Log in Register

Remove this ad space

If you are interested in interactive stories, check out our Quests section! With Quests, readers get to vote on what happens next after every chapter.

The thread list user interface for Creative Writing and Quests has been updated. Here's what's new!

Creative Writing

Hydrargyrum (Harry Potter x Fate Insert)

Thread starter Johnny_Z Start date Jan 20, 2025 Tags fate series (nasuverse) wizarding world au transmigration (isekai) translation

Created

Jan 20, 2025

Status

Ongoing

Watchers

630

Recent readers

0

Threadmarks

18

Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi—the ninth head of a venerable magus family, respected lecturer, renowned researcher, and an arrogant PoS (like most magi in the Fate universe)—finds himself thrust into the Wizarding World after his defeat in the Holy Grail War.

Original story written by Hind-24 - "Hydrargyrum"

Threadmarks Informational

Statistics (17 threadmarks, 100k words)

Threadmarks

Hide awards Reader mode RSS

Chapter 1 (prologue)

Words 2.9k

Jan 20, 2025

Chapter 2

Words 4.3k

Jan 22, 2025

New

Chapter 14

Words 6.3k

Mar 7, 2025

New

Interlude 14.5 (Master or Apprentice)

Words 4.6k

Mar 7, 2025

New

Chapter 15

Words 7.4k

Mar 15, 2025

1 of 2

Next

Last

Threadmarks

Informational

View content

Remove this ad space

Threadmarks Chapter 1 (prologue)

View content

Johnny_Z

Jan 20, 2025

#1

"So now the geas binds you…" leadingly said the paralyzed former magus, sitting in a wheelchair, clutching a wounded girl tightly against his chest.

"Yes, it is sealed. I can no longer kill you or Sola-Ui…" the tall man replied emotionlessly. He wore a trench coat over a rumpled dark suit and held a submachine gun loosely in his hands, its barrel pointed at the ground. After a brief pause, he added with the same indifference, "I can't but…"

From the far side, a short burst of gunfire crackled, the echo reverberating through the inner courtyard of the abandoned factory. The magus—powerless, unable to walk, and long since resigned to abandoning his ambitions and the will to fight—slumped from his wheelchair onto the dirty concrete floor. Even after half a dozen bullets tore into his chest, he clung to life. To his own despair.

"Kill me… Kill me now…"

"Sorry, our pact forbids me to," said the man, whose actions had brought about this ruin, his voice as flat as before.

The last thing the magus saw was the gleam of a beautifully radiant golden sword, as though pulled straight from the pages of a knightly legend.

Kayneth Archibald, Lord El-Melloi, a ninth-generation magus and the youngest professor at the Clock Tower, snapped his eyes open. He bolted upright, tossing aside the thin blanket that tangled around him.

He blinked in confusion, taking in his surroundings. The dim evening light revealed a cramped, shabby room filled with narrow beds. The air reeked of medicine, bleach, and… bedbugs? It was a hospital. A mundane one, no doubt—judging by the faded, overwashed gray curtains, the grimy windows, and the scuffed floor covered in muddy footprints.

Kayneth wasn't surprised. He'd always considered this country an uncultured backwater. But the English signs everywhere made him pause. Was he no longer in Japan?

Surely, much time must have passed. Surviving that cowardly betrayal—by a man who dared call himself a magus despite possessing no honor—was a miracle in itself. Someone from the Archibald family must have brought him back to England. But why had they sent him to this wretched place for treatment? The Holy Grail War had drained their finances, yes, but not so thoroughly that the head of the Archibald family would be dumped into a charity ward for beggars.

If I survived… could Sola have made it too?

A flicker of hope flared as Kayneth searched the room once more. Empty beds. Peeling paint. No one was here. He stood alone in the middle of the room. From somewhere distant came the low murmur of voices, the muffled hum of activity, and the relentless ticking of a clock on the wall.

"Standing?" he thought, his mind catching up to his body. How am I even…?

