The stairs descended far deeper than Harry had expected, winding down through layers of stone that spoke of construction techniques he couldn't begin to fathom. The walls were carved with increasingly complex runic sequences that seemed to shift and breathe in the dancing light of his conjured flames, and more than once he caught himself stopping to study patterns that made his newly enhanced magical senses sing with recognition.
*"The deeper chambers hold the greatest treasures,"* Aegerax observed, his mental voice echoing strangely in the confined space despite being projected directly into Harry's mind. The dragon had remained above, too large to follow the stairs, but his presence was a comforting weight in Harry's consciousness. *"Your ancestors understood that the most dangerous knowledge required the most careful protection. What lies at the bottom of these stairs has not seen daylight for a thousand years."*
"Comforting," Harry muttered, though his tone suggested he found the prospect more exciting than alarming. His enhanced vision picked out details that would have been invisible before his transformation—hairline cracks in the stone that formed deliberate patterns, microscopic runes carved with inhuman precision, traces of magic so subtle they were barely detectable even with his improved senses. "The craftsmanship is incredible. These aren't just stairs—they're part of the warding system itself. Each step is precisely positioned to create a three-dimensional runic matrix that would make Bill Weasley weep with professional jealousy."
The stairs ended at a circular chamber that took Harry's breath away. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves carved directly from the black stone, each one filled with books, scrolls, and artifacts that practically hummed with contained power. Crystal orbs the size of his head sat in specially carved niches, their contents swirling with colors that had no names in any human language. Weapons and armor hung from elaborate displays, their surfaces inscribed with runes so complex they seemed to move when he wasn't looking directly at them.
But it was the central feature that made Harry stop dead in his tracks. A massive table dominated the room, its surface carved from what appeared to be a single piece of dragonglass so pure and flawless it seemed to contain entire galaxies within its depths. Floating above it, held in place by magic so subtle Harry could barely detect it, was an enormous three-dimensional map that showed not just Westeros and Essos, but dozens of other continents and islands he'd never heard of.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, approaching the table with the sort of reverent caution he'd once reserved for Dumbledore's more dangerous magical artifacts. "It's beautiful. And terrifying. Mostly terrifying, actually."
The books were the first thing he investigated, and immediately ran into his first major obstacle. Every single tome, scroll, and tablet was written in flowing script that his newly enhanced mind recognized as High Valyrian, but couldn't actually read. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes, tantalizing in their near-familiarity, like a language he'd almost learned in dreams.
*"Ah,"* came Aegerax's amused mental chuckle. *"I had forgotten that the common tongue has replaced the old language even among those of dragon blood. High Valyrian is the language of power, young Peverell—the tongue in which all the greatest magics were written, the words that shaped empires and bound dragons to the will of mortals."*
"Don't suppose you'd be willing to give me lessons?" Harry asked hopefully, running his fingers over the spine of a particularly thick tome that seemed to pulse with contained energy. "I'm rather good with languages when I put my mind to it. Picked up Parseltongue in a day, though admittedly that came with some rather unpleasant side effects and a free mental connection to a megalomaniacal dark lord."
*"It would be my pleasure to teach you the tongue of your ancestors. High Valyrian is not merely a language—it is a tool of power. The words themselves carry weight, and when spoken properly, they can shape reality itself. But I warn you, young Dragonlord, some of what you will find in those books is not meant for casual study. Your ancestors delved deep into magics that would make your darkest wizards seem like children playing with toy wands."*
"Light, Dark, and... what was the third classification you mentioned earlier? Vile?" Harry pulled one of the books from its shelf, noting how the leather binding seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The cover was unmarked save for a single rune that seemed to writhe under his gaze, and touching it sent a shiver through his dragon-enhanced magical senses.
*"Vile magic is that which corrupts the very soul of the practitioner,"* Aegerax explained, his mental voice taking on a note of warning that made Harry's enhanced instincts sit up and take notice. *"Dark magic may twist the body or harm others, but Vile magic twists the practitioner themselves into something no longer recognizably human. It is the magic of true monsters, of beings who have sacrificed their very humanity for power. Your world's Voldemort dabbled in such arts without understanding their true cost."*
"Cheerful," Harry said, though he didn't put the book back. Instead, he carried it to the central table, along with several others that practically radiated contained power. "Well, if I'm going to learn High Valyrian anyway, I suppose I should start with the basics. Though I do hope there's something resembling a primer down here. 'High Valyrian for Dummies' or 'So You Want to Read Ancient Magical Texts Without Accidentally Summoning Eldrich Horrors.'"
