August 16th, 1971 – Roman School of Arithmancy and Spell Theory, Rome
Michael walked quietly through the ancient halls of the school as he made his way towards the lecture room. As he gazed around, the sight of pristine white marble greeting him every hence way he looked. Despite being built more than half a millennium after the Roman Empire came to an end, the school made it seem as if it had never left that era. It was timeless in its own way.
The school was built in the Corinthian style, that much was clear, pillars with decorative bell-shaped capitals lined every passage and every hall and every room, one or three rows of acanthus leaves lining the top of the bell-shaped capital.
It reminded him somewhat of the Supreme Court Building.
An appreciative soft noise escaped his throat.
Say what you will about the US government, they did know how to build buildings that felt monumental. It was fitting that he got that same feeling from this school as he roamed its halls accompanied with a gravitas that felt threaded with history.
During the day, natural light filtered into the school as if one was walking out in open nature, the shadows cast by the pillars and the clay lamps that hung from the ceiling were weak throughout most of the day. During the night, the lamps gave off the same kind of light oil lamps did despite the fact that there was no oil and there was no flame.
A faint smile grew on his face as he placed his arms behind his back as a few students passed him by, most of them older. And most of them Roman. Old Blood as they liked to proudly introduce themselves.
He hummed silently. Honestly though…such arrogant pride was the only truly negative part of his experiences here in the school and that could be chalked up to parentally influenced arrogance that he'd seen often enough throughout his lives.
He banished those thoughts as he reflected on his time here.
The first few weeks thus far had been beyond what he'd expected.
The depth of the spell theory class by Professor Rovella was immense.
Theorems like Rogar's cubic field that arithmantically developed relationships between wand movements and the manipulations of magical fields were informative and expanded upon what he'd read within the halls of the Potter Library.
The Levitation charm and Protego were deconstructed arithmantically in Professor Sacchi's class all whilst showing the refractive components of those spells, visualising the way magical fields combined to provide a given effect with the assistive quality that wand movements had in binding magical fields to that effect.
This had been done in three different ways, the Professor explaining each method and its merits and negatives with unbiased remarks.
Admittedly, he had to say that within the last two weeks he'd improved his abilities more than he'd accomplished in the past year. He had a knack for creating spells, a strange intuitive understanding that allowed him to foresee what could combine and what could not. It was how he'd created spells thus far.
Now though…
With what he'd gleaned from the lectures and the examples of how spells can be deconstructed and reconstructed, previous spell ideas that he'd had shelved for a later date that he couldn't figure out how to work properly were suddenly there for him to create, the problems that prohibited him from creating them vanishing away into thin air after a few weeks learning from masters of their crafts.
It was unsettling.
His rate of growth and the importance the Professors had in his growth.
He had an unfair advantage, seventy-seven years and a voluminous family library, yet two weeks with masters of their craft was enough to improve him to this degree.
Knowledge was power, especially in this world, but it seemed that there was knowledge that had to be seen, understood in a way one could not gleam from tomes.
Understanding that came with age and experience and practice and it didn't bode well, he mused to himself quietly, to his ability to protect his family if the gap that existed between masters of their craft and himself was this large.
He'd luckily inherited Charlus' strength in magic, prodigious enough to fight toe to toe with the likes of Grindelwald and Dumbledore, who were in their own weight class, but far from close enough to overcome them with just magic alone if they had been equal in magical strength alone.
Charlus had been there during the battle between Dumbledore and Grindelwald and it wasn't difficult to note the flicker of respect and awe within Charlus' brown eyes.
A faint sigh escaped his lips.
His attunement to the more intricate subjects of magic was a blessing, one that he aimed would bridge the gap, should bullets and bombs prove insufficient, but he had to adjust his learning curve to be several factors steeper than it originally suspected.
In the midst of his ruminations, he heard his name being called.
"Michael!" he heard the familiar voice.
He turned around and saw them Octavia, a pretty dark-haired girl with voluminous lips and slight figure was accompanied by her twin brother, Quintus, an equally dark-haired young man broader of shoulder with a youthful face.
Octavia had a charm of her own, a sly charm that made it difficult to not be afflicted by it whilst Quintus was laidback, at ease with himself that came naturally to him and it was an effective combination, he truthfully told himself.