The absurdity of it all made him speak aloud. His gaze dropped to his bare feet planted firmly on the grimy, stained floor—filthy, yes, but suddenly the last thing on his mind.

Lord El-Melloi knew he would never walk again. The injuries that had obliterated his magic circuits had severed his nerves beyond repair.

And these legs weren't his.

Neither were his hands—too small, too thin, too filthy. His right hand showed no trace of scars he remembered. His clothes were just as strange: only a ragged tank top and underwear, both worn and stained. The stitching was crude and amateurish. A month ago, he would have berated a servant for mopping the floor with rags like these.

Already dreading the answer, Kayneth shuffled to the cracked mirror hanging on the far wall. His reflection stared back at him—gray eyes, fair hair that hadn't been washed in weeks, and a bruised, swollen face. He was a boy of about ten, with a nose that had once been broken and never properly set. His lips were split, fresh scratches lined his cheek, and the faint stink of chemicals clung to his skin.

Not me, Kayneth thought. Not even close.

He raised his hand and traced the rune for "Perthro," then "Ehwaz." The boy in the mirror mimicked him perfectly.

A lesser magus might have screamed in terror. A novice would have collapsed in panic.

Kayneth Archibald, next in line to head the Faculty of Spiritual Evocation, simply shrugged.

This wasn't the first—or the hundredth—time he had inhabited another body. Control of familiars, spirit possession, and the repair of deep soul damage, all the things he's done many times before, all required intimate knowledge of operating from within another form.

Nothing unusual, he mused. Not my body. Not my soul. Almost no trace of the boy's spirit left.

Guiding the small, malnourished frame with ease, he crossed to the window. He braced his thin hands against the ledge—higher than he was used to, annoyingly so—and ignored the dust, cobwebs, and greenish stains.

He had bigger concerns.

Gray skies loomed over a bleak London courtyard. Dead leaves clung to the ground in patches of half-melted snow. A crooked oak tree rose near a rusting fence, its paint flaking away.

It all seemed familiar. But Kayneth couldn't afford to dwell on scenery.

Two months ago, he had left the Clock Tower to compete in a deadly ritual held once every sixty years in the Far East. The prize? A relic capable of granting any wish.

The relic itself held little appeal. Kayneth had almost everything he could want.

No, three other reasons had drawn him in.

First, as a scholar of spiritual phenomena, he couldn't resist a ritual that summoned not minor spirits but legendary heroes.

Second, he craved a worthy challenge. The duels of the Clock Tower had grown stale, with no opponents left to truly test his mettle. The Grail War offered the chance to battle magi to the death.

And third? He wanted to show off. His fiancee needed to see what he could do in combat, after all.

Winning the Grail? A gift for her.

But the Grail War had gone wrong from the start.

A witless student had stolen his catalyst, forcing him to buy a replacement for an obscene price, and even that was unreliable. His Servant, a useless poser, had thrown his entire strategy into disarray. Then a cowardly ambush cost him his resources, artifacts, and safe house.

His attempt to uphold the dignity of the Tower ended with a knife in the back and loss of magic.

Sola had fought on in his place—but without his experience or talent, disaster was inevitable.

And disaster had come.

A spray of bullets to his chest.

A final blow from a sword.

Few men could say they'd been beheaded by Excalibur.

But none of that answered the main question—why was he here?

"James! James Victor Murphy, would you care to explain what in the devil's name you're doing out of bed, you little pest?!" a raspy, almost growling voice snapped from behind.

The odd combination of vulgar scolding and a thin veneer of politeness left Kayneth momentarily at a loss—no one had ever addressed him in such a manner. Still, he had to remember that the angry tirade wasn't aimed at him, but at the brat whose body he currently occupied. He turned toward the door and beheld something truly remarkable—in the worst possible way.

A tall, gaunt woman with a sickly gray complexion stood there, draped in ancient, shapeless rags that hung on her like a sack. Her lifeless eyes and sallow face made Kayneth think he'd seen more charming ghouls and reanimated deads (1) than this creature. To top it all off, her unkempt hair was dyed a faded, pale lilac for reasons he couldn't even begin to fathom.

