Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

Epilogue: The Fire That Remains

The rain fell shortly upon the Scottish HIghlands that night as a gentle, persistend mist veiled the world in silver. The ruins of Hogwarts stood in quiet dignity against the horizon, its towers half rebuilt, its halls alive once more with the laughter of children.

The war had ended a year ago, and though scars remained, life had begun to mend.

But beyond the castle grounds, at the endge of the Forbidden Forest, where the world grew still and shadows whispered of old magic, a man stood alone.

Tom Riddle — or what was left of him.

He was no longer the pale, snake-eyed thing of the past, nor the broken remnant who had once been bound to darkness. His eyes, still sharp and calculating, now held something unexpected — peace. His hands, once drenched in blood and ambition, were steady now, tracing faint symbols in the damp earth.

Before him, the ground pulsed faintly with heat.

He could feel it.

He could feel her.

Her magic. 

The residual fire she left behind a year ago when the portal had closed.

Fyrion slumbered nearby, curled protectively like a great red serpent, his scales glimmering faintly with embers beneath. The dragon had grown restless lately, his crimson eyes often snapping open at unseen movements, his nostrils flaring toward the wind as if sensing something beyond this world.

Tom exhaled, letting the rain run cold down his face. "You feel it too, don't you?" he murmured.

Fyrion's tail twitched.

The air grew heavier, a low vibration that made the ground hum.

And then it came — a flicker, faint and golden, shimmering like sunlight through water.

Tom's pulse quickened. He stepped closer, his heart thudding in a rhythm he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

The shimmer expanded, spiraling into a vertical tear in the air.

A portal.

Heat washed over him like the breath of summer. From within the burning light, a silhouette began to take shape.

First the sound of wings, vast and thunderous. Then the gleam of black scales.

Drogon.

And behind him — her.

Lyanna Targaryen stepped through the fire like a goddess reborn.

Her hair, longer and silver-gold as the dawn, shimmered with faint traces of flame. One eye burning molten red-gold, the other gleaming brighter purple even than when she had left. Her armor, though scarred from battle, gleamed beneath the rain, and as her boots touched the grass of the Scottish earth, the fire surrounding her softened to embers that danced at her feet before fading.

Tom couldn't move. He could only breathe her name. "Lyanna..."

She smiled softly with radiance, the kind that could break even the hardest man's resolve. "You didn't think I'd let you have all the fun here, did you?"

He let out a half-laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "You... how—?"

But before the question could even leave his lips, she was in his arms. The rain hissed against her warmth, steam rising as her magic met his, the two energies intertwining like they were meant to. For a moment, there were no worlds between them. Only fire and the fragile heartbeat of something that had survived everything.