A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I was quite ill through much of February and March and even managed to sprain a rib by coughing, which is still healing but much better than it was. I'm updating this now and hoping to have another chapter up tomorrow as this was originally much longer so I had to split it. After that, I will be updating my BG3 x MTG story on FF and AO3. Finally, I will get back to working on the long-awaited next chapter of Legacy.

So, I have revised the first couple of chapters a little, mostly with regard to changing the MC's name to James. The name Edward Kendrick was just way too English, so I gave him a much more Scottish name instead. I also revised a bit of the worldbuilding to better suit later plans. I hope you enjoy this chapter. We'll be moving on to more action and heroics with the next one.

1992
Edinburg, Scotland

James Mackenzie lay on his stomach on the bedroom floor, wand in hand and eyes narrowed in intense concentration. Scattered across the carpet in front of him was a makeshift obstacle course: loops of Lego bricks arched like miniature gates, a plastic dinosaur posed threateningly as a guard, and a tunnel made from an old cardboard loo roll.

Hovering just above the floor was a five-pence coin, wobbling slightly as it floated from the levitation charm he'd cast earlier.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he whispered, adjusting the flick and swish with practised ease.

The coin steadied and began to drift forward. James bit his lip, carefully guiding it up and through the first loop, then swerving it left to circle around the head of a toppled action figure.

He grinned.

The Room of Requirement had been invaluable for this sort of practice. It had even produced an enchanted floating feather that gave gentle shocks whenever he lost focus—a surprisingly effective training method. He firmly believed that pain was gain, so long as you signed up for it yourself that is.

"Come on… up… not too fast—"

The coin dipped, scraping the rim of the next Lego loop. James tensed, raising his wand slightly. The coin wobbled, then righted itself and floated through with millimetres to spare.

"Yes!"

He guided it around the plastic dinosaur, ducked it through the cardboard tunnel, and finally, with a slow exhale, brought it in for a soft landing on a tiny cardboard platform he'd labelled Finish in marker.

He flopped onto his back with a satisfied sigh, grinning up at the ceiling.

James was in the Room of Requirement again, a small pile of fir needles spread out on the desk in front of him like tiny green soldiers. He frowned down at them, wand held steady in his right hand, brow furrowed in intense concentration.

According to A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, first-year students were meant to start with matchsticks, turning them into sewing needles. Nice, clean, and predictable. But James hadn't been able to nick a matchstick without raising eyebrows—and the last time he tried, his mam nearly had a fit thinking he was playing with fire.

So, fir needles it was.

They were about the right size, he reasoned, though thinner and flimsier. Still, the principle should hold and they were probably closer to sewing needles anyway. Visualize the molecular structure, the shift in material, the gleam of polished metal...

He took a slow breath, steadied his hand, and tapped one of the needles with his wand.

"Acus."

A soft spark jumped from the tip of his wand, accompanied by a faint metallic ting. James leaned forward, eyes wide with hope.

The fir needle had changed—but not completely.

It had become stiff and silver-grey in color, its tip slightly sharper, but it still retained the faint curve and striated texture of a pine needle. Definitely not a proper sewing needle. Maybe... a suture needle?

He sighed, slumping back against the edge of his bed. "Close, bu' no' quite."

Reaching over, he plucked another needle from the pile, rolling it between his fingers. He muttered the incantation again, this time with more force.

"Acus!"

Another spark. Another near-miss.

The second fir needle twisted into something vaguely metallic and straight, but it bent in the middle, sagging like it was made of warm toffee.

James groaned and rubbed his temples. "Why cuidny it be Lumos again? 'At one actually listens t' me."

He glanced back at the open textbook beside him. The illustration showed a perfect, gleaming needle where a matchstick had been.

"Transfiguration requires precision, concentration, and intent."

He glared at the fir needles. Maybe it was a matter of intent. He could try picturing using the sewing needles. It was worth a shot anyway.