And then, in that moment of grotesque revelation, Kayneth Archibald remembered everything.

He realized where he was.

"I... I think I've managed to replicate True Magic. The Einzberns will die of envy when they find out..."

"What nonsense are you muttering, you parasite? Hit your head harder than usual, did you?" the growling voice came again.

"No, ma'am. I apologize, ma'am. I just wanted to see if I could stand, ma'am," Kayneth said, his words half-truth. Now that he had confirmed his need to buy time, he decided to avoid drawing attention to himself. He would play the part of the terrified, downtrodden orphan—a cowering wretch bullied by teachers and caretakers. It was a humiliating act, but he conjured the memory of the stern tutors who had drilled the basics of magecraft into him twenty-five years ago. Keeping his eyes locked in a "submissive" stare, he sidled backward toward his cot.

"You watch yourself, you little wretch," the woman snarled. "If that bump on your head's not bad enough, I'll give you another—harder. Crawl out of bed again, and you won't see summer before you're walking straight. You've got a real habit of testing my patience..."

"M-m-ma'am," Kayneth stammered, injecting as much simpering obsequiousness into his voice as he could manage, "please forgive my questions, but could you tell me what happened to me? I can't seem to remember anything..."

"You fell down the stairs. Head first. By the time Stevenson found you, you'd been lying there for hours. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't die on the spot."

Liar.

Now that his shock was receding, Kayneth could fully feel the injuries in this body. The pattern of bruises, the loose teeth, the hematomas—even what felt like a cracked rib—pointed to something far more deliberate than a simple fall. Someone had beaten the boy senseless. Incompetently, perhaps, but with brutal enthusiasm. Even without a diagnostic spell, Kayneth could tell. Not that he cared much about the plight of battered orphans.

This place—some municipal orphanage named for Saint Barbara or Agnes (he was never good with religious trivia)—had been selected by him years ago. Back then, he had just become a lecturer in Spiritual Evocation, gaining access to its archives and the latest research. Among the materials he had unearthed was a ritual to create a "beacon," a construct of energy that could guide a magus' soul to the nearest suitable body if forcibly ejected. Since summoning often required sharing one's body with volatile spirits, precautions like these were only prudent.

Having prepared the reagents and studied the theory, Kayneth had instructed one of the Archibald family servants to take him to a squalid orphanage across London's slums—a place where no one would think to look for him, and where the fate of the local children was of no consequence. He had remembered the decrepit building well: a relic from the Victorian era that looked more like a pigsty. He had never seen a pigsty, but he imagined this was what one would look like.

It was here, while cloaked in invisibility and warding the area with a repellent barrier, that he had first laid eyes on the shrieking, cadaverous woman with the violet hair. She had been berating a group of malnourished, ragged children, no older than toddlers. Her visage was unforgettable.

But that was the least of his concerns now. The key point was this: whether his physical body was still lying in some abandoned factory in the Japanese countryside or not, his soul and consciousness had survived. A feat previously thought possible only through the Third True Magic—the long-lost art of the Einzberns.

Moreover, Archibald familiars kept watch over the orphanage. They would have relayed his soul's reattachment. His family would surely come to retrieve him soon enough.

"Ma'am," he ventured, "please forgive the questions, but—how long have I been here? When did I... fall? What's the date today?"

"Two days," she grunted, jabbing a grimy, blackened nail at a garish bit of cardboard in the corner. A calendar, Kayneth realized, which he hadn't noticed before. "You fell on the evening of the eleventh. Today's the thirteenth. Any more dumb questions, James?"

"No... ma'am. I understand perfectly, ma'am. Thank you for your kindness... ma'am."

"Stay in bed till the nurse comes by, or I'll tie you down, you little freak," she threatened before slamming the ancient door shut with a creak.

"James Murphy" remained obediently in place, eyes fixed on the calendar.

