N/A Well, well, well. Happy Halloween, my dear wizards, witches, Muggles, and Squibs! And what story could I share with you today, about one of the most American festivities of all? Well… not quite as American as you might think! Halloween, dear viewers, began in Ireland, as the festival of Samhain! Ancient Celtic wizards knew that at this time of year, the veil between the living and the dead grew thin: even the oldest spirits could return for one night. Oh, and by the way, I would even dare to wish happy Deathday, Sir Nicholas! From the Emerald Isle, Irish witches and wizards carried their traditions to the United States, where, in the 19th century, carved turnips became pumpkins! But Halloween was not the only thing to cross the seas…What if I told you that Salazar Slytherin’s wand, one of the most powerful ever crafted, met the very same fate? Indeed! And this tale, though it begins in Ireland, may be the most American story ever told here on The Spellbook Chronicles! The story of Isolt Sayre, and the founding of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But before we begin, Thunderbird, Wampus, Horned Serpent, or Pukwudgie? Which Ilvermorny house do you claim, or wish you did? Tell me in the comments, and Happy Halloween! N/A The 16th century: the dawn of a new era. Yet, the shadow of the past still loomed over the European continent. The Middle Ages had faded, leaving behind a world torn between faith and reason, between emerging science and ancient superstition. And in the midst of this turmoil, the Muggles had attempted the impossible: to smother magic with the fire and iron of the Inquisition. But magic would not yield. It could not be burned, nor banished. Their failure only deepened the rift between the two worlds, fuelling the resentment and distrust that wizards harboured towards those devoid of magical power. It was in this turbulent era that two sisters were born and raised in Ireland, bound by a formidable bloodline. Gormlaith and Rionach belonged to the Irish branch of the noble House of Gaunt, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a family once among the most powerful in the wizarding world, and now standing at the dawn of its decline. They were direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself, one of the four founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, whose wand was held as their most sacred heirloom, believed to be second in power only to the Elder Wand. Just as other branches of the family had inherited Slytherin’s treasured locket, the Irish line had preserved his remarkable wand, an artefact the great wizard had fashioned with his own hands, made of snakewood and containing a fragment of a magical serpent’s horn: a Basilisk’s, in this case. Its most extraordinary feature, however, lay in an ability that, according to legend, Slytherin himself had bestowed upon it the power to slumber and awaken only at its master’s command. To rouse it, one had to speak in Parseltongue: that rare gift which allowed a wizard to commune with serpents, passed down through the veins of Slytherin’s bloodline. And so, this object was said to belong by right to the one deemed worthy to carry the Gaunt legacy, the one who would uphold the old traditions: hatred and rejection of Muggles above all, the one who would not fail their ancestors. Thus, the prodigious wand came into the hands of young Gormlaith, a witch of remarkable talent, keen of wit and ruthless of spirit. Now on the brink of her education at Hogwarts, she was seen by her parents as the rightful heir to their dynasty, the one who might, perhaps, restore the House of Gaunt to its former glory. As expected, both Gormlaith and Rionach were sorted into Slytherin at Hogwarts. Yet, despite their strong sisterly bond, this was not enough to bring them closer. On the contrary, as the years went by, they grew ever more distant from one another. Gormlaith embodied the purest form of Slytherin ideology, unwavering in her convictions. Rionach, too, possessed the defining traits of their house, yet her view of the world was far more progressive. She believed that, though Muggles lacked magic, they nonetheless possessed qualities of equal worth, a perspective not unlike that of another renowned Slytherin who, in his own way, had once been guided by a mentor whose teachings would later become the very foundation of the Gaunt ideology: Merlin. N/A Gormlaith became precisely what she had been raised to be, the matriarch of the House of Gaunt. Rionach, however, chose a different path. She distanced herself from her kin, who favoured marriages between blood relatives in order to preserve the purity of their lineage, and instead wed William Sayre, an Irish pure-blood wizard. William was said to descend from the great Celtic witch Morrigan, a formidable figure renowned for her power and