Alright, sorry it took me so long to update. I was preoccupied with other things and kind of forgot to upload the new chapters I had written for this story. My bad, sorry. Wi will try to do better.

There isn't much to say here, so I keep this brief and just let you read the short chapter. This is in a way an extension of the prolog. The first few chapters will follow Harry's path as he grows up to become a Fatebinder before we move on to the main plot. After my first few drafts for this story, I had come to realize that it is better to show things instead of leaving it to narration during the main part of the story.

So, have fun...

It was an odd and quite certainly frightening time for you Harry Potter, as the three-year-old boy sat in a barren room without windows. He had no idea why he was here, neither did he know where his parents were at that moment. He felt alone and weary.

But the worst thing in all of this was the odd man who was in the room with him. He looked to be as old as his dad, but unlike him, this man had a neatly trimmed beard and piercing blue eyes that scrutinized him relentlessly.

Neither of the two said a word. Harry was too scared to speak and the man was obviously not in the mood to entertain a conversation with a little boy.

Harry didn't want to look at the man, so he looked around, searching for something, anything familiar. But there was nothing. It was just an empty white room with a table and two chairs. The door to his left, the only way to enter or exit the room, was shut tight.

He just wanted to get out. To go home. He couldn't understand why Uncle Albus had dropped him off at this strange place. Had he done something wrong? Had he been bad and this was his punishment? If so, he didn't want to be bad again. This was terrifying.

Or was this Uncle Albus doing? Dad had always told him that Uncle Albus is a good man and that he can trust him without hesitation. But why had he abandoned him here then?

Finally, the door opened, for the first time in at least an hour. Or at least it had felt like an hour to the young boy. A woman entered and closed the door behind her. Unlike the man, she looked at him with warm eyes and a kind smile, something that reassured him a bit. But she was dressed weirdly. Like one of those bad people from those strange muggle movies, Uncle Sirius was not supposed to watch while babysitting.

"This boy is boring, Penny," the man suddenly spoke, followed by a bored yawn. "You promised me an ancient bloodline, but all he ever does is look at his feet and sulk."

"Stop being such a baby, Nicholas," the woman chided, much like Harry's mom would chide his father whenever he says something dumb, "You are not exactly the most pleasant company for a child, either. And why is he even in this room? I remember giving the order to take him to a dining room to feed him."

"With Iolanthe's bloodline? He is too dangerous until we have that curse under control. This place is better suited for what needs to be done. Fewer things for him to destroy," Nicholas replied indignantly. "You should know best how bad this kind of magic can get."

"I know," she hissed, as her right hand brushed over the upper part of her left arm. "But scaring him like this will hardly make this any easier,"

Harry watched the exchange wide-eyed. He didn't understand anything these people were saying, but he was sure it had something to do with his hands. Everything he touches turns to dust. His mom and dad had been scared of him. They wouldn't even let him see Dahlia before Uncle Albus came and took him away. And even the old and wise wizard didn't dare to touch him more than necessary. No hugs, no ruffling his hair, not even the usual fond smile of a benign grandfather. Only looks of worry and bitterness.

"Hello there, my dear," the woman suddenly stood before Harry, kneeling down so she would be on the same eye-level as him.

Her eyes were green, like his mom's, Harry noted. But much paler and less vibrant…

"I know this all must be really scary and bad for you right now, Harry," the woman continued, "But I can promise you that we are here to help you. Even my bore of a husband." Nicholas only huffed in the background, clearly annoyed by this description.

"Who… who are you?" Harry asked, albeit hesitantly.

The woman smiled encouragingly, before she answered, "I am Perenelle. And that grouch over there is my husband Nicholas. We are old friends Albus Dumbledore and he has brought you to us so we can help you with that… special ability you have."

"Right," Nicholas added from the other side of the table, "Time to start with some tests."

Before either Harry or Perenelle could react, Nicholas had conjured something and threw it towards the boy.

"Catch," was all he said.

Instinctively Harry caught the round object. His dad had always praised that he was good at catching and that he would be a Quidditch Star for sure. But this wasn't a Quidditch ball, it was simple apple. But the moment it touched Harry's hands, it turned grey and withered away. Harry flinched and dared not look at either adult, afraid of the expressions of fear and rejection he had seen from his family.

The reaction of the two was different, though.

"Well, I'll be damned. Iolanthe had to fuck over even more people, who would have thought," Nicholas chuckled, "As if she hadn't already caused enough strife and misery for half of the continent in her own time."

"Nicholas, behave yourself," Perenelle warned.

It didn't deter the man in the slightest. Instead, he stood up from his chair and rounded the table. He grabbed Harry's left arm by the wrist and turned it around, so he could have a look at the palm.

"Just as I thought," he hummed, "The same kind of array that Iolanthe had. How has no one ever noticed the strange pattern of lines on his hand? Are they all blind and dumb? This kind of carelessness gets people killed."

"Most people wouldn't expect their children to develop such powers. The odds are so bad that it just doesn't make sense to examine each and every child born with magic," Perenelle argued, "And who but us would even recognize this?"

"True," Nicholas agreed, "It's still stupid." The man sighed, as he continued to pull on Harry's arm, nearly pulling the young boy off of his chair. "Now let's seal this array for the time being."

Harry wasn't sure what the man was talking about, but as Nicholas began chanting something in a language the boy had never heard before, Perenelle began talking to him again, gently pulling his attention away from Nicholas and his hand.

