HP: Dragon's Coffin

Long ago, under the shadow of Mount Olympus, a mortal child was born of divine tragedy. His mother, Coronis, a princess of Thessaly, had been unfaithful to Apollo, the god of prophecy and healing. When Apollo uncovered her betrayal, his wrath consumed her lover Ischys. Coronis herself met her end at the hands of Artemis, her lifeless body laid upon a pyre. Yet, even in death, she bore a gift for the world—a son. With a blade of divine precision, Apollo cut the infant from Coronis' womb and cradled the child in his arms.

The child was named Asclepius.

Raised for a time by Apollo, Asclepius was imbued with knowledge of medicine and the mysteries of the mortal body. But Apollo, ever pragmatic, entrusted his son's formal education to the centaur Chiron, a being of great wisdom and mastery of the healing arts. Under Chiron's tutelage, Asclepius grew into a healer of extraordinary skill, his abilities surpassing even those of his mentors.

One day, while Asclepius rested in a shaded grove, a serpent slithered near him. The creature licked his ears clean, a sacred act that revealed to him secrets of life and death. From then on, Asclepius carried a serpent-entwined staff, a symbol of wisdom and renewal.

It was this staff that played a pivotal role in his greatest revelation. Tasked with restoring life to a child named Glaucus, Asclepius was confined to a secret chamber to contemplate the impossible. Lost in thought, he struck and killed a serpent that had come too close. Yet, as he watched, another serpent approached, carrying an herb in its mouth. It placed the herb on the head of the dead snake, and to Asclepius's astonishment, the creature stirred and came to life. Inspired, he used the same herb to revive Glaucus, and the child opened his eyes, breathing once more.

Word of his miraculous abilities spread far and wide. Kings and paupers alike sought his aid, and soon Asclepius became known as a savior of humanity. Yet, his powers invited peril. Death, once inevitable, became a choice, and the balance of life and death faltered. Hades, god of the underworld, grew furious as his realm emptied. He pleaded with Zeus to intervene.

But Asclepius was not merely a mortal—he was a healer driven by love for humanity. When Artemis requested he resurrect Hippolytus, a favored mortal, Asclepius obliged. For this act, or perhaps for the gold offered in gratitude, Zeus saw fit to end his mortal journey. A bolt of lightning struck him down.

Apollo, stricken with grief, demanded justice. Though Zeus could not undo his decree, he granted Asclepius immortality, setting him among the stars as the constellation Ophiuchus, the Serpent-Bearer. From his celestial perch, Asclepius continued to guide healers, his legacy immortalized in the art of medicine and the balance of life and death.

And so, beneath the ever-turning sky, where the constellation Ophiuchus shines, humanity remembers the oath of Asclepius—the healer who walked the delicate line between mortality and divinity, life and death, leaving an enduring mark upon the world.

Yet, whispers endure, passed between healers, philosophers, and seekers of the arcane. Some say Asclepius's story did not end with his ascension. They claim that among the mortal realm, he still walks, veiled in anonymity, his divine essence concealed. It is said that he gathers knowledge, recording the deepest secrets of life and death, storing them in a grand library hidden from the prying eyes of gods and men.

This library, they say, is guarded by a creature of legend: the very serpent that once imparted wisdom to Asclepius. No longer a simple snake, it has transformed into a majestic dragon, its scales shimmering like the night sky, its eyes filled with the mysteries of eternity. The dragon serves not only as a guardian but as a silent companion, embodying the sacred bond between healer and wisdom, life and resurrection.

Others, more cautious in their reverence, tell a darker tale. They call Asclepius the first Necromancer, the one who dared to wield the power of resurrection not as a divine favor but as a craft. These tales speak of a secret guild founded by Asclepius himself, hidden from the eyes of Olympus. Its members, descendants of the healer's teachings, traverse the shadowed corridors of mortality, healing the living and, some say, defying death itself.

This guild, known as the Order of the Dragon's Coffin, is whispered to possess the herbs, chants, and rituals Asclepius discovered in his mortal days. To the outside world, they are simple healers, tending to the sick and wounded. But among themselves, they pass on forbidden knowledge, techniques to reverse the inevitable and harness the balance between life and death.

Legends conflict—some say the Order seeks only to uphold Asclepius's ideals, to heal the world in his name. Others claim they have strayed, dabbling in powers that even Zeus feared, driven by hubris to challenge the boundaries of the mortal and the divine.

Whether he walks among us still, guiding his descendants, or rests in the constellation that bears his name, Asclepius remains a figure of eternal fascination. For those who seek to heal and those who dare to challenge death, his legacy endures—a beacon of hope, a warning of hubris, and a reminder of the thin veil that separates life and death.

