Harry Potter Wraiths Novels & Stories

Wolves, however, do not possess the magic that rattles bones, twists rooms, and summons storms. Her power was greater than anything I had ever seen or heard. There was something about her that made her so special. I didn't know it yet, but the Wraithborn seemed to understand. They came for her, and a part of me knew they wouldn't stop until they had her. I turned away from her chamber and ran a hand through my hair. Questions were like teeth, gnawing at me about Nyra, the Wraithborn, and The Veil. I need answers, but answers require fortitude.

“She is My Lord,” Crystal stretched out her hand, and a chain made out of Chaos was conjured from her hands and latched onto the chains binding the Wraith. The eyes of the Wraith were filled with hatred, and she stared at Crystal intently, as though she could kill her with nothing but her gaze. And why wouldn’t she hate the one who trapped her; especially when she was so close to getting away.

The scent of her fear hit me like a blow to the chest, and my wolf roared inside, furious at whatever dared to approach her… threaten her… mark her with such terror. “Rockan…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What was that thing?” I didn’t answer immediately. Not because I didn’t know but because I did. And I hated the truth of it. Shadow wraiths. Ancient. Intelligent. Malicious. Creatures that didn’t belong in the mortal realm unless summoned. My blood boiled. Whoever summoned it… wanted Lyra. Whoever summoned it… wanted to destabilize the pack. Whoever summoned it… wanted ME weakened.

The landscape was alien and foreboding, a surreal amalgamation of shifting shadows and fragmented structures that seemed perpetually on the verge of collapse. The air was thick with an unsettling stillness, broken only by the occasional whisper of forgotten memories. Each whisper was like a ghostly touch against her skin, a fleeting sensation that left her shivering. The whispers were disjointed, fragments of conversations, cries, and laughter that seemed to echo from the very walls of Nyxterra. They whispered her name in haunting, fragmented tones, urging her deeper into the darkness.

It grew colder and heavier, and an unnatural stillness settled over the clearing. “Something’s wrong,” Ewen said, his body tensing. “We’re not alone.” A low growl rumbled through the air, and my blood turned to ice. Shadows began to move, slithering along the ground like living entities. From the darkness emerged creatures, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Their eyes glowed a sickly green, and their twisted forms radiated malevolence. “What are those?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. Lucian stepped in front of me, his body radiating a protective energy. “Wraiths. Servants of the dark force tied to the prophecy.”

“She did it, didn’t she?” Damien nodded once. “And now the balance is breaking.” Suddenly, a tremor split the courtyard below. From its center, a jagged crack formed, pulsing with eerie golden light. Damien leapt down, landing in a crouch, eyes narrowed. From the crack, shadows began to rise—humanoid, but wrong. Twisted. Magic-born. Wraiths. “They were bound beneath the kingdom,” Elara hissed, joining him. “Kept in slumber… by her bloodline.”

Undead Creations: Bone Knight: A towering behemoth clad in armour forged from the very bones of the fallen. These warriors are formidable in battle, their strength augmented by the souls of countless warriors bound within their skeletal frame. Summoning a Bone Knight requires a vast number of souls and a deep connection to the power of death. Wraith Stalker: A spectral assassin, swift and deadly, composed of pure ethereal energy. Wraith Stalkers are masters of stealth and surprise, their forms flickering in and out of existence, leaving trails of icy cold in their wake.

Willow immediately bowed her head after finally regaining her composure when the reality of the situation cleared up. "Goddess Hecate, it's such an honor." Willow's heart thundered in her chest. To meet the Goddess of Witchcraft was a very rare occurrence amongst the Witches, and she only showed herself to those with exceptional power. Hecate's eyes twinkled with amusement as she turned her back to her and began walking through the mist. Willow raised her foot to follow when she felt something cold and smooth slither past her. Glancing down into the mist, a serpent with scales that were like oil on water had brushed alongside of her, but paid her no mind. She sucked in a breath until the ser

Lucas had been gone for hours, leaving me to the not so careful ministrations of Magda. The wart nosed witch who I had clobbered over the head with a candlestick. She was hunched forwards with a permanent hunchback and cloudy milky white eyes signalling that her eyesight was diminished with cataracts. She almost looked like she had taken a step out of a Greek mythology book and was actually one of the fabled grey sisters, who determined all living creatures fate. Perhaps she was, all myths derived from elements of truth. Any second now she was going to pull out a pair of rusty old scissors and cut my life cord into two. I held back a giggle at the thought.

“This started before the ceremony. That just… made it worse.” His expression tightened slightly. “You think it’s connected to what Varka said.” “I don’t think,” I said, my jaw tightening. “I know it is.” Silence settled between us for a moment, but it wasn’t empty. It was thinking. Weighing. “Say it,” Rhys said after a second. I exhaled slowly. “I think there’s shadow magic in her.” The words landed heavily. Rhys didn’t react right away. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t accept it either. He considered it, his gaze narrowing slightly as he worked through it.