Chapter 150: At Peace

Disclaimer:

Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM

I own nothing but the original characters I make.

"Dialogue"

'Thoughts'

-Author notes-

Chapter 150: At Peace

Three days earlier.

The laboratory was a wreck.

Joffrey stood in the center of the chaos, breathing in ragged gasps, his hands trembling at his sides. 

The table before him was a smoldering ruin, its legs collapsed, its surface blackened and cracked. The wall behind it bore a scorch mark shaped like a hand, his hand, where a burst of uncontrolled magic had nearly torn through the stone. 

Smoke curled from the debris, and the air was thick with the smell of ozone and burnt wood.

He had been trying to perform a blood tracking ritual. Nothing too complex. Nothing dangerous. Just a simple spell to locate his uncle, to find the man who had hired the Faceless Men, to finally put an end to this.

The parchment had burned before he could even finish the chant.

"Damn it," he muttered. "Damn it all."

He had returned from Braavos two days ago. The House of Black and White was gone, burned to ash, its priests dead, its secrets scattered to the wind. He had thought that destroying them would bring him peace. He had thought that killing the ones who had taken Saera from him would somehow fill the void inside him.

It had not.

The void was still there, gaping and raw, and no amount of blood or fire could fill it. If anything, the destruction had only made it worse. The rage that had driven him to Braavos had faded, leaving behind a cold, hollow emptiness that nothing could touch.

He had told Tyrion what had happened. He had told Daenerys. He had seen the look in their eyes…the fear, the pity, and the uncertainty. They did not know what to make of him anymore. He did not know what to make of himself.

He had locked himself in his laboratory and told them not to disturb him. He needed to be alone. He needed to think. He needed to find a way to control the power that surged through his veins like a wild beast.

But the power would not be controlled.

He tried the ritual again. This time, he was more careful. He drew the circle slowly, precisely, using his own blood as the ink. The crimson lines gleamed on the parchment, pulsing faintly with an inner light. He spoke the words with deliberate care, focusing his will, forcing his magic to obey.

'Find him,' he thought. 'Find Jaime Lannister. Find the man who killed her. Find him so I can destroy him!

The table exploded in his face.

A burst of energy erupted from his hands, shattering the wood into splinters, sending debris flying across the room. Joffrey was thrown backward, his body slamming into the wall, his breath driven from his lungs. 

He lay there for a moment, stunned, staring at the destruction he had caused. The table was gone. The wall was cracked. 

And now the room was on fire.

Small flames licked at the shattered remains of the table, spreading to the scattered papers and books that littered the floor. 

His magic was still raging inside him, wild and uncontrollable. He could feel it surging through his veins, desperate for release, desperate for destruction.

He tried to summon water to put out the flames. "Aguamenti."

A torrent of water erupted from his palm, far more than he had intended, far more than he had ever produced before. It shot across the room like a river, slamming into the far wall with enough force to crack the stone. The backwash caught Joffrey, knocking him off his feet, sending him sprawling to the floor.

He lay there, soaked and defeated, staring at the ceiling.

'This is impossible,' he thought. 'I am a wizard. I have been a wizard for over five hundred years. I should be able to control this.'

But he could not.

He had thought the problem was the amount of power. The ritual had increased his magical output several times over, that was undeniable. 

But power alone should not have been an issue. He was a veteran wizard. He had learned to calibrate his magic for centuries. Adjusting to a higher output should have been simple.

Just some patience, practice, and focus should have solved the issue by now.

But his progress made no sense.

Some days, he could cast spells with almost perfect precision. Other days, the simplest charms exploded in his face. 

He could destroy things with ease, because destruction was always simple…it required only raw power. But anything that required finesse, like transfiguration, teleportation, or rituals... had become impossible for him to use.

And the angrier and more frustrated he became, the worse it got.

He had known that emotions could affect magic. Every wizard knew that. But this was different. This was not a matter of focus or clarity. This was something deeper. Something fundamental that was interfering with his magic.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. In... and out. In... and out.

The water dripped from the walls. The room smelled of smoke and burnt wood.

And then, in the silence of his ruined laboratory, he understood something.

'It is not the amount of power. The problem lies in the source of this power.'

The dragon blood had enhanced his body. That was the expected outcome. But this was not the cause of his increased magical power.

That part had come from somewhere else.

The orb.

The orb of pure energy that the Primordial Fire Being had given him in Stygai. The orb he had used in the ritual. The orb whose power now lived inside him, fused to his body and soul.