{🐉}

In a room cloaked in shadows, the faint flicker of candlelight cast a warm glow against the austere stone walls. The towering arches of the ceiling loomed high above, where faint motes of dust danced in the filtered light of a stained-glass window. Heavy black drapes fell like a velvet waterfall across one corner, muffling the chill of the morning and holding the secrets of the night. The bed, carved from dark mahogany with intricate gothic detailing, seemed almost alive, a throne for a prince of darkness.

On the bed, nestled beneath an expanse of coal-black sheets, a small figure stirred. A boy of no more than eight, his platinum-blonde hair catching the faint light like a crown of silver, opened his eyes. They were black as midnight, pools of endless depth that sparkled with quiet curiosity as he sat up. His cherubic face, so delicate and pale it could have been sculpted from porcelain, scrunched slightly in drowsy confusion before breaking into a small, toothy yawn.

He swung his tiny legs over the side of the bed, the soft patter of his bare feet landing on the cold wooden floor. Shivering slightly, the boy pulled a heavy knitted blanket from the bed around his shoulders, its threads unraveling like shadows clinging to his small frame. For a moment, he stood there, taking in the room as if seeing it anew—the glint of the chandelier's chains, the portraits that lined the walls with their somber, watchful gazes, and the faint smell of wax and leather that lingered in the air.

He padded softly toward the window, his small hand brushing the heavy drapery aside just enough to peer out at the grey sky beyond. The morning had arrived, but it was no brighter than the deepest hours of the night in this forgotten corner of the world.

A gentle knock at the door captured his attention. Walking over, he opened the door to find his mother standing there.

Hyacinth King was an elegant beauty in her mid-twenties. Her long platinum blonde hair, which reached down her back, was styled in soft, intricate waves and curls, creating a regal updo. Her features were delicate and refined, highlighted by her striking, intense black eyes, which contrasted beautifully against her pale complexion—dressed in a high-collared, black lace gown with intricate detailing, showcasing her sophisticated and poised demeanor. The gown featured embroidery along the neckline and sleeves, exuding an air of mystery and elegance. Onyx drop earrings completed the ensemble.

"Good, you're awake. Come down for breakfast. I have things to explain." Hyacinth said, before turning and leaving. Her heels clicked on the cold, hard marble floors with each step.

Ladon, perplexed, closed the door behind him to get dressed. He stood in front of the mirror to don his three-piece suit, which included a black vest and trousers, a dark grey blazer, a white shirt and black tie, a flat cap, and polished shoes. As he dressed, he reflected on the events of the previous night. His anger and disappointment were reflected in his newly black eyes.

Flashback to yesterday's event:

"Lucius, please, he's your son."

Ladon watched his mother, usually so poised and dignified, pleading with a tall, pale, blonde man. Hidden behind the stairs of the inn where they were staying, Ladon could see the man's expression—a mask of annoyance etched onto his cold face—as he pushed his mother away. She fell to the wooden floor with a startled gasp.

"Mother!" Ladon cried out in alarm. Anger flared in him at the stranger's treatment of his beloved mother, and he rushed down the stairs to see if she was hurt.

Ignoring the boy's glare, Lucius Malfoy stared down at the pleading woman with an icy, detached expression. When he spoke, his words carried the cruel finality of a judge's gavel, striking a blow that would ignite a cold fire in Ladon's heart for years to come.

"That mudblood is not my son. Our encounter was a single night—born of spirits and my spite for the parents who married me off to a woman I barely knew. We may have been childhood friends, Hyacinth, thanks to our families, but do not think for a moment that I would jeopardize my family's prestige by acknowledging a squib's child. I am a Malfoy. Our blood is one of the purest in the wizarding world."

Each word struck Hyacinth like a hammer until her heart lay in ruins. Her eyes, once warm with love, turned as cold and distant as Lucius's.

Ladon, too young to fully understand the stranger's words, grasped enough to piece together the truth: the man who had hurt his mother was his father—and he was rejecting him.

His storm-gray eyes, the same hue as the Malfoys', darkened to an unnatural pitch-black. For a fleeting moment, his round pupils narrowed to reptilian slits before returning to their usual shape.

Lucius crouched to meet Hyacinth's gaze, his voice soft but venomous. "I was fortunate. Narcissa became pregnant on our wedding night. Draco, my son—my only son—is now eight years old. He carries the Malfoy name, pureblood legacy, and the talent befitting our lineage. I have no other son."

With that final nail in the coffin, he stood, and without a second glance, he walked out of the inn. The spell that allowed them privacy from the muggles dissipated with his departure.