A combination that wriggle into the comfort zones of anyone, he thought amusingly to himself. For their ages, they were impressive in this acute skill.
But then, he mused to himself, it was likely they were taught from near enough birth.
They were of the Ancharius family, an old respected family that traced its lineage back to a Roman warmage in the second century AD.
He'd met them on the first day of class when they'd taken upon themselves to seat next to him at the back of the second class where he'd been alone. He didn't fail to notice that they'd come after he'd proven himself to be more than what he seemed after he'd answered all of the questions the professor had levied on him.
Still, they were bright kids, likeable and full of energy.
They were also wildly amused by his Sicilian Italian which he knew was a major hook that solidified their interest in him and later acquaintanceship with him.
It was perquisite to know Italian along with Latin in order to attend the Roman school, both he knew, the latter improved in his lessons with Dorea, but to hear an Englishman speak Sicilian Italian with a Sicilian accent startled them, and others including the professors, at first.
"Octavia" Michael greeted with a faint smile before switching towards Quintus.
"Quintus." Michael inclined his head slightly as was proper.
Quintus rolled his eyes at the act but it was in good nature.
Quintus – and of course Octavia – had given their leave to address them by their first names but he was unfailing in his proper courtesies. Quintus outranked Michael as the heir to House Ancharius even if it was equal in status to House Potter.
And as a son of the second son, he was relatively low in the social ranking.
Of course, social ranking mattered not to him, not even the slightest.
There was no one superior to him, least of someone of noble bearings.
However, such courtesies had their usefulness. Especially once it was observed that he treated everyone with respect and decency. It upheld an image and it provoked a reputation of respectability that was difficult to dislodge.
And with the power the Ancharius family held, such good reputation can be leveraged one day should he need to. He already planned to uphold a level of communication with the twins once the course met its end.
Octavia smiled prettily at him, one that would have hooked him to her had he been fourteen-year-old Michael Corleone, before she curled her arm around his arm.
"Dear sister, your wanton ways are ill-befitting." Quintus mocked with a flash of a grin as he locked step with him and Octavia. Michael watched on with an expression that bore a shadow of amusement, one that was even faintly true.
As much as he'd assessed the playfulness between the twins was a social weapon, he also knew that in some small way, it was reflective of who they were.
"Oh hush" Octavia said with a playful note in her voice with a faux challenge look on her face. "I'm guiding a lost little lamb to our lovely wolf of a professor."
Ravella was a scraggly looking man with a black shaggy mop for a beard. This wasn't the first time he'd heard the teasing comparison to a werewolf.
"Really?" Quintus drawled as he squinted his eyes, draping said squinted eyes across both Michael and Octavia. "Seems to me there's a lot of clutching and a little less guidance happening" he gestured towards their locked arms "over there" he said suggestively with a mock disapproving frown.
Octavia gasped, her clutching of his arms tightening. "You've discovered my secret." She said dramatically before she began to pretend to whisper as she leaned in. "But can you blame me? I must because it is only two more weeks before Mr Potter is to leave me. Two weeks. Fourteen days. 336 hours." She sniffled.
Quintus tapped the middle of his chin. "I see" he said before stopping his tapping and looked introspectively at the pair of them. "It is a good thing then that our dear guest is to meet our father, dear sister. Perhaps he might have answer, if you know what I mean?" Quintus suggested teasingly.
"Oh, how I wish it so!" Octavia said as she held onto his arm tighter.
"But you know father. Nothing but the best heirs to grand fortunes will do for his precious daughter" Octavia remarked sadly.
"I weep with every hour that passes." She said with fluttering eyelashes, her finger tracing below her right eye and faked wiping a tear from beneath it.
Michael rolled his eyes as he slowly pulled at his arm from her clutches. She released him, reluctantly, and he raised an eyebrow at her antics accompanied with an expression that said all that needed to be said.
She childishly stuck out her tongue. "You're no fun" she enthused boorishly.
"I'm plenty of fun." Michael responded calmly, a look of amusement adorned on his face. "If I behaved in any other way, I would simply bore you."