He thought he had been very careful with it. He had only used a tiny portion of the energy contained within that orb. A fragment. A sliver. Nothing more.

But even that small amount had now become the root of all his issues.

'That has to be the problem,' he realized. 'The power of the orb. It is not my power. It is not magic as I understand it. It is something older and primordial.'

The Primordial Fire Being was a creature of life and creation. Its power was not meant for destruction. It was not meant to be controlled by a human. It was meant for growth, for healing, for bringing order out of chaos.

And it was interfering with his ability to control his own magic.

He could not remove it. It was too late for that. The power was part of him now, as much a part of him as his heart, his lungs, or even his soul. He could not cut it out without killing himself.

The only thing he could do was learn to control it.

He thought back to the day he had performed the ritual. The first outburst of energy had nearly killed him, had sent him flying across the plains. He had woken in the middle of nowhere, his mind a blank slate, his body aching with a strength he did not understand.

He thought back to every day since then. Every moment of rage, every moment of grief, every moment of despair. And he realized that those were the moments when his magic was at its worst.

But there were other moments. Moments when he was calm. Moments when he was focused. Moments when he was at peace.

'Emotions,' he thought. 'It is about emotions and purpose. The power of the orb responds to my emotions and to my intent.'

He closed his eyes again. He thought of his first lessons as Harry Potter, back at Hogwarts. He thought of the day he was trying to learn the levitation charm, frustrated and impatient, unable to make the feather so much as twitch.

Hermione had told him that magic required complete focus and a clear mental image. Emotions would only get in the way.

He had to cast every negative emotion away. He had to focus only on the task at hand. He had to be calm.

'The Primordial Being,' he thought. 'Its nature is life and order. It brings creation out of chaos. It is a divine phoenix, traveling across the cosmos since its inception, bringing life to every corner of it.'

Its power cannot be used for pure destruction, because it conflicts with its nature.

This power is at its best when the intent is not to harm but to... restore.

'I need to calm my mind first... find something peaceful in there.'

Joffrey began to search.

He thought of the garden at Hogwarts. The place where he had spent so many hours with his friends, lying on the grass, resting under the shade of a great oak tree. It was a place of peace. A place of calm. A place where he had felt safe.

He remembered the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the grass with patches of gold. He remembered the smell of the flowers, lavender and roses. He remembered the sound of laughter, of Hermione's voice reading aloud from a book, of Ron's complaints about the homework they had been assigned.

He remembered what it felt like to be happy. To be at peace. To be home.

Once his mind was at ease, he opened his eyes, pointed his finger at the ruined table, and said the magical word. "Reparo."

This was a spell that required absolute precision, a calm mind, and a clear mental image. If any of those things were off, the spell would fail for sure.

But this time, Joffrey felt different.

He left his anger behind. He left his grief behind. He focused only on the task at hand, on his magic, on fixing the damage he had caused.

The pieces of the table flew into the air. They reassembled themselves, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. The cracks sealed. The burns faded. Within seconds, the table was as good as new.

Joffrey stared at it, his heart pounding.

He had done it. He had used a spell that required extreme fine-tuning. He had put his magic under control.

And now he understood how to do it.

He did not need practice. He just needed to understand the nature of his new power.

The nature of the orb was life and order, and that is how its power must be put to use.

Suddenly, he felt something shift within him as he gained a new understanding.

A golden aura erupted around him. Primordial energy burst from his body, and everything began to change.

He closed his eyes again and focused on what his magic wanted to do.

An image of a serene place appeared in his mind. He went back to the gardens of Hogwarts, where he would go sometimes with his friends. He felt at peace there, lying on the grass, among the flowers, plants, and trees. They would often rest under a large oak tree.

Joffrey thought about that place, and suddenly, smells invaded his nose. The smell of grass, of flowers and leaves. The smell of Hogwarts gardens.

And he felt at peace.

When he opened his eyes again, he found that the laboratory was gone.

In its place was a garden... a vast, impossible garden, filled with flowers and trees and grass so green it hurt his eyes. A blue sky arched overhead, cloudless and bright, and the air was warm, filled with the scent of jasmine and roses.

He was sitting beneath the shade of a great oak tree, its branches spreading wide, its leaves a brilliant gold.

He calmly looked around and understood that this was something of his own creation.

The garden stretched as far as he could see, disappearing into the distance in a haze of gold and green. It was beautiful. It was peaceful. It was everything he had needed right now.

He leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes.

For the first time in a very long time, Joffrey felt calm. His mind drifted away.

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