for being an Animagus capable of taking the form of a crow. The two made their home at Ilvermorny Cottage, William’s ancestral dwelling in Coomloughra, nestled among Ireland’s glacial lakes and towering mountains, a place of rare serenity, far removed from the shadows of the Gaunt name. And there, in the year 1603, their love found its truest expression: a daughter was born, the young Isolt. The child grew up surrounded by love, learning from her parents a profound appreciation for nature and the most ancient, essential forms of magic, those entwined with the elements and the primordial forces of the world. Her natural talent and curiosity for the magical arts did not go unnoticed, and her father, amused by the resemblance he saw between his daughter and her legendary ancestor, began affectionately calling her Morrigan. During those years, Rionach and William devoted themselves to aiding the nearby Muggle families. Often, these villagers fell prey to illnesses then considered incurable. The witch spared no effort, crafting remedies both magical and practical for humans and livestock alike. One might say the Sayres lived a happy life. Yet fate has a way of taking unexpected turns… sometimes, far too cruel. It was a day like any other when an unexpected visitor arrived, carried on the biting winter wind to Ilvermorny Cottage. Gormlaith Gaunt had heard whispers, her little sister, Rionach, was now the mother of a pure-blooded witch, a child whose power could hardly be underestimated, given her Gaunt lineage. Gormlaith addressed her sister with a measured firmness, reminding her that, as matriarch, it was both her duty and her right to ensure that Slytherin’s descendants remained within the family, raised according to their customs and traditions. When the time came for Isolt to attend Hogwarts, she would be placed under her custody. Rionach, however, returned her sister’s stare with a calm, unyielding smile. Let her attempt it, if she dared, come the hour, she would not surrender her little girl. It was then, beyond the firmness of those words, that something truly sinister caught Lady Gaunt’s eye, cutting through her composure like a dagger. Isolt was playing with a child… a Muggle child. The realisation struck her like a curse, cold and inexorable. As she pieced together the truth, the bond Rionach and her husband had forged with the Muggles of the nearby villages, the way they were raising Isolt to embrace complete tolerance towards that wretched race, Gormlaith knew, with chilling certainty, a drastic decision was required. The most drastic. Of all. At first, there was only a distant crackling, like dry leaves crushed underfoot in the darkness. Then came the acrid scent, carried on the wind. The night was ablaze with fire and blood, the beginning of a new, merciless chapter. Gormlaith’s hatred had ignited into violent flames, consuming Ilvermorny Cottage until nothing remained but ash. The disgrace her sister had brought upon their bloodline could not be allowed to spread any further. This betrayal had cost Rionach and her husband their lives. Never would Gormlaith allow her niece to know affection, let alone love, for a wretched Muggle creature. Isolt would belong to her, and to her alone. N/A And so, the unfortunate little girl clung to the belief that her aunt had saved her from the fire that claimed her parents, a truth far removed from reality. Lady Gaunt took her to the shadowed valley of Coomcallee, known among the locals as the ‘Hag’s Glen’, where isolation and obedience were imposed through the unyielding grip of potent Dark Magic. Beneath her aunt’s relentless will, the young girl grew in silence, a prisoner of both body and mind. From the earliest days, Isolt learned the bitter truth: defiance invited suffering, and Lady Gaunt spared no lesson in ensuring the girl never forgot it. She was forced to witness curses and jinxes hurled upon any wandering creature, or filthy Muggle, that dared approach the cottage. Fear rippled through the nearby village, and the locals learned swiftly to keep their distance. The only contact Isolt had with the outside world came from cruel village boys, who pelted her with stones whenever she dared venture into the garden. Under her aunt’s relentless tutelage, Isolt was schooled in the Dark Arts. By the age of ten, she had already mastered the use of the three Unforgivable Curses, still, at that time, legal under wizarding law. Every lesson was a test of will and skill; every failure met with punishment, every success a reminder of the power and fear that would shape her future. When the girl turned eleven, a letter arrived, an invitation to Hogwarts, the school her parents had dreamed she would one day attend. But her aunt would hear none of it. She tore the letter apart, forbidding Isolt from setting foot in what she called a “dangerously