The Girl Who Saw Tomorrow III » Harry Potter

3.15 | Albion's Immortals

The arched double doors opened with a groan the second the clock struck seven-thirty.

Even with one eye patched shut, Margaret noticed several things at once: the hair on the back of her neck stood up, the two house-elves on either side of the room bowed so low their noses pressed to the ground, and a very low hum of magical static suddenly filled the air.

Slowly, Margaret looked around, and her breath caught in her throat.

Standing in the doorway was a woman of ethereal beauty, her presence commanding attention even in the dim light of the flickering lanterns. Clad in a flowing crimson gown adorned with intricate gold embroidery, the woman exuded an air of regal authority as she moved with grace and purpose.

Her skin was pale and translucent, with a faint, almost iridescent glow of magic around her. Her long, raven hair cascaded down her back in loose waves, framing a face that was both delicate and strikingly angular. High cheekbones, full lips, and a sharp chin formed a perfect, almost inhuman symmetry.

And yet, Margaret could notice the similarity between them instantaneously.

Like all Xenakis family members, her eyes were pools of such darkness, no warm light could make the pupils visible. But what set her apart was the gaze that held the weight of centuries. It was as if she could see beyond the surface, into the very core of Margaret's very being.

"Margaret Xenakis. We meet at last."

A chill ran down Margaret's spine and she straightened to attention. She had heard that voice before... low and smooth as dark chocolate.

"She showed up covered in blood. Her heart wasn't beating."

When she was unconscious...

Come... said a woman who wasn't there. Come away...

Come away, my pearl...

Follow the ravens... Come away.

Last year, when she was on her way to meet Merlin. The voice that told her to follow the ravens. That had almost led her to Albion. Away from Merlin.

It had been none other than Morgana.

"Hello, Your Majesty," she says quietly.

Morgana smiled gently. She glanced at the 12-seater table piled with food and her brows furrowed.

"Our seats are much too far away, are they not?" she observes the only two chairs, one each at the two heads of the table.

Morgana sighed and instantly the two house-elves clapped in unison.

All of a sudden, the bowls and plates of food took flight; the table shrunk and two other tables appeared out of thin air on either side where the extra food promptly settled itself. Margaret swiftly stepped out of the way as the chairs skidded across the floor until they were at their designated place at the much smaller dining table.

"Much better," says Morgana.

Immortals were curious people, Margaret thought. Did witnessing centuries make them care less about rules or make their belief in traditions stronger? What was the norm for greeting royalty again?

Such questions swarmed around Margaret's head even though she knew most of it was irrelevant. This whole place, the enigma that Albion really was, had her mind racing with unanswered questions the more she saw of it.

What intrigued her the most, however, was the symbolisation of ravens at every corner.

There were statues of ravens everywhere in the palace – perched high on pillars, observing each passerby with their beady eyes, or on top of arched doorways with their wings spread in flight, beaks open and ready to croak indignantly.