It was one of those rare nights when Albert and Elian found themselves having dinner at the same time—an unusual alignment, only made possible by Albert returning early from the Ministry of Magic.
The dining table stretched unnecessarily long between them. Elian sat at one end. Albert sat at the other. The space between them wasn't just physical—it had years layered into it.
"I heard from Stephen that you got your letter from Hogwarts." Albert said with a stern voice, breaking the silence.
"Yeah," Elian said with a disinterested ring in his tone.
"You get what that implies, right?"
"Naturally. It means I'm under no duty to go anywhere I didn't ask to be sent," Elian remarked, voice hovering between sarcasm and honesty.
"Do you really think you have a choice, son?" Albert said with a menace in his voice. "I accepted your request to attend a Muggle school because I believed once you turned eleven, you would understand the weight your father holds in the Mini—"
"When was my birthday, Mr. Vale?" Elian interrupted with a sharp and mocking voice.
Albert didn't flinch. His voice remained unapologetically sharp.
"You're grounded for two weeks for interrupting me. And rather than remembering your date of birth, you should remember your purpose of birth, and that's—"
"Becoming the Ministry's lapdog like you?" Elian cut in again, his tone dripping with venomous sarcasm. "No thanks."
Albert rose from his chair and slammed the table with his hands.
The bungalow as a whole became dead silent.
The lights flickered.
Cracks webbed like spreading veins all throughout the windows.
Growling, voice low and menacing, he said, "Elian Albert Vale.
One more disrespectful comment about the Ministry and—"
A sudden flutter cut the tension.
A Ministry owl slammed against the window, carrying a scroll with the Ministry's seal.
Albert tightened his teeth, grabbed the scroll, then grabbed his cloak and wand.
Before leaving, he stopped in the doorway and gave Elian one more look—cold, blazing, silent.
A few days passed. Neither Albert nor Elian spoke a single word to each other.
Every time a Hogwarts letter arrived, Elian burned it—always before Albert could lay eyes on it.
One day, as Elian sat in the living room burning the letters in the fireplace, Stephen walked in and caught him.
"May I ask what you're doing, Young Master Elian?" Stephen asked, voice calm but edged with concern.
Elian didn't look up. "It's exactly what it looks like, Stephen."
"It's not my place to say this, but your mother wouldn't have liked it, young master," Stephen said.
Elian looked up dead in Stephen's eyes and said with a sharp voice, "I don't even remember her face, Stephen, so why would her opinions even matter to me?"
Stephen added nothing further. With faint footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, he headed quietly toward the fireplace.
He stopped, then gave Elian a letter. It was sealed.
He started to leave without looking back. His deep, heavy voice broke the calm:
"I knew Elisa long before her death. She was among the best witches I had ever known. And before you decide to burn the upcoming set of Hogwarts letters...
He hesitated at the threshold.
"Read that one please."
He left the living room, leaving Elian with the letter and a name that still bore far too many shadows.
For the next three days, Elian continued collecting Hogwarts letters, hiding them from Albert as always—but he no longer burned them. Not out of renewed interest, but because something else gnawed at his attention.
The letter from Stephen remained sealed. Heavy in his drawer.
He didn't know whether to destroy it like the others… or finally read it.
The name of his mother hadn't left him since—not because it held any weight for him, but because of the way Stephen said it. Stephen never addressed Elian or Albert by name… but he did with Elian's deceased mother. That alone intrigued Elian more than anything else.
Elian at long last broke the seal. From the envelope, a sudden burst of cyan light blinded him briefly. Four objects floated before him as his vision returned and faded: a rune-etched ring, a brown bead bracelet, a silver chain, and a single black stud earring. His eyes grew large, but he grabbed them without thinking twice — as though they had always been his.
Elian laid the objects on the table next to him and then pulled out the letter from the envelope; his fingers twitched just for a second before unfolding the letter. The letter reads:
Dear Elian,
First of all, happy eleventh birthday, and before you ask why now, I told Stephen to hide this letter from you and especially from your father until you turn eleven, as your father is an idiot whose way of showing love is just through ministry paperwork and endless lectures, and if you are reading this letter, it means Stephen did his job properly, so praise him from my side. Alright, enough with the jokes. I wrote this letter just in case so that if I die before watching you grow, then you get an idea of how your stupid mother was when she was alive. You will be going to Hogwarts soon so I just wanted to say some things which I can't say you face to face but I will try writing them and those things were that I am sorry son for leaving you behind, for not able to be there for you in your future but I don't regret any of that because Hogwarts gave me a ray of hope and a place and I am sure it will do the same for you so please consider only this selfish request of your mother even though you probably didn't even remember my face but try giving Hogwarts a chance and those objects are not an inheritance from me those are part of your soul which I wanted to give you back because Elian those objects are only yours and will never let you forget your roots, before wearing them make them touch with your blood so they remember you and one more thing...I am proud of you son.
Your mother,
Elisa
Elian folded the letter quietly and settled next to the fireplace. He observed the flames dance quietly, their brightness flickering around his face. He stood at the table staring at the items following a long break, still wondering if they were gifts, memories, or warnings.
He gave a quiet, sarcastic laugh, murmuring, "You dumb mother."
The next second, he bit off his thumb — blood began to drip.
He held his hands out, thumbs down, pointing at the objects.
The first drop of blood landed on the rune-etched ring.
The second landed on the brown bead bracelet.
The third, on the silver chain.
And the fourth, on the single black stud earring.
The objects shook before he could even touch them, then hurled themselves at him like terrible memories eager to be forgotten as if impatient.
The ring slammed against his right index finger, the bracelet clung to his wrist like shackles born of past sins, the chain wrapped around his neck like a noose, and the black stud burst through his ear as though to whisper: you chose this.
He gasped. Tried pulling them off.
But it was absence rather than suffering he experienced. It felt like tearing away sections of his soul long woven into destiny.
Tired sigh masked subtle surrender as he let them be. Not trinkets. Not equipment. Partnerships. Curses. Whatever they might have been, they are his now.