*"Begin with the blue tome on the third shelf—that contains the grammatical foundations and basic vocabulary. The crimson scroll beside it holds pronunciation guides, though I fear the written symbols can only approximate the true sounds. High Valyrian was meant to be heard as well as seen."*
Harry spent the next several hours in intensive study, his enhanced mind absorbing the language with a speed that would have been impossible before his transformation. Aegerax proved to be a patient teacher, correcting pronunciation and explaining nuances that weren't captured in the written guides. The dragon's mental voice made the flowing sounds of High Valyrian seem almost musical, each word carrying layers of meaning that shifted depending on tone and context.
"*Dracarys,*" Harry said carefully, the word rolling off his tongue with increasing confidence. "Dragon-fire. But it's not just a word, is it? It's a command structure, a way of interfacing with dragon magic directly."
*"Precisely. You begin to understand. In High Valyrian, words are tools of power, not merely sounds that convey meaning. A Dragonlord who knew the proper words could command any dragon, could bind them to his will or set them free, could awaken fires that had slept for centuries or quench flames that had burned since the world was young."*
By the time Harry felt confident enough to tackle the more advanced texts, several hours had passed and his enhanced vision was allowing him to read by the soft glow of the magical artifacts around him. The first book he chose to translate in earnest was a journal that seemed to pulse with barely contained energy, its pages made from what appeared to be dragon leather so fine it was almost translucent.
"*The Journal of Aegon Peverell, First Forge Master of House Peverell, In the 114th Year Since the Founding of the Freehold,*" Harry read slowly, his pronunciation getting smoother with each word. The script was elegant and precise, the work of someone accustomed to recording important information. "*Today I have achieved what many thought impossible—the successful fusion of dragon steel with the essence of concentrated dragonfire, creating what I shall call Valyrian Steel.*"
Harry looked up from the journal, his enhanced eyes wide with excitement. "Aegerax, what exactly is Valyrian Steel? This ancestor of mine seems quite pleased with himself for inventing it."
*"Valyrian Steel,"* the dragon's mental voice carried a note of profound respect, *"is perhaps the greatest achievement of your people's metallurgy. Steel forged with dragonfire and blood magic, folded with spells that bind the very essence of flame into the metal itself. A blade of Valyrian Steel will never dull, never rust, never break. It can cut through ordinary armor as if it were parchment, and it is one of the few substances that can kill the Others—the ice demons of the far north."*
"And let me guess," Harry said with growing excitement, "most of the world's supply is sitting somewhere in these ruins, waiting to be found?"
*"Indeed. When Valyria fell, so did the knowledge of how to forge such steel. The few blades that exist in your new world are heirlooms of the great houses, treasures beyond price. The Starks have Ice, House Tarly has Heartsbane, the Targaryens possess Dark Sister and Blackfyre. Perhaps two hundred blades exist in all the world, and each one is worth more than a castle."*
Harry grinned, the expression sharp and predatory in a way that would have made Tom Riddle proud. "And here I am, sitting in the workshop of the man who invented the process, with enhanced magical abilities and a dragon willing to provide the necessary fire. Aegerax, my friend, I think we may have just solved our funding problems."
*"You would seek to recreate the lost art?"*
"I would seek to improve upon it," Harry corrected, his scholar's mind already racing with possibilities. "My ancestor was working with the magical theory of his time, but I have advantages he didn't. Modern runic theory, advanced understanding of magical metallurgy, knowledge of how magic interacts with different materials. Plus, I suspect my transformation has given me insights into the nature of dragonfire that even he didn't possess."
He turned back to the journal, his excitement mounting with each translated passage. The text described in meticulous detail the process Aegon Peverell had developed, from the initial selection of the steel—it had to be of the highest quality, folded dozens of times to achieve perfect homogeneity—to the complex ritual that bound dragonfire into the metal's very structure.