Sonny would have loved to chase this girl around, Michael mused to himself.
Quintus laughed. "He's got you there, Via."
She glared at Quintus before carelessly shrugging. "True enough I suppose" she said with a cheeky smile that somehow managed to be simultaneously charming.
"You know, father will definitely like you when he meets you."
"Oh?" Michael questioned curiously. He was invited by the twins to dine with them in a few days' time. He'd meet the patriarch of the family then. He'd gleaned somewhat from the twins that the suggestion probably had come from their father.
"She's not wrong." Quintus said with a shrug though Michael felt it was a little forced. He glanced at Octavia and saw a little of the cheer diminish.
It was slight. Barely present. But it was there and it was important.
It was clear that they did not fear their father, he knew the signs and what to look out for. People were people, no matter if they had magic or not, and their unease was more like they were venturing into the unknown. Uncertain of what the meeting would yield. Curious…
Michael eyed Octavia but it seemed like she wouldn't come out with and he decided to make light of it "I look forward to meeting him." Michael said as he looked away from her.
"After all, we will have to agree a bride price given that you've propositioned so many times." Michael hummed as he placed his arms behind his back.
"Honour demands that I take you off of his hands."
Quintus' laughter reverberated off of the walls as they walked towards their class.
Not long after they got settled in class, Professor Ravella swept his wand across the board, the chalk piece dancing to invisible strings as it left chalky words on the blackboard. 'Ixis' 3rd Sensitivity Principle'
Michael listened keenly as the professor went on in depth.
The sensitivity principle was the underlying principle of analysing and revealing spells. From spells used by healers to aurors investigating a crime scene.
One of the more complex principles that was widely known yet also at the same time the lowest hanging fruit when it came to the matter of the Esoteric Roots.
The sensitivity principle explained on the mechanisms that analysing and revealing spells worked on…that namely being intent and effect, namely being magical fields.
The way it analysed the effect was simple enough to understand, like fluorescent penetrant liquids, the analysing spells would proverbially sink into the effect of the spell, or the area which that bore the effect of the spell, and provide the analyser with approximations if not exactness of what was cast.
Michael though, thought however simple it might be understand, whomever created the base principle spell was ingenious. He looked at his notes, the arithmantic formulisation of the underlying constituent broke it all apart.
The underlying constituent that was the basis of all modern revealing and analysing spells was deliberately created to be built upon, a consideration that he noted that Professor Ravella hadn't touched upon. At least not yet.
Of course, there were a number of spells that used underlying constituents that they'd built upon. In fact, most spells did so yet where Michael thought this constituent differed was that it was deliberately left incomplete.
Like one of the feet of a wooden chair left aside.
He mused that maybe the individual – who was lost to history curiously enough – might have decided to do so in order to create other spells around it.
Hmm…
He'd file it away for another time as he returned his attentions to the professor who was speaking of echoes in one's magic, specifically the echoes that existed when one performed spells. From as simple as a levitating spell to something as complex as a Patronus, magic left behind an echo, a residual presence that was infused with your state of mind in that particular moment.
The professor continued to explain that modern day ICW investigators used a variation of an analysing spell to strongly pinpoint this exact intent at the moment the crime was committed to strengthen their case or investigations.
Michael felt a bout of wry amusement at that, a wryness that held undertones of coldness within it. For all of the amazement that he held for magic, there was an equal wariness for it. Capabilities of the cops like this did little to assuage it.
Even more so when such capabilities can be turned towards corruption. Setting someone up with falsified proof was far too easy and even more so far more difficult to escape from such accusations. There was a kind of acceptance though perhaps it would be better to call it trusting, of supposed known truths by the public.
In such circumstances, veritaserum may perhaps be the only way to prove innocence and even that could be manoeuvred as non-permissible if one was known to be a master Occlumens who were known to bend the truth enough in their wordings.
"Now, can anyone tell me an adaptable way one could use this principle to solve the problem I have described?" Professor Ravella asked and drew Michael back into the lesson though his ruminations had never fallen far away from the forefront of his mind.
-Break-
19th of August, 1971 – Museo Atelier Canova Tadolini, Rome
Idle chatter filled the background noise as he leaned back in his chair with a glass of sparkling water in his hand, finished as he was with his Tagliolini all'astice dish, and simply enjoyed the presence, the sight and the architecture of this former workshop.
