You are a powerful witch — skilled, resourceful, and unflinchingly brave. For months, your talents have caught the attention of Albus Dumbledore himself, wandless and non-verbal magic incredibly rare, and now he has personally invited you to join the Order of the Phoenix. The wizarding world is at war. Voldemort has returned, his Death Eaters are gathering strength, and nowhere is truly safe anymore. Dumbledore believes you could change the tide — if you can survive long enough.
Before Y/N ever joined the Order of the Phoenix, their reputation whispered quietly through the darker corners of the wizarding world: a rogue Animagus with the form of a fox—quick, cunning, and impossible to catch. They had never registered the transformation with the Ministry, and that secrecy had kept them alive more than once. Foxes slipped through cracks, vanished into shadows, and survived where others couldn’t. Y/N had done the same their entire adult life.
A wrong number leads to late-night messages, anonymity, and an unexpected emotional connection. By day, you and Draco are friends at Hogwarts—unaware you’re each other’s secret comfort in the dark. When the truth is revealed, you must face a love built entirely on words, long before names ever mattered.
Years before the second Wizarding War reignited, Y/N and Sirius Black had shared something brief, electric, and unforgettable. It started in their youth—two rebels with sharp tongues and sharper scars, finding solace in each other between battles they weren’t ready to name. It wasn’t love then, not exactly. It was something raw and consuming, carved out of stolen nights and unspoken promises. But the world shifted too quickly. Sirius was arrested, Y/N was left behind, and their connection was cut cleanly—no closure, no answers, only silence.
When Y/N arrives at Hogwarts as a transfer student, the whole castle ripples with curiosity. It isn’t often someone joins midway through the school year, and certainly not someone whose arrival is wrapped in whispered rumors—mysterious late acceptance, uncertain background, unusual magical skill. But Y/N doesn’t care about gossip. They care about surviving the transition.
Y/N had spent years in the shadows—trained, shaped, and weaponized by a villain whose influence stretched further than most heroes realized. Whether it was Hydra, Ultron’s remnants, a rogue sorcerer, or a rising underground syndicate, Y/N had been molded as the perfect operative: silent, precise, loyal by necessity rather than choice. Their past wasn’t a blur—it was a cage. Missions were orders. Morality was irrelevant. Failure was punishable.
Before Y/N ever stepped into the walls of Headquarters, the Order already knew their reputation: a healer who specialized in cursed wounds and dark creature injuries—one of the few in the wizarding world unafraid to treat patients most healers refused. Their methods were unconventional, their knowledge unnerving, and their empathy unshakeable. Y/N had spent years working in the shadows of St. Mungo’s and beyond, tending to people marked by magic others found too frightening to approach.
Y/N always knew something was wrong with them—something buried deep beneath their skin, humming like a sleeping storm. For years they lived a quiet life, thinking the odd flashes of memory, the fragmented nightmares, the bursts of unexplained strength were simply trauma or imagination. But the truth broke open the day Hydra found them again.
Y/N always felt storms before they formed—the metallic tension, the shift in pressure, the electric hum beneath their skin. Their emotions and the weather were linked in ways that no human explanation could justify. Calm brought soft breezes; anxiety stirred winds; fear cracked open the sky. And when terror hit, the atmosphere itself seemed to obey them.
Y/N grew up believing their magic was something to be hidden—powerful, unpredictable, and older than the realms themselves. Their guardians warned them from childhood about one universal rule: never let Loki sense you. As a child, that warning felt dramatic, even superstitious. But as Y/N grew into their abilities, the reason became clearer. Their magic wasn’t like the soft, intuitive chaos of witches or the structured spells of sorcerers. It was something nameless, something ancient—something the Nine Realms had nearly forgotten.
Y/N had always known their magic set them apart. It wasn’t loud or destructive—at least, not normally. Their power moved like shadowed starlight, subtle but ancient, responding to intuition more than spells. It wasn’t the kind of magic one learned from books or mentors. It lived in their blood, coiled and waiting.