egalitarian establishment, crawling with Mudbloods.” No niece of hers would be exposed to such corruption. Instead, Isolt would learn magic the way a true heir of Slytherin should. Often, Gormlaith spoke of the school, but only to disparage it, lamenting the shameful abandonment of their ancestor’s grand vision for the purity of wizardkind. Yet, despite her aunt’s disdain, these tales had the opposite effect on Isolt. To a girl who had known nothing but isolation and cruelty, Hogwarts became a distant dream, a sanctuary of learning and camaraderie, far removed from the cold, suffocating existence she endured. She clung to the idea of the castle like a lifeline. Her teenage years were spent imagining its majestic towers, its enchanted halls… and the freedom she would never know. Yet even as she dreamed of those distant spires and glittering corridors, a faint unease tugged at her, small inconsistencies in her aunt’s stories, the coldness behind every lesson, the shadows that lingered in the corners of the cottage. Little by little, small details began to surface. The harrowing truth, once suffocated, now screamed in Isolt’s mind, growing louder with each passing day. The truth, once veiled by childhood naivety, became impossible to ignore: her aunt was not a saviour, but a captor. The woman who claimed the title of guardian was, in truth, the murderer of her parents. At last, after twelve long winters of darkness, seventeen-year-old Isolt felt it, a call. The call of freedom, louder and more insistent than ever before. Perhaps, at long last, she had grown into the witch she was meant to be. Perhaps she was finally strong enough to find the courage that had eluded her for so long. And so, after weeks of careful planning, she slipped away from her aunt’s home, determined to leave behind those cursed lands, and with them, the shadows of her tragic past, once and for all. She carried with her a golden brooch engraved with the Gordian Knot, a keepsake that had once belonged to her mother. But she took another, far more dangerous prize, her aunt’s wand, the wand of Salazar Slytherin. She did not know what she held in her hands, nor the legacy it carried. Whether driven by vengeance, destiny, or the irresistible call of her bloodline, she claimed it as her own. In that moment, the Gaunt legacy passed fully into her hands, though its true weight was still beyond her understanding. Fearing her aunt’s formidable tracking abilities, and the terrible punishment that would surely follow, Isolt slipped into the night, leaving behind the cursed lands of her childhood, and the shadows that had haunted her for twelve long winters. To avoid discovery, she concealed her identity, cutting off all her hair and disguising herself as a Muggle boy. For five long years, she lived under the assumed identity of Elias Story, an anagram of her true name, always glancing over her shoulder, ever wary of the wrath that might descend at any moment. Despite her aunt’s relentless pursuit, the young witch managed to evade capture and, at last, secured passage aboard the Mayflower, a merchant ship known for carrying the first English Separatists, now remembered as the Pilgrims, to the New World. It was the year 1620 when Isolt Sayre set sail for North America… unaware that her journey would forever alter the fate of the wizarding world on the continent. Oh! My valiant adventurers… I bring you news that shines brighter than any Lumos! Three enchanted tiers: Curious Wanderer, Enchanted Explorer, and Master Adventurer! The Room of Requirement? Pfft, nothing but a broom cupboard in comparison! With us, you’ll gain early access to every episode, a secret Discord server to keep you ahead of everyone else, and that’s not all: priority replies to your comments, a direct channel to help you choose new content together, and even exclusive wallpapers taken from each episode! And it doesn’t stop there: for the bravest among you, extra videos with my director’s notes and reflections on the episodes already released. Because, let’s be honest: you can never get enough of your dashing wizard adventurer, Quentin Pendragon! Click JOIN below for all the details! Joining the Spellbook Family is a small gesture that supports our journey and allows us to bring content truly worthy of our audience. So, thank you sincerely from the bottom of our hearts for being here. And oh! Ahm, you Muggles listening in, I beg you, tell me: what on Merlin’s beard is a Discord server supposed to be?! N/A Upon arriving in America as one of the first European settlers, most of whom were Muggles, the young witch slipped away from the ship and vanished into the surrounding mountains. To her fellow passengers aboard the Mayflower, there was only one plausible conclusion: “Elias Story” had perished, another victim claimed by the merciless winter, swallowed by