Dark hardwood floors, domineering wood-beamed ceilings and ageless chandeliers gave an old-world feel that felt timeless and reeked of history. Despite his lonesomeness, he felt he was not alone, could never be alone in the presence of such quiet history in these halls that bore the lingering touch and air of long dead maestros
Once upon a time, this place had been a workshop that belonged to a fairly well known sculptor named Antonio Canova, a man who held great passion and skill for the art that he'd married himself to until death parted them and for almost a hundred and fifty years, it remained a workshop until in 1967 it was turned into a kind of cafe-museum-ateliere by his descendants, opening up its history to the wider world.
Michael trailed his gaze from one end of the room to the other, old and marvellous marble statues adorning each corner of the building like great hawks standing on the ledge of mountains, imperiously and eternally gazing down at patrons, and he considered that the choice to turn into what it was today was an inspired choice.
What better way to honour your ancestors than have patrons bask in the fruits of their glory, in the place that genius and imagination and creativity bore fruit?
A quarter of an hour later, he walked out of the entrance and began to walk the narrow streets of the old artists' quarter. The cobbled stones, the age old buildings, the rivers of people that entered and exited like streams through narrow cracks in boulders eager to let the history soak into their skins like fragrant jasmine oils…
Michael hummed silently, his eyes constantly watching.
Storied Rome was as alive as it had been for the past three thousand years.
As Michael Corleone, he hadn't had the chance to visit Rome.
Not like this.
Not as simply another face amongst faces. Time did not permit him to feel and touch the porous and cracked stones of Rome and neither did the circumstances arise for him to have the opportunity to reflect on the once-centre-of-the-world city.
He trailed his fingers across the thousands years olds stone wall as he descended down the steps at the end of the foot-bridge, the heat of the stone unbothersome compared to the warmth of the history that he felt.
He hummed silently as he placed his hands behind his back as he walked, silently watching his surroundings as he walked towards his eventual destination. For years now he'd wanted to come to Italy after he came to grasp with his new chance at life.
The Roman School of Arithmancy and Spell Theory became that opportunity to bring himself to Rome and thus, of course, Italy. The fact that it was related to his interests in the specific branches of magic was only a positive happenstance.
And yet…he considered with a mild frown, he couldn't bring himself to visit the one place in Italy that he itched to see if…
His lips parted and he inaudibly sighed at his apprehension.
It was neither fear or guilt.
It was more simple than that. It was selfish. It was vain.
It was the protection of the illusion that he'd admittedly held on ever since she died in the car bombing, a death took more than just her life.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to definitively know the truth that she would have been better off without him, without the strings that came with him…
Without having loved him.
And then there was the possibility that this world was entirely without her much like this world was without the Corleone family or the other Italian families.
A rueful glint entered his stormy brown eyes.
It would be a tragedy, he mused to himself, his eyes drooping low.
A world that never had the grace and blessing to have had a woman like Apollonia walk amongst them, a woman that radiated light and eternal beauty and purity of soul, was indeed a tragic and stark world.
A tragedy second only to one other tragedy.
It was an hour and a half later that he'd walked up to his destination.
He veered off the main streets of this clustered neighbourhood and towards the alley nestled in between two old apartment houses. As he neared the alley, he immediately felt the breeze of magic, subtle and almost unnoticeable, wash over him.
There was no effect on him, for it would only have an effect on those without magic.
It was only his sensitivity to magic that allowed him to notice such benign elements.
A Muggle Repelling charm, one that played on the mind of the magic-less like an insidious tick, tricking them into ignoring the existence of the alley even if they lived by it and walked by it for fifty years.
He studied the charm, and others like it that affected the mind, so he had a solid foundation on what it did to the affected minds of people. He was no neurologist but he inferred that it pressed against the parts of the mind that controlled reasoning.
It wasn't that the people didn't see the alley for instance, it was more that the very existence of the alley was contradicting what they believed to be true.
The reality of the alley did not compute in their minds under the effect of the charm and so their minds dealt with the problem by simply pretending it didn't exist.
