CHAPTER 38 - THE FIRST TRANSMISSION

The last few weeks leading up to my departure for Hogwarts were weighed down by an unshakable sense of melancholy. No matter how much I tried to distract myself, I couldn't rid my mind of that unsettling feeling—that brief, intoxicating moment of absolute control over another being. The memory of it clung to me like a stain I couldn't scrub off, leaving me restless and disgusted with myself.

I had other ways to handle the situation. Smarter ways. More ethical ways. And yet, I'd chosen the path of brute force, of domination—exactly the kind of thing Voldemort would have done. The only difference? He would have relished it, taken pleasure in the power, and left behind a trail of bodies without a second thought. That knowledge made my stomach churn. I had always prided myself on being different, on standing on the opposite side of that spectrum, yet here I was, haunted by my own actions.

The only thing that managed to dull the gnawing self-loathing was research. It wasn't the healthiest coping mechanism, I knew that, but throwing myself into books and experiments at least kept my mind from spiraling further into self-recrimination.

There was, however, one small glimmer of positivity that emerged from my relentless pursuit of knowledge. In my deep dive into magical transportation methods, I'd finally remembered an unofficial and rather obscure means of travel—Vanishing Cabinets.

Unlike Portkeys or Floo travel, which were either heavily regulated or left behind traces, Vanishing Cabinets operated on a completely different principle. They were crafted from conjoined trees and linked through an intricate network of Runes and Charms, creating a near-instantaneous method of transport between two fixed points.

As soon as the idea took root in my mind, I became obsessed with testing the theory. My research eventually led me to the most infamous pair of cabinets in wizarding history—the one at Hogwarts and its twin at Borgin and Burkes.

I couldn't believe I hadn't considered them sooner. They had been sitting there, waiting to be used, long before Draco Malfoy ever stumbled upon them. If I could get my hands on one, I could study its enchantments, replicate the process, and, most importantly, gain unrestricted access to Hogwarts whenever I needed.

That was where Scott came in. Disguised under a carefully crafted identity, he walked into Borgin and Burkes and negotiated the purchase of the cabinet. A little bit of gold, a few well-placed words, and just like that, I had one half of the equation in my possession.

I stared at the cabinet now, running my fingers lightly over its surface. It looked unassuming, just a battered old wardrobe, but I knew the magic woven into it was anything but ordinary. If I could unlock its secrets before Peeves managed to damage the one at Hogwarts, I'd have a direct pathway into the school at my leisure.

The thought sent a small thrill through me, though it was quickly tempered by a sobering realization—I was once again thinking like a Slytherin, like someone who bent the rules to their advantage.

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head.

"I'm not doing this for anything nefarious," I muttered to myself. "This is just a contingency. A precaution."

Even as I said it, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered, Isn't that what they all say at first?

I shook off the thought and focused on the task at hand.

It took a significant amount of trial and error, but I eventually discovered something fascinating: I could form links not only between conjoined trees—an incredibly rare occurrence—but also between different sections of the same tree or its offshoots. This revelation was a game-changer. It meant that I didn't have to hunt down conjoined trees or spend years searching for the perfect magical specimen. Instead, I could cultivate my own supply.

I suspected that my goal—a simplified version of the Vanishing Cabinets—helped reduce the strain on the magical bond required. I wasn't trying to create a full-scale teleportation system, just a network of small, interconnected cabinets that could instantly transfer messages and objects between each other. Essentially, I was on the verge of inventing the magical equivalent of text messaging—except without the need for any Muggle technology.

Of course, there was still one significant hurdle to overcome: ensuring that the wood used in each cabinet properly connected to the others. The link wouldn't work unless the cabinets were made from the same tree or a direct offshoot. That limitation made things tricky.

I sighed, rubbing my temples as I stared at my notes. "Alright, think. How do I get a sustainable source of interconnected wood?"

My initial thought had been to use California's massive Redwood trees, but that idea was quickly discarded. Not only were they a protected species, but the supply wouldn't be nearly enough for what I had in mind. If I was going to turn this into a large-scale operation, I needed a better alternative—something sustainable, manageable, and, most importantly, magically adaptable.