the cold just like so many before him. Isolt abandoned the fledgling colony not only out of fear that Gormlaith might track her even across the ocean, but also because her time aboard the Mayflower had revealed a harsh truth, a witch would find few, if any, kindred spirits among the Puritans, whose eyes were ever wary of the unknown, and whose faith turned even a whisper of magic into sin and damnation. Alone in a foreign and inhospitable land, Isolt realized she was the only witch for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of miles. The fragmented education Gormlaith had grudgingly imparted had left her ignorant of the magical beings and communities that might exist beyond Europe. Yet, after weeks of solitude among the mountains, Isolt stumbled upon two magical beings whose very existence had been absent from Gormlaith’s lessons, creatures so wondrous that they hinted at a hidden magical world she had never dared to imagine. The forest was quiet but for the whisper of the wind through the towering pines. A flicker of grey caught her eye: a small, humanoid figure with large ears and piercing eyes, a Pukwudgie, native to these lands, distantly related to the European goblin, wary and cunning, carrying the independent pride of its kind. But before she could approach, a shadow moved with unnatural speed. The Hidebehind, a nocturnal, forest-dwelling spectre capable of contorting itself behind any object, had seized the Pukwudgie in its talons, poised to strike with deadly precision. Instinctively, Isolt raised her wand. A flash of magic erupted, forcing the spectre to recoil into the shadows. Heart hammering, she scooped up the injured Pukwudgie, careful not to underestimate the danger it posed even in its weakened state. She carried him to her makeshift shelter, tending to his wounds with a mixture of instinct and the rudimentary skill Gormlaith had taught her. The Pukwudgie, begrudging yet impressed, declared himself bound to her service until he might repay his debt, a humiliation for one so proud, indebted to a young witch in a foreign land where both Pukwudgies and Hidebehinds lurked. Isolt, amused by his grumbling and grateful for his company, named him William, after her father, for he refused to reveal his true name, as taboos of his kind dictated. Over time, the bond between them grew, nearly unique in the histories of their respective species. William began introducing Isolt to the magical creatures he knew. Together they observed frog-headed Hodags hunting in the undergrowth, skirmished with a dragonish Snallygaster, and watched newborn Wampus kittens playing in the first light of dawn. Yet the creature that captivated her most was a great-horned river serpent, its forehead adorned with a luminous gem, residing in a nearby creek. Even William trembled at its presence, but to his astonishment, the serpent seemed to regard Isolt with curiosity rather than hostility. More astonishing still, she claimed to understand the creature’s subtle voice, as though it spoke directly into her mind. She quickly learned to keep these revelations to herself, visiting the creek alone in secret. Its message was cryptic yet insistent: “As long as I am part of your family, it will remain in peril.” Isolt had no family, save for Gormlaith, still in Ireland, and she could not decipher the serpent’s meaning, nor tell if its words were real or a trick of her imagination. Yet an instinct deep within her whispered that this extraordinary being and its warning were bound to her fate, intertwining her destiny with the hidden magic of this untamed land. The days passed swiftly, painted with a tranquillity Isolt had not known since Ilvermorny. Yet even in the forest’s quiet, a taut vigilance lingered, a remnant of years under her aunt’s ruthless tutelage and the constant awareness that danger could strike at any moment. One afternoon, while foraging with William, a grisly noise shattered the calm. The very Hidebehind that had once nearly slain the Pukwudgie loomed over a horrific scene: two humans lay dead, grotesquely twisted, while two small boys, battered, terrified, barely clinging to life, cowered as the creature prepared to claim more victims. Instinct surged in Isolt. Every lesson, every punishment, every moment of pain had forged her into a witch capable of facing this nightmare. Together with William, she unleashed her magic with precision. The Hidebehind shrieked and fled, perhaps finally defeated. William, seemingly indifferent, returned to picking blackberries, ignoring the faint cries of the children. Isolt rushed to the boys, determined to save them as her mother would have done. When she called for William’s aid, he regarded her with scorn; to him, humans were as good as dead. She alone was the exception, the witch who had once saved his life. Outraged, Isolt’s voice rang sharp