HP: A different time, A different story

Winterfell, Aryan's Room

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a fireplace, its warm light dancing on the stone walls and bathing the figures within in an amber hue. Evelyn lay curled up in her mother's lap, her tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful slumber as Joanna and Aryan sat together, the weight of years bridging in their conversation.

Joanna's voice was soft yet laced with a profound sadness as she filled Aryan in on everything he had missed—losses that cast long shadows over their family: his grandparents, the brave Benjamin, even their steadfast father. She spoke of the House of Lannister's struggles, the dissolution of once-powerful alliances, and the chaos left in the wake of Grindelwald's terror. Her words carried the ache of grief tempered by the resilience of a mother who had faced hell and emerged alive, if scarred.

Aryan listened intently, his heart tightening with every revelation. Seeing his mother—once the epitome of strength and nobility—speak with a voice weighed down by sorrow was unbearable. Her pale complexion, worn from years of stasis and the trials she had endured, told a story her words could only skim. He could feel her exhaustion, not just physical, but emotional, seeping into every word she spoke.

"Mother..." he hesitated, his voice faltering as he tread into uncertain territory. "What happened that night? How did you survive? What... what happened after?"

Joanna's gaze softened, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "The proper details are still unclear," she began, her voice steady but holding back a tide of emotion. "But one thing is certain—it was you, Aryan, who ensured our survival."

"Me?" Aryan's brows furrowed in confusion. "How?"

A faint smile broke through her sorrow as she regarded her son, her pride in him radiant. "As Sebastian was carrying you away, you unleashed a powerful bout of accidental magic. It was strong enough to distract Grindelwald and cause the ceiling to collapse, cutting him off from us. Sebastian seized the moment and came back for me. He placed us both into the domes and used a portkey to bring us here."

Her voice wavered, and she paused to collect herself, the weight of the memory visibly heavy on her. Aryan's throat tightened as he watched her struggle, his own emotions a chaotic blend of guilt, grief, and awe. She was alive—because of him—but at what cost?

Taking a deep breath, Joanna continued, "When we arrived, Sebastian locked Winterfell down. He activated every ward and sealed off all connections to the outside world. But the domes… they weren't enough to heal me completely. They put me in stasis, where my magic tried to mend my injuries. I should have woken within months," her voice cracked, and Aryan instinctively reached out to hold her trembling hand. "But being in stasis, overworking my magic… it would have killed the child."

Aryan's heart clenched. "You mean… Evelyn."

Joanna nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. "My magic… it prioritized her. It kept her alive while slowly repairing me. I don't know if it was conscious or instinct, but when I woke up nearly a decade later, she was there. She was safe. But I thought…" Her voice broke completely as tears spilled down her cheeks, "I thought I had lost you. I thought I had lost everything."

Aryan's own tears welled as he watched the profound grief play across her face. It was a mother's anguish—a grief so raw it pierced his soul. His loss was great, but hers was unimaginable. Yet in the depths of her sorrow, her strength was undeniable.

She composed herself, smoothing Evelyn's hair as she lay asleep. "Sebastian explained everything. He told me about your condition, how you were still in stasis and showing no signs of waking. But I was relieved, Aryan. I was relieved you were alive. I knew you would wake up one day."

Her voice softened, and her tears now carried a hint of joy. "And now you're here. You're finally awake. Everything will be okay now. It's all I need."

Joanna leaned forward, enveloping him in her arms once more. Aryan melted into her embrace, tears streaming down his face. The loss of his father, the anguish of years stolen, the guilt of his role, and the blissful relief of her presence—it all poured out. He clung to her as if she were the only anchor in his tumultuous sea of emotions.

Joanna's shoulders relaxed, the burden of a decade-long sorrow lifting ever so slightly. For the first time in years, her face reflected true contentment. They sat like that, finding solace in each other, while the fire crackled softly in the hearth and Evelyn's rhythmic breaths filled the room.

As the night wore on, mother and son talked quietly, filling the void of years with stories.

A while later

Aryan lay sprawled on his bed, the weight of his conversation with his mother still pressing heavily on his chest. The ceiling above him, carved with intricate wooden patterns, seemed distant, almost unreal, as if it belonged to another world. His mind was a storm of emotions, memories, and questions—each crashing against the shores of his consciousness without mercy.

What would he do now?

When he first realized he had been reincarnated into the Harry Potter universe, he had been thrilled. Magic fascinated him, and the sheer wonder of wielding it had consumed him entirely. His dreams had been simple, perhaps even naïve. He had planned to live quietly, far removed from the chaos of the wizarding world. No Hogwarts adventures or entanglements with great powers for him. He would be homeschooled like his grandfather, diving deep into the mysteries of magic in peace and solitude. That was his grand ambition—to live a quiet life, untouched by conflict, and explore the wonders of magic for his own curiosity.

But then Grindelwald happened.

Aryan squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to block out the memories, but they came anyway, sharp and vivid, cutting through his thoughts like shards of glass. The destruction. The screams. The helplessness. It was as if a cold hand clenched his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter with each recollection. He had thought himself safe, untouched by the world's chaos, but the harsh reality had come crashing through his illusions, tearing apart everything he held dear.

His family, his home, his sense of security—all shattered. And what had he done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had been a spectator to his own tragedy, reduced to a passive observer as someone else dictated his fate.

Helpless.

The word echoed in his mind like a cruel taunt. He hated it. Hated how powerless he had been. Hated how he had relied on sheer luck—on a fluke of accidental magic—to survive. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as anger bubbled within him, rising like a tide threatening to drown him. That anger was not just at Grindelwald but at himself. At his naivety. At his complacency. At the arrogance of thinking he could remain untouched by the world's cruelty if only he stayed out of its way.

What a fool he had been.

The despair he had felt that day was like a black hole in his chest, an emptiness that swallowed everything—hope, joy, peace. It wasn't just the loss of his family or his home. It was the realization that someone else could take everything from him, that his life could be changed on someone's whim while he stood by, powerless to stop it. That vulnerability, that helplessness, scared him more than anything else ever had.

His previous plans, his ambitions—they felt like a joke now. Stupid, childish dreams born of ignorance. What good was studying magic in peace if he couldn't even protect himself, let alone those he cared about? What good was understanding magic if he didn't have the power to wield it when it mattered?

Power.

The word emerged from the storm in his mind, solid and unyielding. That's what he needed. Power. To fight back. To protect what was his. To live on his own terms, without fear of being at someone else's mercy.

The phrase surfaced in his mind, unbidden but fitting: "There is no good and evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it."

The truth of it struck him like a lightning bolt. The world wasn't kind or fair. It didn't care about his ideals or dreams. Only power mattered. Those who wielded it decided their own fate—and the fate of others. And those without it? They were at the mercy of the powerful.

A cold resolve began to form within him, solidifying like ice over a turbulent sea. He needed to become strong—strong enough to ensure that no one could ever take anything from him again. Strong enough to protect his family, his future, and his dreams. He wouldn't let himself be reduced to a spectator ever again. He wouldn't rely on luck or flukes. His ambition would no longer be peace. It would be strength.

Yet as his anger and despair found direction, a flicker of doubt remained in the back of his mind. He didn't want to lose himself in his pursuit of power. His heart still held the warmth of his mother's embrace, the memory of her tears, and her pride in him. He would gain strength—not to dominate, but to protect. Not to destroy, but to build.

As his thoughts began to settle into this newfound determination, a sudden noise jolted him upright. A metallic, robotic voice cut through the silence of the room, startling him out of his reverie.