It wasn't until I stumbled upon an old Japanese forestry technique called daisugi that I finally found my answer.

Daisugi was a centuries-old method of cultivating cedar trees, turning them into living platforms that sprouted new trees from a single base. Essentially, it was like a giant bonsai tree—pruned and maintained to produce genetically identical offshoots. With careful magical enhancement, I could accelerate the process, creating a reliable and renewable source of wood for my vanishing boxes.

I leaned back in my chair, grinning. "That's it. That's the SALution," I muttered, chuckling at my own wordplay.

With this plan in mind, I estimated that I could have my own operation up and running within a year and a half at most. For now, however, I needed to start small. I had to build and test a prototype—a functioning vanishing box that could prove my concept.

The First Test

The final prototype was a compact, simple box crafted from pine. I made four identical copies, labeling them #1 through #4. The design was straightforward: each box had a small panel that slid open and shut, as well as a numbered dial resembling a rotary lock. By turning the dial to the desired number, the user could select which box would receive the message.

"Alright," I muttered, picking up a piece of parchment and scribbling a simple note:

Test 1: If you work, I owe myself a butterbeer.

I folded the parchment neatly and placed it into Box #1. With a deep breath, I turned the dial to #3, pressed my wand gently against the surface, and murmured, "Send."

A faint glow emanated from the tip of my wand, pulsing briefly before fading. At the same time, the box emitted a soft, almost imperceptible chime—like the whisper of a bell in the distance.

Heart pounding, I turned to Box #3.

I hesitated for a moment, my fingers hovering just above the latch of Box #3.

What if it didn't work?

I had run the calculations. I had tested every rune, every charm. Theoretically, everything should function perfectly. But still—there was always that small, nagging doubt.

"Alright… here goes nothing," I muttered under my breath.

With a sharp exhale, I pulled the panel open.

A neatly folded piece of parchment sat inside.

For half a second, I just stared at it, my brain refusing to process what I was seeing. Then, almost in slow motion, I reached down, picked up the note, and unfolded it.

Test 1: If you work, I owe myself a butterbeer.

I did it.

I actually did it.

"YES! Hahaha! I did it!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the walls as pure elation surged through me. I couldn't stop myself—I broke into an impromptu victory dance, laughing as I twirled around my room like a complete madman.

The commotion must have startled Tilly because, a second later, the small house-elf popped into existence beside me with a loud crack.

"Young master! Are you okay?!" she yelped, looking wildly around the room for any signs of danger.

I grinned at her, practically vibrating with excitement. "Oh, Tilly, come here, come here!"

Before she could protest, I grabbed her tiny hand and dragged her toward the set of wooden boxes, my mind racing with all the possibilities of what I had just accomplished.

Tilly blinked, looking down at the unassuming wooden boxes, her large eyes filled with confusion. She turned to me with her head tilted, her expression clearly saying, You woke me up for this?

"Tilly doesn't understand, young master," she said, ears twitching slightly.

"That's okay! These—" I gestured dramatically to my prototypes, "—are what I've been working on for the last month! Instant messaging tools! They can send letters and messages instantly to anyone holding one of these boxes—as long as they know the right number!"

Her eyes widened as realization dawned. Her mouth opened slightly as if to say something, then snapped shut again.

A moment later, her gaze sharpened, and she looked at me with something I could only describe as cautious hope. "So… Tilly won't have to clean up after the owls anymore?" she asked seriously.

Before I could respond, a loud, offended screech came from the corner of the room.

I winced. Oh no.

Artemis, my beautiful but temperamental falcon, fluffed up her feathers in outrage, her sharp eyes locking onto Tilly like she had just declared war.

"Wait, wait, wait—" I said quickly, raising my hands as if to stop an impending duel. "Artemis, you're still my number one delivery bird, alright? This—this is just for convenience! A backup plan! You don't need to feel threatened!"

Artemis let out another piercing screech and flapped her wings dramatically, clearly not convinced.