It worked on a similar principle as the Confundus charm and such other mind affecting charms and curses, targeting the reasoning centre of the mind with various degrees of strength and subversion, but the bigger mystery was why magicals were unaffected by it.
He'd read many books on 'wizarding' physiology to learn there was no difference physically between the wizarding and non-wizarding human population so it stood to reason that there should be no way that the minds of magic-less people could be specifically targeted to avert their attentions under the influence of the charm.
Unless…unless there was something else at play and he thought he had an idea as what the triggering mechanism for the charm truly was. Perhaps it was as simple as having belief in magic itself that was needed into to remain unaffected by the charm.
Michael curled his lips upward in distaste. He hoped he was wrong. It was such an…inelegant way to tie a charm to power.
He walked into the alley and his gaze trailed across to either side of the narrow walls, old and weathered pagan symbols dating back to before Christendom were inscribed onto these walls, these walls that were most likely older than the Coliseum itself.
Rome was an ancient city not only for the magic-less but also for the magicals.
The modern magical world was built on the fruits of Rome, much like the modern western world was built on the legacies of Rome. It wasn't the only parallel to be noted. 1066 – the invasion of England by both normal and magical nobility, 1337 – the Hundred Years War where Magical England fought with Magical France along with the normal nobility, 1453 where the last of the Byzantine magical families fled to places like France and Germany and three dozen other such parallels.
He stopped before a series of doors without any handles, each with their own family sigils and he looked towards the sigil of the Ancharius, a Nemean Lion that stood on its hind legs.
Apparently however, it wasn't modelled after the lions that roamed the mountains and valleys of Greece, no, apparently, it was modelled after a much larger breed of lions, magical lions, the kind that Hercules had wrestled and killed.
And apparently, the Ancharius actually did have a pride of giant Nemean Lions that he had a standing offer to go and visit whenever he wished to.
He would be tempted if it weren't for the fact that the beasts were highly resistant to magical spells. Perhaps when he was older and wouldn't need to rely on the Killing Curse to ensure his survival should it be needed.
He reached out to his pocket and took out the ancient coin given to him by Quintus, a Roman Denarii though with the Ancharius sigil on both sides of the coin and placed it in the slot of the door.
He watched curiously as the door began to click and clack, gears and mechanisms turning, likely for show to hide the runic scheme that allowed for the travel between Alleys and family homes, and after a few seconds, the door clunk open with a doorknob now visibly showing.
He eyed the ajar door for a few moments before he placed his hand on the doorknob and pulled it open. His eyes sharpened as he gazed open a reception hall, or at least what passed as a reception hall and he didn't take long to decide to walk through the door. He looked around once he got into the reception hall.
Immediately, he noticed the slight perception field that seemed to latch onto the reception hall, one that felt as if he was being scrutinised from everywhere, and he frowned at the presence.
"Mr Potter." A deep baritone voice called out from behind him and he did not react immediately and calmly turned around when he heard footsteps approach.
The brown curly haired man, looking like as if he were in his forties, was dressed in fine Acromantula navy silk robes. His face was granite like with eyes that seemed as if they could only interrogate. His stature was one of stoutness, neither pudgy nor muscular, somewhere in between that traced back to a history of uncommon strength
Michael eyes went deliberately to the man's right hand, the sight of the Lord's ring gleaming under the unnatural light within the reception hall.
"Lord Ancharius." Michael said accompanied with a respectable bow.
Neither supplicant nor insulting.
If the man noticed, he didn't comment on it as he stretched out his hand towards Michael. "Correct." The man said calmly, his expression never changing though it seemed as if he was looking closer into Michael.
Michael took the offered hand with grace.
"It is good you have found your way well enough."
Michael inclined his head slightly as he let go.
"It is different but easy enough."
"Hmm. Yes. No doubt quite a different way than your floo travel." Lord Ancharius commented without any infliction in his tone before gesturing forward, and Michael thought he could see an interested glint in the man's eyes.
"Shall we?" Lord Ancharius suggested.
Michael met the man's gaze, his assessment of the man running wild. One thing at least promised to be true. This may well be interesting, he thought as he agreeably inclined his head to the Ancharius Patriarch.