through the clearing. “You will repay your debt. Help me, now!” Begrudgingly, William complied, grumbling all the while. Together, they carried the boys to safety, each step weighted with the peril they had narrowly escaped. At last, they reached the shelter. Isolt’s chest heaved with grief and fury, her heart heavy at the betrayal of what she had hoped would be her first and only friend. She turned to William, her gaze a storm of sorrow and scorn. “I have no further need of you,” she said, her voice low but deadly. The Pukwudgie grumbled, his eyes flashing briefly, before vanishing into the woods, leaving Isolt alone with the children, and the bitter knowledge that some bonds, once shattered, never mend. Isolt had sacrificed her only companion, William, to save two small boys, and, by some miracle, they survived. Chadwick and Webster were weak and feverish, yet unmistakably magical, their essence humming with the energy that had once coursed through their parents. Their family had arrived in America seeking adventure, only for tragedy to strike in the forest. For weeks, the boys were too fragile to be left alone; Isolt watched over them ceaselessly, nursing them back to health, all while haunted by the knowledge that their parents lay unburied. When Chadwick and Webster were finally strong enough to be left unattended, Isolt returned to prepare graves for the Boots, a small refuge, however modest, that the boys might one day visit. To her surprise, she found another figure there: James Steward, from the Plymouth settlement, who had ventured into the woods searching for the family he had befriended, unaware of the horror that had occurred. James worked quietly, marking the shallow graves and gathering the broken wands beside the deceased. A careless wave of Mr Boot’s wand sent a spark into the air, and, as often happens with a No-Maj, it reacted violently. James was flung backwards, colliding with a tree, and fell unconscious. When he awoke, he found himself in a small shelter of branches and animal skins, tended by Isolt. How could she have hidden what she was? There was no concealing her magic, from brewing healing draughts to hunting with a wand in hand. She had intended, once his concussion had passed, to Obliviate him and send him back to Plymouth, preserving the secrecy of her kind. For if there was one thing she had learned in Ireland, it was that, however deserving of respect Muggles might be, the truth of magic was something they rarely understood, and often feared. And yet, quite unexpectedly, during those days, James became a source of quiet companionship and comfort. He was a kind man, steady, curious, and unafraid. For Isolt, it was extraordinary to have someone with whom she could share her thoughts, her story… someone who had already grown fond of the Boot boys and helped to entertain them as they slowly recovered their strength. In gratitude, James, who had once been a stonemason in England, helped her design a modest stone house atop Mount Greylock. With his plans and her magic, the dwelling rose in the span of an afternoon. Isolt named it Ilvermorny, after the little cottage where she had been born, and which Gormlaith had destroyed. Each day, Isolt swore she would soon erase James’s memory… and each day, he seemed to fear magic a little less. Until, at last, it seemed simpler, and far truer, to admit that they had fallen in love, marry, and be done with it. N/A Isolt and James came to think of the Boot boys as their own sons. In the quiet evenings by the hearth, Isolt told them tales of a distant castle in the Scottish Highlands, stories of magic and wonder she had once overheard from Gormlaith. To Chadwick and Webster, Hogwarts was a dream painted in words: towers veiled in mist, moving staircases, enchanted feasts. And then, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin... names that rolled like spells from another world. Again and again, they asked why they could not return to Ireland to await their letters. Isolt could not tell them the truth of Gormlaith. Instead, she promised that when they turned eleven, she would find them wands, their parents’ long broken, and together they would found a school of their own, there on the mountain. The notion set their imaginations alight. Four houses were needed, of course, and naming them after themselves was quickly dismissed. “Who would ever want to win for House Webster Boot?” Webster had exclaimed. Each chose a creature instead, one that mirrored their heart: Chadwick, quick-witted yet tempestuous, chose the Thunderbird, whose wings could summon storms. Webster, brave and fiercely loyal, the Wampus, swift and untameable. Isolt, the Horned Serpent, guardian of the river, whose whisper she still heard in her dreams. When it came to James, the only No-Maj among them, he hesitated. Finally, he smiled: “Then I