"Don't worry, Harry, you will be fine. Once Nicholas is done, you can use your hands normally again. It might sting a bit at first, but you will be fine, I promise," Perenelle told him calmly, as she held his gaze. She even placed her gloved left hand on his head and ruffled his hair, just like his parents and Uncle Albus would usually do. It felt nice… it felt… normal. For the first time in three days, he felt almost normal, but that feeling didn't last for long.

A sharp pain shot through his palm, causing Harry to cry out in pain. He wanted to look at what Nicholas was doing to him, but Perenelle prevented it and forced him to keep looking at her by holding his chin with her other hand.

"Don't be afraid. It will be better soon," Perenelle said calmly. But as Nicholas moved on to the other hand, the boy cried out again.

The pain faded soon after, but Harry had long since passed out from the pain. Limply he hung in the arms of the Archon. Gently Perenelle cradled the boy to her chest, a grim look on her face.

"It's done," Nicholas announced, "The curse is sealed, for now. But this is a short-term solution at best. He needs to learn how to control it. The sooner the better. I will call in Amaranthine to help with this. She still owes me for that fuck up in Tunguska."

Perenelle nodded, as she picked the unconscious boy up. "The poor thing. With this kind of burden placed on his shoulders, his future in the Empire will be both glorious and terrible to behold."

Her eyes found the glowing runes now etched into the skin of Harry's hands. The golden glow dimmed quickly until there was nothing left both the thin outlines of the runes Nicholas had used to bind the cursed bloodline of the Peverell family.

"If he survives the next few years, you mean," Nicholas interjected, "You know how things go. Those with power are either claimed or cleansed by the powerful Houses."

Anger welled up in Perenelle's chest. Though she had never been a mother herself, she had nurtured many children to adulthood. Most became powerful servants of justice. Some of them, on the other hand… she rather remembered them as the children they had been, not the men and women they had become. But never had she allowed any of those children to come to harm. Harry would be no exception to this rule. And with her role as the Archon of Justice, his future role was easy to determine.

"Nicholas, make sure that all those fools in the Empire know that I claim this child as my own. He will serve me once he is old enough and anyone who dares to interfere will fall to the Flaming Sword of Justice itself," Perenelle declared evenly.

She didn't bother to wait for a reply from her husband, instead, she took the boy to the room her servants had prepared. Harry would be granted a day of rest. But once he awakens, his new life would begin. The life of a Fatebinder. The first to be raised from childhood to fill this role. One destined for true greatness.

"Speak!" the Archon of Shadows demanded, as he sat upon his throne, in the dark and otherwise abandoned throne room, hidden in the deepest bowels of Britain's Ministry.

"My lord, the rumors are true. The bloodline of House Peverell has emerged once more. The eldest son of James Potter has proven to be the first true heir in several centuries," the spy reported, as he cowered before the throne of his master.

Peverell, a name that promises great powers and even greater mysteries. Almost absentmindedly he played with the ring on his finger. Another part of the puzzle that is the key to the greatest power ever known to wizardkind. The power to command death itself. Three artifacts and the blood to unlock their secrets. To control them all… a feat unheard of in this day and age.

"Where is the boy?" he asked his spy.

The gutless maggot quivered in fear instead of answering. Only the liberal use of non-lethal curses would loosen his tongue.

"Forgive me, master. Forgive me!"

"Where is the boy, Wormtail!" he growled again. "Where is the Peverell heir?"

Wormtail began to stutter before another painful curse forced him to focus. "He's gone, master. Dumbledore came and took him away."

A roar of utter fury escaped the dark master, as he heard this. Dumbledore. Always Dumbledore. The throne in his side, the reason why he wasn't the sole ruler of Britannia's magical societies. Of all the people, it had to be the self-proclaimed Archon of Light who took the boy under his wing.

"But he no longer has him," Wormtail exclaimed quickly, frightened nearly witless. "He gave him away."

"Do not test my patience any further, Wormtail! Who has him?"

"Archon Flamel. He gave the boy to Archon Flamel, because of her connection to the last known Perenelle with the bloodline."

This was even worse. He was already in a state of Cold War with his fellow Archon on the British Isles. But Flamel… the Archon of Justice has always been one of the Overlord's favorites. Not to mention that she is married to the Archon of Lore, the one man who knew nearly every facet of the world and the magic that binds everything together.

"Begone, Wormtail. Don't you dare to show your useless hide before me unless I call for you," he ordered.

"Yes, master. Thank you for sparing me, master," the spy groveled some more before he quickly scurried away like the rat he is.

What to do? What to do? The Archon wasn't so sure which path to take. Attacking Flamel was out of the question. The chance to manage this without revealing himself would be so laughably small, even considering it would be a waste of time. And he wasn't powerful enough to stand against the combined might of other Archons and their dark master… yet.

But there was one thing he could do. A malicious smirk spread on his gaunt face, as a plan began to form in his mind. Yes. He knew exactly what to do. It would take time. It would take resources. But he would succeed.

With his newly hatched scheme in mind, Marvolo Gaunt, the Archon of Shadows, left his throne room to begin his preparations. He had all the time in the world to prepare and place his pieces in the right places. But in the end, he would reign supreme. First over Britain, then over all the world. He would succeed.

And then he would have his vengeance...

A/N: So much for this chapter.

Harry will have to learn a lot and he won't have much of a happy childhood. Perenelle isn't exactly his fairy godmother and Nicholas just doesn't care.

Voldemort in this story is similar yet different to his canon counterpart. To hide his low birth he has taken his mother's family name, calling himself Marvolo Gaunt instead of Tom Riddle. More powerful than others, he has become one of the two Archons on the British Isles who quarrel for control over the Province.

Next chapter we will see some glimpses at Harry's training and his teachers. And he will meet his first real friend in this mad world. Until then, cya...