The year read March 1992.

When Kayneth Archibald, Lord El-Melloi, had arrived in Japan just days earlier to participate in the Grail War, he had registered at a luxury hotel on March 6th, 1994.

Kayneth could barely sit still, vibrating with anticipation as he waited for someone—anyone—from the Archibald family's servants to appear. The thrill that had seized him upon realizing the two-year gap between this time and the Grail War was almost too much to contain.

The possibilities raced through his mind. He could prevent the entire nightmare from unfolding—warn his past self about everything that would happen, convince or compel himself to take proper precautions. He would never bring Sola-Ui into that bloodbath. He could challenge that upstart Velvet to a duel beforehand and carve him into pieces, ensuring the thief would never dream of stealing from his professor. He could prepare for not only fair combat but also the underhanded tricks of bombs and guns.

His mind raced with strategies and contingencies, a long list of everything he had to tell his past self growing by the second. So caught up was he in his plans that he didn't even notice how much time had passed—nor that no one had come for him before darkness fell.

The beacon's malfunction—possibly a side effect of the strange temporal shift—meant the ritual's signaling circuit may not have worked. And from inside the orphanage, he was in no condition to sense its activation.

But there were other ways to get a message out.

All he needed to do was sneak out of the infirmary after dark, skulk (a humiliating necessity) through the dilapidated corridors, and find the ancient rotary telephone by the hallway. From there, he would simply call his own estate.

Kayneth, despite his disdain for modern technology, appreciated its convenience and comfort. His home did have a phone. However, when he dialed the number, the voice that answered belonged not to a servant but to a bleary pizza parlor worker, who indignantly demanded to know why some lunatic was ordering food at two in the morning.

Were he not inhabiting the malnourished frame of a starving child, Kayneth would have crushed the receiver in his fist.

Convinced he had merely misremembered the digits—or that some idiot servant had pulled a malicious prank—he began cycling through other numbers: several magi who embraced modern conveniences, half a dozen Clock Tower contact lines for interfacing with mundane authorities or the Church, a couple of numbers directly linked to the Church's overseers, and even the home number of his would-be father-in-law, Professor Nuada-Re.

All of it was in vain. Some numbers were disconnected. Strangers answered others. One line belonged to some "Auror's office", where a polite receptionist asked him to state his business.

Already feeling the ground slipping away beneath his feet, the former Lord El-Melloi dashed out into the orphanage courtyard, barely clothed. He couldn't even remember how he had unlocked the door—just a vague recollection of the recoil from a weak magical pulse lingered in his mind. Finding the right spot wasn't difficult. Years ago, he had circled this decrepit shack several times, carefully selecting the best location to place his beacon.

Dropping to his knees, Kayneth began clawing at the icy, mud-slicked ground with his bare hands, the earth still mixed with patches of melting snow. He strained every ounce of his now-feeble magical power, desperately seeking the traces of his ritual and the energy structure buried a meter beneath the surface.

But it was all in vain. He could barely sense the natural magical background, faint as a whisper, and only marginally stronger was the distant hum of the city's leyline, miles away. The beacon—meant to resonate with the power he had infused into it years before—was silent. Completely, utterly gone.

No repelling enchantments to keep animals at bay. No wards to divert prying eyes. No signal arrays, no central structure to the spell. Nothing remained. On this spot, where even an ordinary person should have felt an inexplicable, subconscious unease from lingering magic, there was nothing but cold, unfeeling soil.

The conclusion was undeniable—this was a different world.

A world where he had never performed that ritual in these slums.

A world where Kayneth Archibald, ninth head of a venerable family of magi, respected lecturer, and renowned researcher, did not exist.

A world without Sola-Ui Nuada-Re, his fiancee and the daughter of the head of the Third Faculty of the Clock Tower.

A world where neither the Clock Tower nor the Mage's Association existed in the form he knew.

And that meant…

It had all been for nothing.

There was nothing to reclaim.

And nothing to fix.

