if I wanted to!
But Wanda's eyes twinkled knowingly.
"Did you forget? Even with a professor's loan note, some books are magically sealed. You can't break that protection—unless it wants you to."
Snow flapped his wings again, clearly preparing for round two—possibly with a bit of fire this time.
Wanda, amused but cautious, raised her wand.
"Alright, alright," she said, still smiling. "Let me handle it before you set the whole place ablaze."
With a flick of her wrist, she reached magically through the protective ward—her professor's authorization embedded in the spellwork—and drew the book smoothly from the shelf.
The moment it landed softly in her hands, Snow, triumphant, immediately returned to his perch on her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek with a pleased chirp.
Wanda stroked his little head, amused by his antics. "Impatient little thing. What's so special about this one, huh?"
Her eyes dropped to the cover.
The Book of Dragons
The book was ancient. Its heavy cover gleamed with a dark, metallic sheen—like molten gold turned cold. Swirling, intricate patterns of dragons in flight adorned its surface, their wings and tails shimmering as if they moved with her gaze.
But what truly puzzled Wanda... was the title.
The letters were alien—an ancient script unlike anything she had seen before. The symbols seemed more alive than written, shifting subtly as she watched, eluding definition.
They were almost... pictographic. Mystical, yet eerily familiar.
Her brow furrowed.
These characters... they're not modern. They're... ancient.
She recalled a conversation with her former mentor, Lockhart, about old Eastern magical texts. This script bore a resemblance—but it was older, more primal, almost... runic.
It felt less like a language and more like a spell.
Yet, despite the cryptic cover, Wanda sensed something undeniable from within the tome—
Driven by her burning curiosity, Wanda carefully opened the ancient book.
But—
Blank?
Each page she turned was utterly empty—no words, no illustrations—nothing but pristine, pale sheets.
Her brows knit in confusion. She could feel the book's immense magic pulsing beneath the pages, and yet...
Nothing.
However—
A soft, rhythmic sound reached her ears—the gentle huff of tiny breaths.
She glanced sideways.
On her shoulder, Snow's eyes were locked on the pages, wide and rapt with fascination. His tail flicked, his wings fluttering slightly in excitement.
It was as though he was reading something—something invisible to her.
Wanda's expression darkened slightly. A flicker of frustration, and more than that—isolation.
Why... can he see something I can't?
The feeling gnawed at her—like being locked outside a window, watching a conversation she couldn't hear.
Her fingers curled, a whisper of scarlet magic threading between them. She was about to cast a spell—
To force the book to reveal its secrets—
When—
A voice, smooth and knowing, interrupted her thoughts.
"This book tells an epic tale—a legend of the rise and fall of dragons. It was recorded by a great wizard who unearthed it from ancient ruins... over two thousand years ago."
Wanda froze.
The voice was unmistakable—
"Credence..." she muttered, her eyes sharpening.
The tall figure of Professor Credence stood just beyond the shelf, his silhouette half-shadowed in the dim, magical glow of the library.
Instantly, Wanda's posture shifted—instinct and training kicking in.
Her eyes cooled, her body tensed, and her fingers—though still at her side—buzzed with restrained power.
Years of training under Agent Carter had drilled one lesson into her bones—
Trust no coincidence.
And this?
A professor, appearing from nowhere, exactly when she was vulnerable and curious—answering the very question she hadn't asked aloud?
That wasn't coincidence.
That was design.
Credence, seemingly unbothered by her sharp gaze, continued with a calm, almost scholarly tone.
"The dragons recorded within this book weren't mere beasts—they were lords of the ancient world, as wise as any wizard, their power unmatched. They built kingdoms of sky and stone when humanity was still crawling from caves."
His eyes glinted faintly. "But... this book isn't meant for human eyes. It was written for dragons."
Wanda's eyes flicked briefly to Snow, who was still engrossed in the blank pages.
"For dragons?" she repeated, suspicion threading her voice.
Credence inclined his head slightly.
"Yes. The knowledge is concealed through a magic only dragons can instinctively read." He paused—then added with a slight, deliberate pause—"However... there is a way for wizards to see it."
Then—he stopped speaking.
The silence stretched—long, taut.
Wanda's fingers twitched.
He's baiting me.
She knew it.
And yet—
"...How?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
A sharp twinge of annoyance flickered within her chest—Damn it.
Hooked.
Credence's lips curled into a knowing smile. From the folds of his robe, he produced something small and glinting—
A pair of glasses.
The lenses were a soft, pale green—almost crystalline—glowing faintly with captured magic.
The moment they appeared—
Hiss!