The next hour was a blur for Ladon. The moment she passed the nosy and worried muggles who saw her sitting on the floor, his mother dragged him up the stairs to pack their bags. That same detached expression on her face only changed when speaking with him. But even as a child, he could see hurt in her eyes.

"My dear Ladon, don't think too much of that man. You are my son, and I love you with all my heart. I will always be on your side," her words were soft as she stared into his eyes, her cold hands holding his cheeks.

Taking his hand in hers, they headed down the stairs to the front desk.

"Hyacinth King. Check out," his mother started, her curt voice making the clerk frown slightly.

"One moment, please while I find your name." The clerk scrolled through a pile of papers till he got her name. "Please sign in the checkout box next to your name. And I hope you had a pleasant stay at the Accolon Inn."

Hyacinth signed and headed out the front door into the cold night air with her son. They stopped at a phone booth where his mother dialed someone called Ophiuchus...that was the last thing he remembered.

Flashback ending.

Scrunching his eyebrows in concentration, he tried to remember if there was anything else he could remember about last night. Yes, wait. He remembered a blinding white light and a man with slitted silver eyes.

Ladon closed his bedroom door behind him and headed out to find his mother. 

The boy hesitated at the top of the grand staircase, his tiny polished shoes making the faintest scuffle against the plush carpeted steps. The vast, shadowy room below stretched out like a cavern, its soaring ceilings lost in the dim glow of chandelier light. Massive windows, draped in heavy velvet, allowed faint streaks of grayish light to filter through, giving the space an ethereal, otherworldly hue.

He clutched the lapels of his freshly pressed jacket, the unfamiliar weight of the fabric making him feel smaller than he was. This room—this place—felt like a labyrinth. Dark wood-paneled walls, adorned with towering shelves of books and gilded portraits of unfamiliar faces, seemed to lean inward, watching him. The flickering of candles sent shadows dancing across the walls, and the vast Persian rug beneath his feet stretched so far he couldn't imagine the end of it.

There, by the far end of the room, he spotted her. His mother, poised and calm as always, sat on an overstuffed velvet couch, her silhouette bathed in the soft golden light of the candelabras around her. Steam curled from the delicate teacup in her hands, her movements languid, her focus far away. She looked serene, untouched by the vastness and gloom that unsettled him so deeply.

Taking a deep breath, the boy started down the staircase, one hand trailing along the polished banister. Each step creaked faintly, as though the house itself whispered secrets he was too young to understand. By the time he reached the bottom, the silence of the mansion pressed heavily against his ears.

"Mother?" His voice was small, almost swallowed by the room's immensity. She turned her head, her soft smile like a beacon in the gloom.

"There you are, darling," she said, setting down her cup and patting the seat beside her. "Come here."

He hurried across the vast expanse, feeling as though the watchful portraits and creaking floorboards followed his every move. Reaching her side, he clung to her arm, his small fingers gripping tightly. She ran her fingers gently through his hair, reassuring and warm in a way the cavernous room never could be. For a moment, the enormity of the mansion melted away, replaced by the simple safety of her presence.

"Now, I am sure you have questions, but they will have to wait. There is someone I wish for you to meet." 

As if being summoned by her words, the air seemed to shift, growing cold as a strange, smoky mist began to curl through the doorway. It was a shadow at first, dark and formless, swirling with an almost serpentine grace. Then, with a sudden whoosh, the black smoke condensed, folding in on itself, until a tall, imposing figure materialized.

The man stood utterly still, his silhouette backlit by the faint golden glow of the hallway beyond. His hair was like moonlight, cascading down his shoulders in sleek, silver strands, framing a face chiseled with the perfection of a sculpture. His long black coat bore intricate patterns, silver vines curling along the edges like living frost. But it was his eyes that stole the breath from the room—gleaming silver, slit like a predator's, they glimmered with an otherworldly light, as though the soul of a dragon peered out from his human shell.

The boy tightened his grip on his mother's hand. The man's lips curved into the faintest, unreadable smile as he took a single step forward. Each stride echoed in the stillness, deliberate, graceful, predatory.

He inclined his head slightly, his voice low and smooth, yet reverberating with a power that sent shivers down the boy's spine. "Good evening," he said, his words both a greeting and a command. "I believe we have much to discuss."

The boy didn't dare to blink, staring up at the dragon-eyed stranger as the room seemed to hold its breath.

Saying Ladon was surprised would be an understatement. His mind whirled with questions. How did he do that? What was that smoke? That felt like... "magic," he mumbled, earning small smiles from the two adults.

"Yes, Ladon, that was indeed magic. I shall explain in due time, but first, allow me to introduce myself. I am Asclepius, your progenitor. Welcome to the Ophiuchus estate of the Order of the Dragon's Coffin."