shall take the Pukwudgie,” for the tales of the grumbling William never failed to make him laugh. And so the four houses of Ilvermorny were born, playful, yet profound, carrying the spirit of those who named them. What began as a family’s fancy would, in time, become the heart of a legend. As Chadwick’s eleventh birthday drew near, Isolt found herself troubled by a promise she did not know how to keep. She had vowed to craft him a wand, yet, as far as she knew, the wand she had stolen from Gormlaith was the only one in all of America. She dared not dissect it to learn its secrets. And when she examined the remains of the Boots’ wands, their dragon heartstring and unicorn hair cores had long since withered to dust. On the eve of the boy’s birthday, sleep came to her at last, and with it, a dream. She saw herself walking down to the creek under a silver moon. The Horned Serpent rose from the water, vast and silent, its jewel gleaming in the darkness. It bowed its head before her, and she, with trembling hands, shaved a slender shard from its horn. Isolt woke before dawn, heart pounding. Drawn by something older than reason, she went to the creek. And there, just as in her dream, the Horned Serpent was waiting. It lifted its head, regal and unafraid. She took what it freely offered, whispered thanks, and carried the fragment home through the hush of morning. James was roused from sleep to find his wife standing by the hearthlight, clutching the precious piece of horn. Together, they set to work, her with the knowledge of magic, him with the hands of a craftsman. When Chadwick awoke, the first light of dawn creeping across the floor, a wand lay by his bedside: finely carved from prickly ash, the serpent’s horn running through its core. It thrummed faintly in his grasp, alive, aware, and Isolt and James knew they had wrought something extraordinary. By the time Webster turned eleven, word of the little school atop Mount Greylock had begun to spread. What had begun as a home for two orphaned boys was quietly becoming something greater. Two young wizards from the Wampanoag tribe arrived first, followed by a mother and her daughters from the Narragansett, eager to share their ancient knowledge and learn the craft of wandwork. Each received a wand, lovingly fashioned by Isolt and James. Yet Isolt knew, deep within her, that the horn of the Serpent belonged only to Chadwick and Webster. For the others, she and James worked with new materials, strands of Wampus hair, sinews of the Snallygaster, antlers of the Jackalope, each core a bridge between worlds of magic. By 1634, the cottage had grown beyond recognition. Stone walls James had laid by hand had reshaped themselves, as if the building shared in the family’s quiet magic. Children’s laughter now echoed through the halls, and Webster’s dream of house competitions became a joyful reality. Ilvermorny was still small, known only among the Native tribes and a few wandering settlers. Yet when dusk fell upon the mountain, the family remained: Isolt and James, their sons Chadwick and Webster, and the twin daughters, Martha and Rionach. A modest home, yes, yet within its walls, it had become the soul of the New Wizarding World, where magic and love grew undisturbed. Far above the quiet slopes of Mount Greylock, peace reigned over Ilvermorny. The days were filled with laughter and learning, the gentle rhythm of a family who believed themselves safe. Yet beyond the ocean, in the old country, a whisper began to spread, of a new school of witchcraft and wizardry in the New World. They said its headmistress was named Morrigan, like the legendary Irish Animagus witch of old. But when Gormlaith Gaunt learned the school’s true name, Ilvermorny, her blood ran cold. There could be no mistake. Her wayward niece had escaped her grasp, married not merely a Muggle-born, but a Muggle himself, and, worst of all, dared to teach magic to anyone who possessed even a flicker of it. Fury, old and poisonous, rekindled in her heart. She had purchased a wand from the despised Ollivanders, a poor substitute for the heirloom Isolt had stolen, and set out to cross the sea. To ensure her niece would not sense her approach, the dark witch disguised herself as a man, taking, in a final act of cruelty, the name William Sayre, the very name of the father she had murdered. Under this false guise, she boarded the Bonaventure, bound for the New World. Her voyage was long and bitter, her hatred the only warmth she carried. Landing in Virginia, she travelled north in secret, through snow and shadow, until at last, on a winter’s night, she stood upon the slopes of Greylock. Before her rose the new Ilvermorny, strong, proud, defiant. The sight filled her not with wonder, but with loathing. Raising her wand, she spoke a curse as dark as her heart. The spell struck the house, and within