A sharp, guttural sound erupted from Wanda's shoulder.
Snow's reaction was instant and furious.
The little dragon bristled, his scales flaring brighter, and he released a low, warning growl. His tiny chest heaved, and his eyes, usually filled with playful mischief, burned with pure rage.
Then—
He roared.
High-pitched but primal—a sound that resonated deep, ancient, and filled with anger.
A flicker of power—
Before Wanda could act, a dark wave of magic unfurled from Credence's palm.
Snap!
Shadowy ropes of smoke surged forward, binding Snow mid-air. The little dragon thrashed, but the bonds held fast—wrapping tightly around his wings, his limbs, and—most cruelly—his mouth, silencing his roars.
Wanda's heart clenched.
Her eyes flashed deep crimson, and threads of scarlet magic surged, coiling like serpents around her fingers, ready to strike.
But—
"Calm yourself," Credence's voice cut through the tension—smooth but firm. "I mean no harm. And for the record..."
His gaze met Wanda's, cold and sharp—
"I didn't make these glasses. I took them. From goblins."
Wanda's magic flared, flickering dangerously—but she didn't release it.
"You took them?" she repeated icily, her voice laced with disbelief.
"Goblins," Credence said simply. "The ones who did commit the sacrilege you're furious about. Not me."
His voice was calm—but there was something steely beneath it. "So, if you're angry, direct your wrath at them."
Wanda's eyes stayed locked on him, her magic coiling and twisting restlessly—
Then, slowly—reluctantly—the crimson threads unraveled.
She lowered her hand.
Seeing her relent, Credence waved a hand, and the shadowy ropes binding Snow dissolved instantly into the air.
The little dragon shot back to Wanda's shoulder, his eyes still burning with indignation as he pressed close against her neck, protective and wary.
Credence, seemingly unfazed, offered her the glasses once more.
"As I said—" he continued smoothly, "the book was written for dragons. Wizards can't read it conventionally. But these lenses, forged from a dragon's sight, allow you to see as a dragon does."
He paused, then added softly:
"It's your choice."
Wanda's fingers hovered briefly—then, with narrowed eyes, she plucked the glasses from his hand.
But she wasn't reckless.
First—
A flick of her fingers—several detection spells, layered and precise, swept over the artifact.
No curses.
No trackers.
No traps.
Just... magic. Ancient, powerful, but pure.
Her gaze flicked briefly to Credence, seeking any hint of deception—finding only... patience.
Without a word, she lifted the glasses to her eyes—
The World Shifted.
The once-blank pages of the ancient book erupted into motion—
A torrent of moving images—glorious castles, towering mountains, skies filled with wings and fire—unfurled across the pages, dancing like a living tapestry.
And the text—
Strange, alien symbols, both word and art, pulsed with raw, ancient power. Yet, astonishingly—
She understood.
The words bypassed language, seeping directly into her mind, resonating with her spirit rather than her intellect.
The book wasn't read.
It was felt.
Flashes of history—
Dragons, vast and powerful, their wings blotting out the sun. Cities of crystalline spires and molten stone—sky fortresses held aloft by magic.
A civilization—ancient, beautiful, and powerful beyond belief.
But then—
War.
Not with wizards. Not with goblins. Not even with themselves.
But with time.
Decline.
Desperation.
The proud dragon lords, turning to dark magic—becoming dracoliches to defy death—
Yet, ultimately—
They fell.
Their thrones, empty. Their castles, crumbled. Their magic, forgotten.
The pages turned faster—until—
The vision stopped—
On a single, heartbreaking image—
A lone egg, glowing faintly—protected, hidden—waiting...
Wanda gasped softly as the book's magic released her, the pages falling still once more.
Her hand instinctively lifted to her shoulder, brushing against Snow's tiny, warm form.
Her dragon.
So small. So fragile.
Compared to the majestic titans she had seen—
And yet—
He was here. With her.
Her fingers softened, brushing Snow's scales with an almost apologetic tenderness.
The little dragon nuzzled into her touch, his earlier anger melting into a soft, affectionate chirp.
A voice—soft but firm—broke the silence.
"Wanda," Credence said, his tone strangely somber, "don't judge him by the shadows of a lost era. The past is past. What matters is... who he becomes now. With you."
Wanda's lips pressed tightly—
Then—
Her fingers curled once more—this time, not with magic, but with resolve.
"...I know," she said softly, her voice steady. "He's mine. And that's all that matters."
Credence's expression shifted slightly—something soft, perhaps—before he straightened.
"Wanda," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm, "I have a favor to ask of you."
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