He'd keep practicing until he got it right.

The air was heady with steam and the scent of brewing ingredients. Copper cauldrons bubbled gently atop enchanted burners, blue flames flickering softly beneath.

James stood over one of them, sleeves rolled up, wand tucked behind his ear, and a potions manual open beside him. The Room of Requirement had shifted to match his needs—today it resembled a fully stocked potions lab, all oak worktables, brass scales, gleaming implements, and neat rows of stoppered vials lining the stone walls.

He peered into the cauldron of wiggenweld potion he was stirring as the liquid inside swirled from a dusky purple to a deep red. He'd already added the salamander blood, lionfish spines, and most of the flobberworm mucus.

"Reit," he muttered, reaching for the jar of mucus again with a practiced wince. "Disgustin stuff."

He wrinkled his nose—because of course it still smelled like someone had left old fish in a puddle for a week. Carefully, carefully, he spooned in a measured dollop, letting it drip into the red potion with a wet plop.

The change was gradual, as always. The potion rippled sluggishly, the colour muting toward orange. James leaned in, watching for just the right moment—too little mucus and it wouldn't bind; too much and he'd be starting over.

There it was, the perfect shade of pumpkin orange.

He grabbed the ladle and began to stir again, clockwise this time, steady and slow. The liquid thickened slightly, swirling until the orange deepened and finally melted into a bright, warm yellow.

Time for the honeywater.

James eyed the little phial, counted out five precise drops, and let them fall—plop… plop… plop…—into the cauldron.

The yellow colour shimmered, danced across the surface, and shifted to a striking shade of turquoise.

He allowed himself a tight-lipped grin. "Almost there."

Next came the boom berry juice. Just a few drops. He squeezed them in, then stirred three times anti-clockwise, watching as the mixture brightened with a subtle iridescence.

With that done, he stepped back and took off his dragonhide gloves. The potion needed to simmer for thirty minutes now, undisturbed. Enough time to start prepping ingredients for the next batch.

Unfortunately, not every magical lesson was as interesting as spell work or as useful as potion brewing.

James was currently hunched over a wide oak desk. The Room of Requirement had transformed—again—into a library, complete with tall shelves stacked high with leatherbound tomes, and floating lanterns, all centred around the desk he was sitting at.

Sometimes the room would just do this if he tried to spend too much time on the practical subjects. It would become the library and refuse to change again until he'd studied the theory or in this case pure academics.

He rubbed his eyes, squinting down at the history textbook in front of him.

"The Goblin Rebellion of 1371: Causes, Consequences, and the Twelve-Day Siege of Dunweem Keep."

"Bloody riveting," he muttered sarcastically, flipping the page with far more force than necessary. "This is why I never liked history. Nothing but lists of names and dates and no' a single picture."

The words blurred together slightly, his eyelids drooping. Just a five-minute break, maybe. Just enough to rest his—

THWACK.

A sharp but not too painful slap struck the back of his head. James jerked upright with a yelp, whipping around in his chair.

Hovering behind him was a thick book from the shelf, floating in midair like an offended ghost librarian.

"Oy! Wha' was tha' fer?" he barked. "A was trying!"

The book hovered menacingly, bobbing slightly in the air as if to say don't push your luck.

James raised both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, A get it. No skivin' off."

The book gave a satisfied little bob before floating around to the front of the desk and landing gently beside his open textbook.

James frowned at it. The cover was plain and unmarked old leather. He turned back to the goblin rebellion chapter—but before he could even get one sentence in, the new book flipped open on its own with a flutter of pages.

"Pushy wee bugger, aren't you?" he muttered.

But curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned over to read the new book instead.

To his surprise, it wasn't about goblins or old battles at all. The heading read:

"The Dawn of Wandlore: From Egypt to Rome."

Beneath it was an illustration of figures in primitive robes casting spells with crude staves and wands, standing around a fire beneath the stars.