"*The key,*" Harry read aloud, his voice taking on the cadence of academic excitement that Hermione would have recognized immediately, "*lies not in the heat of the flame, but in its essence. Ordinary fire, no matter how hot, cannot achieve the transformation. Only the living flame of a dragon, freely given and properly bound, can awaken the steel's true potential. The blood of the forgemaster must be freely shed, the ancient words must be spoken with perfect pronunciation, and the dragon must choose to participate rather than be compelled.*"
*"Your ancestor understood the true nature of dragonfire,"* Aegerax observed with approval. *"So many believed it was merely flame made hotter, but Valyrian Steel requires something far more fundamental—it requires the dragon to invest part of its very essence into the metal. It is a partnership, not a domination."*
"Which explains why the art died with Valyria," Harry said, understanding flooding through him. "Without dragons willing to participate freely, the process becomes impossible. You can't forge Valyrian Steel by compulsion or trickery—it requires genuine cooperation between dragon and smith."
He spent the next hour working through the journal's technical sections, making careful notes in a mixture of English and High Valyrian as he began to understand the full scope of what his ancestor had achieved. The process was incredibly complex, requiring not just dragonfire but a series of runic inscriptions that had to be carved into the metal while it was still molten, binding spells that locked the dragon's essence into the steel's crystalline structure, and blood magic that created a sympathetic connection between the weapon and its wielder.
"This is brilliant," Harry breathed, his admiration for his ancestor growing with each page. "He wasn't just creating superior weapons—he was creating tools that could channel and focus magical energy. Look at this passage about the runes—they're not just decorative, they're functional elements that allow the wielder to project their magical energy through the blade itself. A wizard with a Valyrian Steel sword wouldn't just have a sharp edge—they'd have a focus that could amplify their spells."
*"Is that so? I confess, I had not considered the weapons from that perspective. We dragons tend to think in terms of flame and fang rather than the subtle interplay of magic and metal."*
Harry continued reading, his excitement building as he discovered detailed diagrams of the forging process, complete runic sequences, and even notes about variations in technique that could produce different effects. Some blades were designed for cutting, others for defense, still others for channeling specific types of magic.
"*Note on the Sixth Iteration,*" Harry translated, his voice growing more animated with each discovery. "*By adjusting the ratio of steel to dragonfire essence and incorporating runes of protection rather than sharpness, I have created what I believe to be the first suit of Valyrian Steel armor. The wearer becomes nearly invulnerable to conventional weapons and gains significant resistance to hostile magic. The weight is negligible despite the armor's apparent bulk, and the flexibility rivals the finest leather while providing protection superior to the heaviest plate.*"
"Armor," Harry said, looking up from the journal with eyes that glowed with possibilities. "He made Valyrian Steel armor. Do you have any idea how useful that would be? I could walk into a dragon's lair wearing the equivalent of a portable fortress, completely immune to fire and nearly invulnerable to physical attack."
*"Such armor would indeed be formidable. But remember, young Peverell—the creation of Valyrian Steel requires more than knowledge and desire. It requires a dragon's willing participation, and that is not something given lightly. You would need to prove yourself worthy not just of the knowledge, but of the partnership."*
"Well," Harry said, his grin taking on the sort of manic edge that his friends would have recognized as a sure sign he was about to do something spectacularly dangerous, "it's a good thing I've got a dragon willing to teach me, isn't it? And fortunately, I've got quite a bit of experience with proving myself to ancient magical beings. It's practically my specialty at this point."
He turned back to the journal, but his attention was caught by another book that seemed to be calling to his enhanced magical senses. This one was bound in what appeared to be scales—dragon scales, his instincts told him, though from no dragon he'd ever seen described. The binding seemed to shimmer between colors, shifting from deep emerald to brilliant gold to rich purple as the light caught it from different angles.
"*The Theoretical Foundations of Advanced Metamagic,*" Harry translated from the cover, his pronunciation now smooth enough that the words seemed to carry weight beyond their mere meaning. "*By Lysander Peverell, High Artificer and Master of the Subtle Arts.*"
*"Ah, that one. Lysander was... unique among your ancestors. Where most Dragonlords focused on the practical applications of power, he was fascinated by the underlying theories that made magic possible. I believe mortals would call him a magical theorist of the highest order."*
Harry opened the book carefully, noting that the pages seemed to be made from the same material as the binding—thin sheets of treated dragon scale that felt warm to the touch and seemed to glow faintly with their own inner light. The text was written in a spidery hand that suggested someone more comfortable with complex theoretical formulations than everyday correspondence.