Tilly, on the other hand, had crossed her arms, looking entirely unbothered. "Tilly thinks young master should replace owls. No more mess."

I groaned, rubbing my temples. "Please, let's not start an interspecies rivalry in my room."

Artemis clicked her beak, looking about two seconds away from stealing something valuable and hiding it out of spite.

I sighed. Great. One successful experiment, and I've already caused a political crisis between my house-elf and my falcon.

Still, I couldn't stop the smile creeping onto my face. The first test had worked. The Vanishing Boxes were functional. And if I could perfect this design, I could revolutionize communication in the wizarding world.

That was a victory worth celebrating—even if it meant bribing Artemis with extra treats later.

Still stroking my sulking falcon, I turned to Tilly, who was watching the exchange with mild disinterest now that she realized her workload wouldn't be significantly reduced.

"Not for small messages and letters," I clarified, still running my fingers over Artemis's smooth feathers, "but owls are still gonna be needed to deliver parcels. Sorry, Tilly. And you—" I turned to Artemis, scratching just under her beak in the way she liked, "—are still my number one messenger. No replacements, I promise."

She let out a short huff and turned her head away, still mildly offended but accepting the olive branch.

(And yeah, I know I don't mention Artemis much, but trust me, she gets used. I send her every week with a letter to my aunt and Susan. If I didn't, a Howler would come for me. Did that once because I lost track of time, and let me tell you—having a blood-red envelope scream at me during breakfast was not the most dignified start to my day. The Slytherins were particularly entertained.)

With Tilly realizing that my invention wasn't going to revolutionize house-elf cleaning duties anytime soon, she quickly lost interest and popped away, leaving me alone with my creation.

I ran my hand along the surface of the prototype, feeling the faint hum of magic beneath my fingers.

Now all that's left is to test for distance and see how well the enchantments hold up over time.

I already had the perfect experiment in mind.

Later that evening, I presented my invention to Aunt Amelia over dinner.

As expected, she was stunned.

"You built this?" she asked, examining one of the wooden boxes carefully, tracing her fingers over the runes etched into the surface. "And it actually works?"

I smirked. "Of course it works. Wouldn't be showing it to you if it didn't."

Amelia gave me a pointed look. "That's debatable. I remember a certain potion experiment last year that ended with the entire study smelling like burnt sugar for a week."

I coughed, pretending I had no memory of the incident. "That was… an outlier. This is solid magic."

She hummed in thought before glancing at me over the rim of her goblet. "I'll admit, this is an impressive application of Vanishing Cabinet magic. It's a wonder no one thought to use them like this before."

"That's what I said," I replied smugly.

Susan, who had been silently listening, perked up in interest. "So… what are you gonna do with them?"

"Well, I was thinking of leaving one with you and Aunt Amelia while I'm at Hogwarts," I explained. "That way, I can test if it can get through the wards. The distance will help me measure stability, and since I won't be in contact with yours for at least six months, I can see how the enchantments hold up over long-term use."

Amelia nodded thoughtfully. "That's good. If this works, it could be useful for a lot of things. Might even replace those ridiculous inter-departmental memos that constantly fly around the Ministry."

I grinned. "If I get a patent for this, I expect a cut from the Ministry's budget."

She snorted. "Good luck with that."

Before I could respond, Susan practically vibrated in her seat, her hands gripping the edges of the table.

"Wait—does that mean I get to write to you more often while you're away?" she asked eagerly, her brown eyes shining with excitement.

I blinked. "Well, if Aunt Amelia agrees, I don't see a problem with it."

"Yay!" Susan cheered, bouncing in her seat.

"Susan," Amelia said, sending her a stern look, "we are at the dinner table. At least wait until everyone is finished before jumping around like that."

Susan immediately sat up straighter, but her wide grin didn't fade.

I chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her hair. "Happy you wanna write to me that much, Suz."

She giggled, leaning into the touch.

That warmth in my chest lingered as I watched Susan practically glow with excitement and Aunt Amelia shake her head in fond exasperation.