its walls, Isolt and James fell into an enchanted slumber, their laughter silenced in an instant. Then, in a low hiss, Lady Gaunt spoke a single word, in Parseltongue. Across the quiet room, the wand that had served Isolt so faithfully quivered once upon the bedside table… and fell still. She had never known the truth of it, that she wielded the wand of Salazar Slytherin himself. The wand, sentient and obedient to its master’s will, followed its ancient instruction: it fell into dormancy. Now, none could awaken it, save for its true mistress. What Gormlaith did not know was that two occupants of the house had remained untouched by her dark spell, sixteen-year-old Chadwick and fourteen-year-old Webster. She could not have anticipated the secret power within their wands, unlike Isolt’s, theirs did not fall silent at Parseltongue Instead, their cores thrummed in response, emitting a low, resonant note, the warning cry of the Horned Serpent. The boys awoke instantly, leaping from their beds. The young wizards’ eyes went to the window, where Lady Gaunt moved stealthily through the trees, creeping toward the house. Though only sixteen, Chadwick had understood more than his adoptive parents realised. They had believed him shielded from Isolt’s past, but he had overheard pieces of her story, and in his dreams the figure of a cloaked, creeping witch had haunted him. Now that nightmare had stepped into the moonlight. “Webster, wake them!” the boy called, racing downstairs. There was only one choice: confront the dark witch before she could enter the house where his family slept. Lady Gaunt, taken by surprise, initially underestimated the young wizard. But he met her curses with instinct and skill, parrying spell after spell. The duel was fierce, crackling with magic. Within minutes, the witch, far older and stronger, realised he had been exceptionally well taught. She hurled curses with deadly precision, driving him back toward the house, yet even as she tested him, she coldly inquired about his parentage, declaring she would be loath to slay a pure-blood of such potential. Then Webster came to his brother’s aid. He had tried in vain to awaken Isolt and James, and now he dueled alongside Chadwick. The twin cores of the Boot boys’ wands, wielded together, amplified their power tenfold. Still, the old witch’s magic was formidable, her curses precise and ruthless. The duel escalated, the very air trembling with energy. The dark witch laughed, venomous and cruel, promising mercy if they proved themselves pure-blood, while the brothers fought desperately to keep her from reaching their family. They were driven back into Ilvermorny itself. Walls cracked, windows splintered, yet inside, Isolt and James remained trapped in the sleep of enchantment… until the cries of the baby girls upstairs pierced the silence, raw and terrified. It was this pure, untainted fear that broke the witch’s spell. Rage and power could not stir the adults, but the desperate wails of their daughters shattered the charm, revealing a weakness Lady Gaunt had never accounted for: the strength of love. Isolt screamed at James to shield the girls, but before she could move, Gormlaith was upon them, emerging from the shadows like a living nightmare. Salazar Slytherin’s wand quivered in her hand, and then, to her mounting horror, lay utterly inert, as though the centuries of magic it held had abandoned her. The dark witch’s cold, triumphant laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls, as the trio instinctively braced themselves, defensive rather than retreating, toward the desperate wails of her great-nieces. James planted himself before the cribs, unwavering, a wall of flesh and courage. Isolt’s cry shattered the air, raw and ragged, each syllable soaked in anguish. “William!” she screamed, her voice breaking, carrying the weight of grief, rage, and a mother’s terror, a desperate invocation for the father she had lost, for the strength she needed, for a saviour she prayed would come. Then, a sudden clatter at the window. Moonlight was swallowed by a dark shape as William the Pukwudgie appeared, arrow knocked, trembling with deadly precision. Before the witch could react, the poisoned tip struck true. Her unearthly scream tore through the countryside. Centuries of dark enchantments, meant to make her invincible, reacted violently to the venom. Her body became brittle, solid as coal, then shattered into a thousand fragments. The wand fell, broken. All that remained of Gormlaith Gaunt was a pile of smoking dust, a charred stick, and a twisted dragon heartstring. William had saved them all. He offered nothing but a grumble, offended that Isolt had neglected to speak his name for ten years, calling on him only in mortal fear. Isolt said nothing, she had been invoking a different William. James, delighted to meet the