"*Magic is not random,*" Harry read from the opening passage, his voice taking on the cadence of academic fascination. "*It follows laws as rigid and predictable as those governing the movement of celestial bodies or the flow of water downhill. But where physical laws operate on the material plane, magical laws operate on planes of existence that most practitioners never even consider. To truly master magic, one must understand not just what is possible, but why it is possible.*"
The book was dense with theoretical discussions that made Harry's enhanced mind work overtime to follow the arguments. Lysander Peverell had been investigating the fundamental nature of magical energy itself, trying to understand why certain combinations of intent, gesture, and vocalization could reshape reality while others produced nothing but sparks and disappointment.
"*The key insight,*" Harry continued translating, his excitement growing as he began to grasp the implications of what he was reading, "*is that magic is not actually created by the practitioner. Rather, magic exists as a fundamental force of nature, like gravity or electromagnetic energy. The practitioner merely learns to access, channel, and direct this force through their will and understanding. The more complete one's understanding of the underlying principles, the more effectively one can manipulate the magical force.*"
*"Lysander's theories were considered radical in their time. Most Dragonlords were content to accept magic as a tool to be used without needing to understand its ultimate nature. But his research led to innovations that revolutionized how your ancestors approached the more complex magical arts."*
Harry flipped through the pages, his enhanced vision catching glimpses of diagrams that showed magical energy as flowing patterns of light and shadow, mathematical formulae that described the relationship between intent and outcome, and theoretical frameworks that could potentially revolutionize how magic was understood and practiced.
"This is incredible," he murmured, his scholar's mind already racing with the implications. "If even half of what he's theorizing here is correct, it means magic could be approached as a science rather than an art. Predictable, reproducible, subject to experimentation and improvement. Hermione would sell her soul to read this book—she's always been frustrated by how arbitrary magical education seems to be."
*"Your ancestor's work was never completed. The Doom interrupted his research, and much of his theoretical framework was never tested in practice. Perhaps... perhaps a descendant with modern insights and enhanced abilities might succeed where he was forced to abandon the work."*
Harry was about to respond when his attention was caught by yet another book, this one bound in what appeared to be black leather so dark it seemed to absorb light. Unlike the others, this tome didn't radiate power so much as it seemed to create a zone of magical silence around itself, as if even magic was reluctant to approach too closely.
"*The Chronicle of Necessary Darkness,*" Harry translated from the cover, his voice dropping unconsciously as he read the title. "*By Malachar Peverell, Who Walks Between Light and Shadow.*"
*"Ah,"* Aegerax's mental voice carried a note of warning that made Harry's enhanced instincts prickle with caution. *"That one contains knowledge of the Vile Arts. Malachar was... perhaps the most dangerous of your ancestors. Brilliant, certainly, but he delved into magics that most sane practitioners avoid entirely. His research pushed the boundaries of what magic could accomplish, but at a cost that some would consider too high."*
"What sort of cost?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. He'd seen enough of dark magic to recognize the patterns—power that came with prices that weren't apparent until it was too late to turn back.
*"Malachar sought to understand death itself—not just as an ending, but as a force that could be harnessed and directed. His experiments allowed him to achieve things that should have been impossible, but each success required him to sacrifice a piece of his own humanity. By the end, he was something that wore the shape of a man but was no longer truly human in any meaningful sense."*
Harry opened the book carefully, noting that the pages seemed to be made from some material he couldn't identify—not parchment or paper, but something that felt almost organic, as if it had once been alive. The text was written in what appeared to be blood that had somehow been prevented from aging, still appearing fresh and red after a thousand years.
"*Death is the ultimate frontier,*" Harry read from the opening passage, his voice steady despite the chill that ran down his spine. "*It is the one absolute that all living beings must face, the one boundary that seems impossible to cross. But what if death is not truly final? What if it is merely another state of existence, one that can be manipulated like any other magical force?*"
The book detailed experiments that made Harry's stomach turn—research into necromancy that went far beyond anything he'd encountered, even during the war against Voldemort. Malachar had been investigating ways to harness the energy released at the moment of death, to bind souls to physical anchors, to communicate with and command the dead.
But more disturbing than the experiments themselves were the gradual changes Harry could trace in Malachar's writing style as the chronicle progressed. The early entries were written in the same precise, academic tone he'd found in the other journals. But as the research progressed, the handwriting became more erratic, the language more disturbing, the observations more detached from normal human emotion.