James blinked. Now this was more like it.

He settled in, already forgetting all about the boring and completely irrelevant goblin rebellion.

James stood at the small kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, dirt under his fingernails as he carefully guided the roots of a dittany plant into a ceramic pot. The plant's round green leaves glistened faintly in the light streaming through the window, shimmering ever so slightly when touched by sunlight.

His mother stood beside him, apron dusted with potting soil, her fingers gently patting down the earth around another plant. Her long honey-blonde hair was tied back in a messy bun, and a smudge of dirt sat stubbornly on her cheek.

"Careful with that one, mam," James said, using a small trowel to spread the soil evenly. "Dittany likes a bit of morning sun but not too much in the afternoon. Gets crispy."

Catherine snorted softly, her Highland accent thick and musical as always. "Crispy, is it? It's a plant, no' a sausage. But fine, fine. A'll move it tae the window near the pantry—gets sun 'til eleven, shade after."

James grinned, brushing a stray leaf off his wrist. "Perfect spot. Just water it once every five days, unless the leaves start to curl, then it wants more."

"Aye, bossy wee thing, aren't ye?" she teased, nudging him with her elbow. "First ye tell me no' tae overwater th' mallowsweet, now ye're givin' me homework for dittany."

"Am tryin' to keep them alive, not lecture ye," James replied with a laugh. "Ye're the one who said ye wanted ta decorate wi' magical plants."

She hummed in agreement, turning to inspect the potted dittany now resting beside the kettle. "Weel, a do. Th' way th' leaves shimmer in the light—och, it's beautiful. Lek silver dew on green velvet."

He chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag. "A'll admit, it's a lot nicer 'an devil's snare or the whomping willow bonzai. These don't try ta murder ye when ye forget tae feed 'em."

His gaze drifted for a moment, growing distant. He thought back to when he first showed his parents the Room of Requirement. They'd grown concerned—rightfully so—when he kept vanishing for hours at a time. They thought he might be sneaking off or hiding something. So, after weeks of hesitation, he finally brought them in.

He still remembered their faces when the plain bedroom door had transformed and opened into a fully furnished magical study.

His da had blinked, stared around at the shelves of spellbooks, the enchanted cauldron, the soft golden lighting, and simply said, "Well, it's a bloody magical holodeck."

James had agreed. Not the worst comparison.

His mam had walked around in wonder, her fingertips trailing along glowing runes, her eyes wide as she admired the self-organizing herb shelves and floating candles. The magical plants had captured her attention most of all—especially the harmless, decorative ones like dittany, mallowsweet, and nifler's fancy.

That's what had led them here.

Helping her tend the magical flora around the house had become their weekend ritual. She liked the life and colour they added. He liked the chance to share something magical with her—something normal people could never dream of.

"Thir we go," Catherine said, standing back and brushing her hands off on her apron. "Done good work today, Jamie. These'll look so lovely."

James gave a satisfied nod. "Ye've got a proper green thumb now, mam."

"Ach, don't start wi' the flattery," she said, waving him off. "Help me make a cuppa, and you can have one of the shortbreads I hid from yer da."

1993

James flopped back onto the chair in the Room of Requirement, arms outstretched. The room had shifted into its library layout again.

He stared up at the ceiling, watching the flickering illusion of a sky roll with clouds. He only had a few hours left before his ma would call him out for dinner.

"Weekends," he muttered. "Bloody weekends."

That was the real limiter. The real bottleneck. All the magic in the world—literally—and he was stuck cramming it in on Saturdays and Sundays like some student prepping for exams. He didn't even get exams. Not magical ones, anyway.

It wasn't like his parents didn't support him. They did. They just… didn't want him becoming isolated.

So, Monday to Friday, he was plain old James Mackenzie. He went to regular school. Learned, or rather relearned, long division. Memorized Scottish kings. Got told off for doodling magical creatures in the margins of his jotter.