"I swear, you two. You pamper her too much, Ares—she'll end up spoiled," Aunt Amelia sighed.

I puffed out my chest proudly. "Little sisters deserve to be pampered by their older brothers. It's an unspoken law of the universe."

"Oh, Merlin," Amelia muttered, rubbing her temples, clearly deciding not to argue further.

But my grin faded as I leaned forward, turning serious. "In all seriousness, though, if this works properly, it could become a major source of income for the family. I'm thinking of investing in it as the heir once I work out all the quirks."

Amelia studied me for a moment before nodding. "Yes, it could become a very good business venture for the Bones family. The ability to send instant messages without an owl or a Patronus will be revolutionary."

I smirked. "It's not the only thing I'm working on, but it's a good start."

Aunt Amelia raised an eyebrow. "You have more inventions like this?"

"For now, most of them are still theoretical, but they're very possible with the right approach," I admitted.

She gave me one of her rare, proud smiles. "I look forward to seeing them, dear."

I rubbed the back of my head, a bit embarrassed but pleased nonetheless. "Heh, I'll make the family proud."

After dinner, I headed straight to my room, closing the door behind me before pulling out a trio of finely crafted ebony boxes.

Unlike my first set of vanishing boxes, these were sleek, compact—made to fit in a pocket rather than sit on a desk. They were closer to the future smartphones I had once known, with a glass-like panel on the front that had been carefully enchanted to bond to its owner.

No one else would be able to read what was inside. Not even if they pried it open.

Behind the glass lay a special piece of parchment—one I had painstakingly treated to function similarly to Tom Riddle's diary, but without any of the nasty sentience. It absorbed ink and saved what was written on it, allowing messages to be reviewed later.

It was a blend of two inspirations: the Marauder's Map and the cursed diary.

Except mine wasn't cursed. Just brilliant.

These advanced versions of the vanishing boxes were for me and my two most trusted aides. No one else would even know they existed—not even after I unveiled the standard model to the public.

Satisfied with my work, I sealed two of the ebony devices and turned to Artemis, who was perched on her stand, eyeing me suspiciously.

"You up for a delivery, girl?" I asked, holding up the packages.

Artemis let out a sharp screech, ruffling her feathers as if to say "Of course, you dare question me?"

I chuckled. "I'll take that as a yes."

Tying the packages securely to her leg, I ran my fingers down her back soothingly before opening the window.

"One to each of them. You know the drill."

Artemis bobbed her head once before spreading her powerful wings and taking off into the night.

I watched her disappear into the distance, a satisfied smirk creeping onto my face.

This was just the beginning.

The wheels were in motion now, and there was no turning back. The moment she was out of sight, I exhaled slowly, letting the night air cool my thoughts. The weight of anticipation settled on my shoulders, but it was not a burden—it was a promise of things to come.

A few hours later, she returned as expected. I wasted no time and sent her the detailed instructions on how to operate the messengers—yes, that's what I would call this model—and the memory parchment. The enchantments were complex but intuitive, designed for seamless communication and storage of crucial information.

Not long after, I received confirmation from both of them.

"Understood. This will be useful."

"Got it. Testing it now—impressive work."

A small chuckle escaped my lips. Of course, it was impressive. I had spent months refining these tools, ensuring they were not just functional but exceptional. Their quick understanding reassured me that I had chosen the right people.

With that settled, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge the exhaustion creeping in. Tomorrow was a significant day. The day I returned to Hogwarts.

The last year before Potter and his friends arrived. The last year before everything started going to shit.

I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled deeply. "One more year of peace," I muttered to myself, though I knew better than to believe in such a thing.

Still, I intended to make it productive. I had plans to execute, knowledge to gain, and power to solidify. Hogwarts was a battlefield long before the war officially began, and I had every intention of ensuring that I was prepared for whatever came next.

With one final glance at the parchment, I secured it in my belongings. "SAL, keep watch," I murmured, and my faithful falcon ruffled its feathers in response.

Sigh.

Tomorrow, the game truly began.

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