"*Forty-Third Experiment: Success,*" Harry read from a passage roughly halfway through the book, his voice growing more troubled with each word. "*The subject's soul remains bound to the physical form even after biological death. Motor functions persist, though cognitive abilities appear somewhat degraded. The preservation of the vessel requires regular infusion of life energy from living subjects, but the process appears sustainable indefinitely. Note: the vessel no longer requires food, water, or rest, and appears immune to most forms of physical harm.*"
*"He was creating what your people might call 'improved' Inferi,"* Aegerax observed, his mental voice heavy with distaste. *"Undead servants that retained more of their original capabilities than normal necromantic animation could achieve. But each creation required the sacrifice of living beings to power the process, and each success drew him further from his original humanity."*
Harry continued reading, but the later entries were increasingly disturbing. Malachar's research had evolved from simple necromancy to investigations into the fundamental nature of life and death, experiments that involved manipulating not just corpses but living subjects, attempts to merge the living and the dead into hybrid beings that possessed the advantages of both states.
"*Final Entry,*" Harry read from near the end of the chronicle, his voice barely above a whisper. "*I have achieved the ultimate synthesis. Neither living nor dead, I exist in a state between states, free from the limitations of both conditions. I no longer age, no longer tire, no longer feel the pull of mortal concerns. Death holds no terror for me, for I have made it my ally. I am become something new, something greater than the merely human. The cost... the cost is acceptable.*"
The handwriting in that final entry was barely recognizable as the same person who had begun the chronicle. Where the early passages had been written with careful precision, the final words seemed to have been carved into the page with something sharp, the letters irregular and somehow predatory.
Harry closed the book carefully, his enhanced magical senses recoiling from the aura of wrongness that seemed to emanate from the final pages. "That's quite enough of Uncle Malachar for one day," he said, pushing the tome away from him with visible distaste. "I think I understand why you classified some magic as 'Vile.' There are some lines that shouldn't be crossed, some prices that are too high to pay."
*"Wisdom beyond your years, young Peverell. Malachar's research produced innovations that were undeniably powerful, but at a cost that transformed him into something that was no longer recognizably human. He survived the Doom, but what survived was not truly him in any meaningful sense."*
"He's still alive?" Harry asked, though given what he'd just read, 'alive' might not be the most accurate term.
*"Something that was once Malachar still exists somewhere in these ruins. I encounter traces of his presence from time to time—shadows that move without light to cast them, whispers in languages that predate human speech, areas where the very air seems thick with malevolent intelligence. But I have not seen him directly for a century. Perhaps he has transcended physical form entirely, or perhaps he simply chooses to avoid even dragons."*
"Right," Harry said firmly, making a mental note to avoid the parts of the ruins where shadows moved independently. "That's definitely going on the 'do not investigate under any circumstances' list. I've got quite enough experience with megalomaniacal immortal beings, thank you very much."
He turned his attention back to the more palatable discoveries, pulling out several books that dealt with practical applications of advanced magic. One contained detailed instructions for creating magical focuses that could amplify a wizard's natural abilities, another described techniques for permanent transfiguration that could reshape materials at the molecular level, and a third outlined methods for creating stable dimensional pockets that could hold far more than their apparent size should allow.
"This is incredible," Harry said, his academic excitement overriding his lingering unease about Malachar's research. "These techniques could revolutionize magical society. Permanent transfiguration that actually lasts, dimensional expansion that doesn't require constant magical maintenance, focusing crystals that could let even a moderately skilled wizard perform advanced magic with ease."
*"Your ancestors were masters of the practical magical arts. But remember, young Dragonlord, knowledge without wisdom is dangerous. Many of these techniques require not just understanding but the judgment to know when they should and should not be employed."*
"Sage advice," Harry agreed, though his grin suggested he was already planning experiments that would probably give his former professors premature gray hair. "Though I have to say, after spending seven years having my magical education limited by Ministry regulations and 'traditional approaches,' the idea of having access to truly advanced techniques is rather exciting."
He spent the next several hours cataloging the contents of the vault, his enhanced mind working overtime to absorb and categorize the incredible wealth of knowledge his ancestors had preserved. Books on advanced dueling techniques that made his Auror training look like children's games. Treatises on magical theory that could reshape understanding of how magic actually worked. Detailed technical manuals for creating artifacts that would be considered priceless treasures in the modern world.