He played with other kids. Was forced to join football practice, which he was good at but didn't really enjoy. He much preferred kung fu class on Thursday evenings. That felt useful. Practical. His da said it was good for discipline. James liked that it let him move his body in ways that actually complemented his magic training—balance, reaction time, and spatial awareness.

Still, it meant time was always tight.

The Room seemed to understand, at least. It stopped burying him under as much magical theory as it had in his first year. Now it focused more on hands-on spellwork, potions, and transfiguration. But it didn't give up on history. He just had no idea why it even mattered in this world.

Oh well, at least the history he got to read was a lot more interesting than Professor Binns' had been in the books and movies.

The first book the room had forced on him last year had covered the origin of wands and staves, which had apparently begun not in Rome but in ancient Egypt.

It made a certain amount of sense that the wizards of the Harry Potter universe acted like their muggle counterparts, so the European wizards had naturally taken a Eurocentric view of things, misattributing the invention of wands to the Roman Empire rather than far-off Africa, even if race wasn't really a factor.

A muggle example would be Arabic Numerals, as they had actually been invented in India. Those wizards would most likely not enjoy the comparison to their muggle cousins, even if it was true.

He'd read about the origins of the first staves, which were used not to enhance magical power but rather focus. It was entirely possible for wizards to master spells without a wand, especially simple ones that were easy to visualize like elemental control, simple charms like Lumos or even levitation.

The problem came from more complex magic such as transfiguration and charms which animated or otherwise warped objects beyond human comprehension. These required intense focus and visualization, usually taking years or even decades to master.

The invention of the stave and later the wand had been a revolution, as it used an ancient form of magic that bound a part of a magical creature's soul to the item. By placing a symbolically powerful body part within living cut wood, wizards had been able to create something that acted almost like an external processor for complex magic.

This allowed them to rapidly master various complex magics. It quickly became a must have item for the priests of the new kingdom. It would later be refined further into the first wands, which would for a time be wielded exclusively by the Pharaoh in the form of their traditional crook and flail.

Apparently, many or even most ancient pharaohs had been wizards. This is why they were believed to be living gods. Sadly, much like their later descendants, they often practiced inbreeding and incest in an attempt to keep their magical bloodlines pure and preserve their power. This resulted in many dynasties collapsing as they birthed more and more squibs over time.

One interesting tidbit was the mention of a certain hebrew wizard by the name of Msy or Mose, who had apparently snuck into the palace of Rameses the Great and stolen the stave of one of the high priests, taking it with him as he fled back to the kingdom of Israel.

That had just been one book, and he'd read many others since. All were interesting in their own way, detailing the rise and fall of various wizarding cultures and magical traditions.

James rolled to his side, glaring at the latest book lying on the low table next to the chair. Its cover read: "An Origin of Magical Races and Civilizations."

"Oh, go on then," he muttered, dragging the book toward him.

He'd read enough other wizarding histories by now to see a pattern. The magical world had depth. It had age. And a lot of it was steeped in mystery.

But one theory kept cropping up, again and again, in various dusty tomes and scholarly essays the Room provided.

Magical species—at least some of them—weren't natural.

They were made.

Sometimes by accident. Sometimes on purpose. Created through rituals, bindings, and alchemical concoctions. Shaped by wizards.

Several species were either implied or even outright stated to have been created by wizards through magic. Ancient wizards were apparently quite fond of this practice, shaping animals and even people to suit their purposes.

Some creatures like griffins and sphinxes were created for the purpose of guarding wizard treasures. Merfolk were created to tame the seas and harvest their resources. Others like dragons, trolls, and giants were believed to have been created for wars between ancient wizards or to subjugate muggles.

Most of the humanoid races and animal hybrids were believed to be created from muggles used as cheap materials. Others, especially those with significant magical power like house elves, goblins, veela, and vampires were believed to have been created from wizard stock. These would have likely been enemies taken in war or slaves who were never given proper instruction on how to use their magic.

