"Time travel?"
Nathael's voice was a whisper—barely audible, as if he feared the wind itself might carry his words to the wrong ears. He stood at the edge of a dirt path, boots sinking into damp mud, the air thick with the scent of wet peat and woodsmoke. Beside him, Celestia watched him with narrowed eyes, ears tilted slightly forward.
"Only our minds," she replied, also hushed. "Our bodies are still in the stadium. This… is an echo. A memory trapped inside the armband."
Nathael nodded, studying the village before them. It was small—stone houses with thatched roofs blackened by smoke. The streets were empty, not from abandonment, but from fear. The few villagers peeking through windows did so with wide, haunted eyes, as if expecting something to leap from the bushes at any moment. They didn't look at Nathael or Celestia with hostility—but with animal tension, the kind that comes from having seen the worst… and knowing it could return.
"We're in Scotland," Nathael said, pointing to a crooked wooden signpost by the road. The letters were worn, but still legible: Glen Morven.
"And judging by the architecture…" Celestia added, "I'd say we're in the 10th century."
"The time of Salazar Slytherin," Nathael said.
"Exactly."
Nathael adjusted his clothing: a simple brown wool tunic, worn leather boots—no adornments, no visible magic. He passed perfectly for an ordinary traveler. Celestia, meanwhile, walked beside him with her tail held high—but in silence. She knew that if she spoke, the villagers would scream, run, maybe even try to burn her as a witch. In this time, talking cats weren't magical companions. They were demons.
"Don't say a word," Nathael murmured. "Not even if they offer you milk with onions."
Celestia huffed but nodded.
They walked to the center of the village, where a dark-wood tavern with fogged windows emitted a faint yellow glow. A sign hung crooked above the door: The Wounded Stag. The smell wafting from within was… indescribable—a mix of rotting barley, rancid sweat, burnt grease, and something Nathael could only describe as "liquid despair."
They stepped inside.
The murmuring within ceased instantly.
A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward them—men with unkempt beards, calloused hands, hollow stares; women in stained aprons, children hidden behind skirts. All fell silent. Not out of curiosity. Out of habit. Because any stranger might be the next to vanish.
Nathael walked to the bar as if he were just another patron. The innkeeper—a burly man with a scar running through his eyebrow—watched him warily.
"One ale," Nathael said, placing a gold coin on the wood. It bore no seal. It belonged to no kingdom. It was pure, gleaming gold—the kind only wizards used in discreet transactions.
The innkeeper snatched it instantly, as if it might vanish. Without a word, he filled a mug with murky ale and set a small dish before Celestia. Inside, a grayish liquid bubbled softly.
Celestia sniffed the dish. Then she looked at Nathael with an expression of profound existential trauma.
"What is that?" Nathael asked the innkeeper, nodding toward the dish.
"Goat's milk with garlic and oak ash," the man said, wiping a mug with a rag that looked like it had survived three plagues. "That's what we give cats. So they don't bring bad luck."
Celestia closed her eyes and turned her head away with offended dignity.
Nathael took a sip of ale. It tasted of wet earth and despair. But it was ale.
"Quiet village," he said casually, as if chatting with an old friend. "Though… I sense a certain tension in the air. As if everyone's waiting for something to leap from the woods."
The innkeeper stopped wiping the mug.
He stared at Nathael.
"You've come to hunt the beast, too?"
At that moment, every conversation in the tavern fell dead silent. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to hold its flame. Twelve pairs of eyes locked onto Nathael and Celestia.
Nathael didn't flinch.
"I'm an adventurer," he said with an easy smile. "If there's a beast, there's a story. And if there's a story… there's gold."
The innkeeper slowly shook his head.
"You'd best leave. Many have come—hunters, monks, soldiers with blessed swords. They all say the same thing: 'I'll bring back the beast's head.'"
"And?"
"And by the third day… we find their bones. Scattered at the forest's edge. As if something… took them apart."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing. Not even their armor. Not even their shadows."
Nathael nodded, as if absorbing the information without concern.
"I'll take your advice to heart," he said, finishing his ale. "Thank you for the drink."
He stood, scooped Celestia into his arms—she pretended to sleep, just to avoid looking at the dish again—and left the tavern.
------------------------
Outside, night fell like a damp blanket.
"A beast that dismantles its prey?" Celestia murmured once they were far from the village. "It's not an acromantula. Not a griffin. Not even a basilisk leaves bones so neatly arranged."
"It could be a Nundu," Nathael said. "But they're African."
"Or a Chupacabra," Celestia added. "But those are from the New World."
"Or…" Nathael paused. "A Beithir."
Celestia tensed.
"I thought they were extinct—even in this age."
"According to manuscripts, Beithirs were giant Scottish serpents, with scales like iron plates and breath that paralyzed. They could dissolve flesh in minutes, leaving only intact bones… as an offering."
"An offering?"
"To the ancient gods of the mountains," Nathael said. "Or to the wizards who controlled them."
They fell silent.
"Do you think Slytherin's behind this?" Celestia asked.
"I don't think," Nathael said. "I know. Slytherin wouldn't let a creature like this go unnoticed. He'd study it. Tame it. Use it."
"So… are we going to see it?"
Nathael looked toward the forest. The trees rose like black skeletons against the violet sky. The wind carried a metallic scent—dried blood.
"Yes," he said. "Because if Slytherin is there… the armband will guide us."
-----------------------------
The forest was dense, silent—as if life itself had fled. No birds. No insects. Only the crunch of their footsteps on dead leaves.
Until they saw it.
Bones.
Dozens of them. Human, dog, perhaps even horse. All arranged in concentric circles, as if someone—or something—had placed them with ritual precision. Some still clung to shreds of cloth. Others bore rusted rings. One held a wand snapped cleanly in half.
Celestia flicked her tail. A silent spell rippled from her body, purifying the air, erasing the stench of decay.
Nathael smiled and raised his wand.
"Aeris Purgo," he whispered.
The air turned fresh, clean—as if death itself had been erased, if only for a moment.
They moved forward carefully—until, in a moonlit clearing, they saw it.
The beast.
It was enormous—larger than a Hungarian Horntail, but serpentine in form. Its body was covered in black scales that gleamed like obsidian. Its eyes, yellow as sulfur, were closed. It slept. Around its neck, a chain of iron forged with ancient runes bound it to a monolith of stone.
"Beithir," Nathael whispered.
"But… it's tamed," Celestia said. "Those runes… they're for containment, not torture. Someone cares for it."
"Slytherin," Nathael said.
As if summoned by the name, a cold, precise voice echoed from the shadows.
"Who are you? And what are you doing here?"
Nathael and Celestia turned as one.
Behind them, among the trees, stood a young man.
Hair black as night, skin pale as wax, dark eyes that seemed to see straight into the soul. He wore a dark green silk tunic, silver-trimmed with symbols Nathael recognized instantly: the crest of Slytherin—before Hogwarts even existed.
He was tall, elegant, with a posture that said the world lay at his feet… and that he had no interest in stepping on it.
His gaze fell first on Celestia—her sapphire-blue eyes, her immaculate white fur, her collar.
Then he looked at Nathael.
And said, with a mixture of surprise and recognition:
"Grauheim?"