legendary Pukwudgie, shook his hand and, perhaps unwisely, expressed gratitude for the house named in his honour. It is said flattery softened the curmudgeonly heart. The next day, William moved his family of Pukwudgies into Ilvermorny. Complaining as usual, they repaired the damage the dark witch had wrought, and William negotiated a retainer in gold, declaring the wizards too dim to protect themselves and insisting he and his kin act as both security and maintenance for the fledgling school. Slytherin’s wand lay dormant, silenced by Gormlaith’s Parseltongue curse. N/A Isolt, unable to speak the language, felt no desire to wield the relic of her unhappy childhood. Together with James, she buried it beyond Ilvermorny’s grounds, letting the earth reclaim what had caused her so much pain. Within a year, something extraordinary grew from the soil: a tree of dark, glistening snakewood, unlike anything the New World had seen. No pruning, no effort could impede its growth. Over time, its leaves revealed potent medicinal qualities, a quiet testament to the wand’s enduring legacy: even in exile, Slytherin’s power held both nobility and menace, and perhaps, in some mysterious way, its finest part had found a new home in America. In the decades that followed, Ilvermorny’s reputation grew as quietly and inexorably as ivy on granite walls. Isolt’s modest cottage expanded into a castle, towers stretching proudly skyward. More teachers arrived, and Isolt and James remained joint Headmistress and Headmaster, adored by generations as if they were family. Every letter of thanks, every successful spell, every student who returned wiser and braver, affirmed the life they had built from love and courage. Chadwick grew into a wizard of prodigious skill, his Chadwick’s Charms, Volumes I-VII becoming standard in the curriculum. He married Josefina Calderon, a healer of great renown from Mexico, and the Calderon-Boot family flourished, a cornerstone of magical society in the Americas. Webster, ever restless and fearless, found his calling in the fledgling field of wizarding law enforcement, working as what would now be called an Auror. While escorting a particularly vile Dark wizard to London, he met a young Scottish witch at the Ministry of Magic, and, inevitably, love followed. Their union returned the Boot line to its ancestral home, and their descendants attended Hogwarts, bridging the magical worlds of America and Britain. Of James and Isolt’s daughters, Martha, the eldest, was a Squib. Her parents’ love was boundless, yet growing up in a school where she could not wield magic weighed on her. She married a No-Maj from the Pocomtuc tribe, carving out a quiet, contented life beyond Ilvermorny’s walls. Rionach, the younger twin, embraced her magical inheritance and devoted herself to teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. She never married, and whispers suggested she could speak Parseltongue, a secret deliberately left unpassed from Slytherin’s line. Enchantments concealed the school from No-Maj eyes. The girl who had once dreamed of Hogwarts had, in the end, forged the North American equivalent. Marble statues of Isolt and James stand sentinel at the grand entrance, silent witnesses to the legacy they built. Within, four towering wooden carvings, the Horned Serpent, the Wampus, the Thunderbird, and the Pukwudgie, represent the four houses, each embodying mind, body, heart, and soul. Students are sorted not by lineage or ambition, but by the magic that calls to them, their choices guided by instinct as much as destiny. Traditions grew around the Sorting Ceremony, and wands are entrusted to students only upon arrival, their power carefully guarded until maturity. The robes, deep blue and warm cranberry, recall Isolt’s dreams of Ravenclaw and James’s fondness for cranberry pie, a small, enduring testament to the family at the heart of the school. Even today, Pukwudgies remain at Ilvermorny, grumbling yet devoted. One particularly old creature, William, lays mayflowers on Isolt’s tomb each year, a silent gesture of remembrance for the witch who shaped a continent of magic. And so, the school endures, a living monument to courage, love, and vision, where the girl who once dreamed of Hogwarts became the woman who made magic possible for generations to come. N/A And so, my dear wizards, witches, Muggles, and Squibs, the tale of Isolt Sayre shows us that even across oceans, magic takes root, grows, and flourishes. Not bad for someone descended from the Gaunts, proof that not every twig on that family tree turned out rotten! And with that, my dear fellow adventurers, I bid you farewell, until next time, here on The Spellbook Chronicles, where history, myth, and magic come alive once more. Happy Halloween… and may the veil stay kindly shut between us and whatever stirs on the other side tonight!