And weapons. So many weapons that Harry began to understand why Aegerax had called them treasures beyond price. Swords of Valyrian Steel hung in specially warded alcoves, their edges still sharp enough to cut shadows. Armor that seemed to be made from crystallized starlight. Staves and wands carved from materials he couldn't identify but that practically hummed with contained power.
"*The Inventory of House Peverell,*" Harry read from a ledger he'd found near the weapon displays, "*maintained in the 127th Year Since the Founding, by Roderick Peverell, Keeper of the Arsenal.*"
The list was staggering. Forty-seven swords of Valyrian Steel, each one inscribed with different runic patterns for different purposes. Twenty-three suits of Valyrian Steel armor, from full plate designed for dragon-riders to lighter variants meant for more subtle applications. Dozens of magical focuses, from simple rings that could store spells for later use to complex amulets that could channel multiple forms of magical energy simultaneously.
"Aegerax," Harry called up through their mental connection, his voice filled with amazement. "According to this inventory, my ancestors had enough Valyrian Steel to outfit a small army. And that's just the weapons and armor—they also had what appears to be the largest collection of magical knowledge in the known world."
*"The Peverells were always collectors as well as creators. They understood that knowledge and power both were too precious to risk losing to the vagaries of war or politics. What you see there represents the accumulated magical learning of dozens of civilizations, preserved against the day when it might be needed again."*
Harry pulled one of the swords from its display, marveling at how the Valyrian Steel seemed to warm to his touch. The blade was longer than his usual preference but perfectly balanced, and he could feel the magical energy flowing through the metal like a gentle current. The runes inscribed along the fuller weren't merely decorative—they were functional elements that seemed to resonate with his own magical signature.
"*Shadowbane,*" he read from the inscription near the crossguard, his pronunciation of the High Valyrian name sending subtle harmonics through the magical atmosphere of the vault. "*Forged for hunting creatures of darkness, quenched in dragonfire and moonlight, blessed by the ancient powers that guard the boundary between light and shadow.*"
The sword felt like an extension of his own magical will, responding to his intent with an eagerness that was almost sentient. When he channeled a small amount of his enhanced magical energy through the blade, it began to glow with soft violet light that cast no shadows, and he could sense that it would be particularly effective against creatures that drew their power from darkness or corruption.
"This is remarkable," he said, performing a few experimental flourishes that would have impressed his old dueling instructors. "It's not just a weapon—it's a magical focus shaped like a sword. I can channel spells through it, use it as a lightning rod for magical energy, even store prepared enchantments in the runic matrix for later use."
*"Valyrian Steel weapons were designed to be partners rather than mere tools. In the hands of a true Dragonlord, such a blade becomes an extension of the wielder's will, capable of feats that would be impossible with ordinary steel."*
Harry spent some time practicing with Shadowbane, getting a feel for how the weapon responded to his enhanced magical abilities. The sword seemed to anticipate his movements, making his technique smoother and more precise than it had any right to be. When he attempted to channel his Patronus charm through the blade, the silver stag that emerged was larger and more solid than ever before, its light taking on violet undertones that spoke of dragon-fire and ancient power.
"Extraordinary," he breathed, dismissing the Patronus with a gesture that sent silver sparks dancing along the sword's edge. "The amplification effect is incredible. I could probably cast a full-powered Patronus charm with half the usual energy expenditure, and the result would be more powerful than anything I could manage with a normal wand."
But it was the armor that truly captured his imagination. One suit in particular seemed to call to his enhanced senses—not the heaviest or most obviously powerful, but something about it resonated with his magical signature in a way that made his dragon-touched blood sing with recognition.
"*Dragonscale,*" Harry read from the placard beside the armor display, his voice filled with wonder. "*Wrought for Lysander Peverell in his final years, when his theoretical research demanded protection from forces that conventional armor could not turn aside. Proof against all forms of magical attack, as comfortable as silk, as light as air, as strong as the will of dragons.*"
The armor appeared to be made from thousands of tiny scales that shifted between colors like oil on water, each one inscribed with microscopic runes that seemed to move and dance when he looked at them directly. Unlike the massive plate armor he'd expected, this was more like an elegant second skin that would provide complete protection without hindering movement or limiting flexibility.