Ancient wizards were often extremely cruel and conceited. Many believed themselves to be gods, not without some reason as James had read about many ancient gods, demons, and angels who had in fact been powerful witches and wizards. Their various abilities, not just magic, but also improved health and increased longevity had inspired the muggle stories of powerful immortal beings ruling the world.

The Olympians were a particularly heinous example, while the Aesir were one of the better ones, which really wasn't saying much.

Trying to break out of his thoughts, he settled back in the chair and continued to read.

James sat cross-legged on the living room rug, an open divination textbook in his lap and a half-drunk cup of tea balanced precariously on the coffee table in front of him. The room was cozy—warm fire crackling in the hearth glowing softly against the walls. His parents were lounging nearby: his da flipping through some of his students' essays, his ma reading a romance novel, both of them had already finished their evening tea.

James leaned forward and looked at the dregs in the bottom of his da's cup.

"Alright, Da, let's see what yer future holds."

David raised an amused eyebrow. "Gonnae tell me when I'll finally win the lottery?"

James gave him a wry grin. "Mibbe. Jus' dinnae get mad if it's more doom an' gloom."

He carefully lifted the cup and peered inside. At first glance, the dregs swirled into a dark, billowy shape. He flipped open his divination guidebook and scanned the illustrations.

"Cloud…" he murmured. "Means serious trouble."

David immediately shifted in his chair. "Trouble?" he said, voice tense despite the chuckle. "Whit kind o' trouble?"

James tilted the cup, narrowing his eyes. "Wait—there's more. See these wee dots roond the edge?"

He flipped to the accompanying page in his book. "Dots… surrounding a cloud... That changes it." His finger tapped the entry. "Cloud surrounded by dots signifies financial gain. Usually unexpected."

David gave a dry laugh of relief. "Oh, weel tha's good innit? Thought ye were about tae predict a bloody house fire or somethin'."

James smirked and reached for his ma's cup next. "Yer turn, Mam."

Catherine passed it to him without looking up from her knitting. "As long as ye dinnae say a storm's comin', A'll be fine, son."

James once again leaned over, studying the pattern in the bottom.

"Huh," he said, flipping back through the book. "A fish."

Catherine paused. "A fish? In me tea?"

James grinned. "Means good news from afar. Travel. Letters. Messages."

"Ooh, sounds exotic," Catherine said with a smile. "Maybe your Aunt Mhairi's finally sendin' back that recipe she promised."

"Or we're goin' t' the Bahamas," David quipped.

James laughed, snapping his book shut. "We'll see."

Two weeks later, David Kendrick came home with a stunned expression.

"Ye're no' gonna believe this," he said, tossing his satchel on the counter. "They've offered me tenure. Full post. The university board signed off this morning."

James blinked. "Wait, really?"

Catherine whooped, abandoning her laundry basket on the sofa. "Oh, David, that's brilliant! We should celebrate—"

"And," David added with a bemused smile, pulling out a postcard from the side of the envelope, "Your cousin Élodie's invitin' us t' her weddin'. In bloody France. South coast. Says it's gonna be a big affair, beachfront and all."

Catherine gasped, clapping her hands. "A fish in me cup, eh?"

James beamed.

It wasn't exactly crystal balls and prophecy, but he had to admit—it was something.

Even with his tight schedule, the Room of Requirement was making sure he didn't miss out on anything. It really did feel like he was getting a crash course through a magical curriculum most students wouldn't see until they were much older.

He just hoped he could keep up.

A/N: I tried my best with the accents. I'm not Scottish myself, so I looked up resources online for it. Please let me know if you think I can improve it and how. In general, Catherine has the strongest Highland accent as she is a highland girl born and bred. James and David both have less pronounced accents when speaking with each other and other people, but James lets it slip out when talking to his mam to make her more comfortable. The accents will be a lot less pronounced in later chapters with less family interaction.