It had been two years since Christopher became an orphan. His parents had died trying to kill Voldemort, a final, desperate effort to ensure Christopher's life would be easier. Sadly, they had failed to end him, but they had weakened his forces substantially, leaving a black eye on the dark army that would not soon fade.
The aftermath had been chaotic. Witches and wizards swarmed Glastonbury to investigate the site of the massive magical explosion. The Death Eaters were long gone; Voldemort had told them the child was either dead or already relocated. He was no longer concerned with the Ambrosius line, his obsession having shifted to another child the one mentioned in a newly discovered prophecy.
Albus Dumbledore and many Ministry officials investigated the site, but none could explain the magic that had created a crater as smooth as a glass dome. After some investigation, they learned a magical family of three had lived there. Margaret from St. Mungo's verified the information, weeping as she shared what she knew, believing the entire family to be dead. Dumbledore paused when he heard the name. He had long known of Merlin's bloodline, he and Grindelwald had explored countless legends in their youthful search for the Deathly Hallows. Seeing the ruin, Dumbledore felt a quiet sense of relief. He believed no one from the Ambrosius bloodline remained to challenge his authority. To him, they were essentially royalty a complication he no longer had to manage.
Christopher, now celebrating his fifth birthday, had no idea the world thought he was a ghost. He was simply an energetic, curious child. Merlin's Refuge held many wonders, and he had spent his young life exploring its vast lands. He had just finished his birthday cake and blown out his candles when Dilly told him to go play outside while she prepared his presents.
He spent the afternoon climbing one of the highest trees, searching for new bugs or magical creatures. The Refuge held a menagerie of beings that even Newt Scamander had never encountered. Christopher was three-quarters of the way up the ancient oak when the branch beneath him snapped.
He plummeted. He expected to be crushed, but the magic of the land rose to meet its heir. The branches on the way down became as soft as feathers, and the ground felt like a mattress when he landed. But then, the real impact hit. It wasn't physical, it was a psychological tidal wave and the sound of glass shattering. A headache so massive his nose began to bleed, and the world went black.
When Christopher's eyes finally snapped open, he didn't scream. He stared at the stone ceiling, his chest heaving. This is not a hospital room, was his first coherent thought. Then, he remembered.
The "middle aged rage" from the parking lot was still there, but it was now filtered through the terrified grief of a five year old orphan. He was a thirty five year old man in a body that hadn't yet lost its baby fat. He sat up, his nose crusty with dried blood, and the "plot" flooded his mind the books, the movies, the games, the fan theories. He knew Harry Potter was likely a baby living in a cupboard in Surrey. He knew Dumbledore was back at Hogwarts, playing God with people's lives. And he knew that Voldemort was a parasitic ghost, waiting for a chance to crawl back into a body.
"Master Christopher is awake!" Dilly squeaked, rushing to his side with a damp cloth. "Dilly was so worried! The magic... it was so strong! Master fell, but the ground caught him!"
Christopher looked at the house elf. He didn't see a servant, he saw the only family he had left.
"I'm fine, Dilly. Just... a bit of a headache." His voice was high, but the cadence was steady and chillingly mature. "You said you had presents for me?"
Dilly's ears perked up. She led him to the small, circular dining hall where two items sat on the table. The first was a leather-bound photo album. Christopher flipped through it, seeing Henry and Anna laughing at Ilvermorny and holding him as a baby in Glastonbury. The grief hit him like a physical blow, but he shoved it down into a cold, dark place. He would mourn later. Right now, he needed to survive.
The second item was the Ambrosius Journal.
As his hand touched the ancient leather, a magical light flared in his eyes. The book didn't just open, it recognized him. The pages hummed with the history of the Ambrosius bloodline. Reading his father's final entries, the truth became clear, he was the descendant of Merlin, a prince of a forgotten age, and the world had no idea he existed. His father wrote about why the family hid, why they remained in the shadows. Merlin wished for his descendants to be safe, and live comfortable lives, not battle for power and survival.
Over the next few days, Christopher explored the Refuge with new eyes. It wasn't just a castle it was a magical fortress built on a nexus of power. He spent hours in the Library, which was filled with "Magic" theories that would make a Ministry official faint. He descended into the Menagerie, seeing creatures kept in climate-controlled habitats deep beneath the stone. He studied the Wards, the ancient, blood-keyed defenses that made the castle invisible to the world.
Eventually, Christopher stood on the battlements, looking out over the churning North Sea. He wasn't strong, and he was untrained. He was the Heir of Merlin, but in a duel, any Death Eater could still kill him. He needed a mentor who wasn't a "Chess Player" like Dumbledore. He needed a man who understood that power was meant to be wielded, not hidden.
"Dilly," Christopher called out one evening, his finger hovering over a map of Europe.
"Yes, Master?"
"Dumbledore thinks the war is over. He thinks the world is safe. He's wrong," Christopher said, pointing to the Austrian Alps. "The fool will return, and when he does, I won't be a victim. I need you to go to Austria. Find a fortress called Nurmengard."
Dilly's eyes went wide with terror. "Master... that is where the Great Dark Wizard is kept! Dilly cannot... the wards are too strong!"
"I don't need you to break in, Dilly. Not yet," Christopher said, his silver eyes cold and calculating. "I need you to scout the area. Find the weak points in the Muggle and wizarding patrols. I need to know exactly how a five-year-old boy can walk into that cell without Albus Dumbledore ever knowing."
He looked back at the Journal, his finger tracing the name Ambrosius.
"I'm going to meet Gellert Grindelwald. And I'm going to give him a reason to live again."