*"Lysander's masterwork. He created it during his investigations into the fundamental nature of magical energy, when his experiments began attracting the attention of beings that existed on the borderlands between dimensions. The armor was designed to protect not just the body but the soul itself from hostile magical influences."*
"May I?" Harry asked, though he was already reaching for the armor with hands that trembled slightly with anticipation.
*"It was made for a Peverell to wear. If anyone has the right to don Lysander's protection, it is his descendant who has been touched by dragon-fire and proven worthy of the ancient blood."*
The armor flowed onto Harry's body like liquid metal, each scale finding its perfect position with an ease that spoke of magic so advanced it bordered on the supernatural. As the final piece settled into place, Harry felt a sensation like being embraced by starlight—warm, protective, and infinitely reassuring.
The armor was everything the inscription had promised. Despite providing complete coverage from neck to toe, it weighed no more than his ordinary clothes and moved with him as naturally as his own skin. But he could feel the protective enchantments humming around him, barriers against hostile magic that would turn aside everything from simple hexes to the sort of reality-warping attacks that powerful magical beings could bring to bear.
"This is incredible," Harry said, marveling at how the armor seemed to anticipate his movements and adjust itself for maximum comfort and protection. "I can barely tell I'm wearing it, but I can feel the magical defenses like a second skin. This would have made the war against Voldemort considerably less stressful."
*"Lysander believed that the best protection was that which didn't limit the wearer's capabilities. The armor enhances rather than restricts, strengthens rather than encumbers. In battle, it would make you nearly invulnerable while leaving you free to fight with your full skill and power."*
Harry spent some time exploring the armor's capabilities, discovering that it could adapt to different situations with nothing more than a thought. In its default configuration, it appeared to be elegant black clothing with subtle decorative patterns that concealed its true nature. But with a mental command, it could manifest as anything from formal robes suitable for diplomatic occasions to practical traveling gear designed for harsh environments.
"Adaptive camouflage," he said with growing appreciation. "It can make me look like anything from a wealthy merchant to a traveling scholar to a common soldier, depending on what the situation requires. Plus, I suspect it has built-in translation enchantments, climate control, and probably a dozen other convenience features that haven't been invented yet."
*"Your ancestor was thorough in his preparations. He understood that true protection required more than simple physical barriers—it required the ability to adapt to changing circumstances and unexpected threats."*
The final discovery was perhaps the most intriguing of all. In a specially warded alcove near the back of the vault, Harry found what appeared to be a simple crystal sphere about the size of a Quaffle. But when he approached it, his enhanced magical senses nearly overwhelmed him with the sheer power contained within the crystalline structure.
"*The Heart of Altherion,*" Harry read from the inscription, his voice dropping to an awed whisper as he realized what he was looking at. "*Freely given by the Dragon—considered the largest of the dragons at the time—in the final days before the Doom, when the greatest of dragons chose to invest part of his very essence in crystal form, that his knowledge and power might endure beyond the ending of his mortal form.*"
*"Altherion the Red Fury,"* Aegerax's mental voice carried profound respect and something that might have been grief. *"The greatest of our kind, the first and mightiest of the dragons bound to human will, though 'bound' was never truly the correct word. He chose to partner with House Peverell, chose to invest his power in the survival of dragonkind itself. That crystal contains a fragment of his living essence, his memories, and his accumulated wisdom of centuries.*"
"It's not just a magical artifact," Harry realized, his understanding deepening as he studied the sphere with his enhanced vision. "It's a repository of knowledge. A way for Altherion to pass on everything he learned to future generations. Like a magical library, but one that contains the thoughts and experiences of the greatest dragon who ever lived."
*"Indeed. Touch the crystal, young Dragonlord, and you will have access to knowledge that died with the Doom. But be warned—Altherion's memories span centuries, and some of what you will experience may be overwhelming for a mortal mind, even one enhanced by dragon-fire."*
Harry approached the crystal with reverent caution, understanding that he was about to interact with the preserved essence of a legendary being. When he finally placed his hands on the smooth surface, the world exploded into sensation and memory that threatened to overwhelm even his enhanced consciousness.
He found himself soaring through skies that had been clear for a thousand years, seeing Valyria as it had been in its full glory through the eyes of the greatest dragon who had ever lived. He experienced the early days of the dragon-human
---
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