Author is aware that orphanages were phased out in the UK after WW2 but if Rowling's universe doesn't have child protective services that would check on Harry, then it is quite possible that orphanages didn't get shut down either.

The proper term for "zombies" in Fate/Zero universe

Original story written by Hind-24 - "Hydrargyrum"

Thank you for granting permission and helping with the translation, Hind!

Spoiler: Permission

The story was recommended by Worm_of_Time on QQ

Last edited: Jan 20, 2025

157

Johnny_Z

Jan 20, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 2

View content

Johnny_Z

Jan 22, 2025

#13

I meant to post this yesterday but couldn't. So today I'll be posting 2 chapters. One right now and another one later in the evening.

That was how the watchman found him the next morning—sitting at the bottom of a pit, filthy from head to toe, frozen stiff, and with his hands scraped raw and bleeding. More adults arrived, shouting something he barely registered. Some even struck him a few times, but Kayneth remained indifferent, locked in stupor.

The memories of the war—where he had lost everything he held dear, including the only person he had ever truly loved—came crashing down on him. His death at the hands of a backstabbing worm, his soul transported into this vermin-ridden body, his brief flicker of hope extinguished by overwhelming despair—it was all too much. Even for a man as strong-willed and determined as he had once been.

Truth be told, Kayneth had already been broken back in that factory ruin, when he abandoned all hope of regaining his magecraft or ever rising from his wheelchair. He had given up everything to save Sola—admitted defeat for the first time in his life. And not against a worthy foe, but to a despicable coward with a gun.

Everything that happened after that had merely been the final blow.

For two full days, the magus lay there, eyes fixed on a single point. People came and went. They slapped his face, waved ammonia under his nose, tried to force medicine down his throat—but none of it made any difference. He felt nothing. Nothing mattered. Let them fuss around him—what of it?

Left like that, he might have stayed catatonic for years. Eventually, they would ship him off to an asylum, or something even worse. No one in the orphanage would waste time or resources tending to someone in such a state.

In fact, it was surprising they had even bothered to call an outside doctor for a boy like him. The man didn't seem like a specialist in catatonia—just a general neurologist from the nearest charity hospital, judging by his worn, inexpensive clothing. The doctor shone a flashlight into his eyes, asked a few meaningless questions, likely hoping for any sort of reaction.

And then, without warning, Kayneth politely asked if the distinguished gentleman's surname might be Archibald.

The doctor—who introduced himself as Kevin Watson—looked eerily like Morgan Archibald, Kayneth's father and the eighth head of the Archibald family. Of course, Morgan would have been nearly seventy by 1992, while this doctor seemed, at most, in his early fifties. Perhaps he was some distant relative.

But the name "Archibald" clearly meant nothing to him.

Still, the sluggish gears in Kayneth's mind began to turn again. Thoughts, slow at first, picked up speed.

'Even if this is another reality, the mundane world looks identical to ours. They speak English here, so Britain hasn't been conquered by the French, Germans, or Russians in this timeline. This orphanage was built in the 19th century just like ours; the trees in the yard are planted in the same pattern, and even that monster of a caretaker was hired some years ago. The phone numbers I dialed exist—their structure and even the phones themselves are the same.

I need more information. At the very least, I should find out the names of the queen and the prime minister. Better yet, visit a few places in London I frequented before. So far, it looks like the two worlds are similar enough—except here, I never left a beacon in those ruins, and the entire Clock Tower seems... off. Perhaps the Association avoids interfering in mundane politics, so while the 'normal world' remains similar, its magical counterpart could be very different. But if there's magic here, there must be magi.

There are two possibilities: either magus Kayneth Archibald exists here but lives elsewhere—say, Egypt, if the Atlas Institute leads the Association in this world—or everything is different, and somewhere here exists an ordinary man named Kayneth Archibald… or someone with a completely different name. The same goes for Sola and everyone else I knew. Either way, my knowledge of the 'future' is useless. If anyone needs saving, it won't be from an Einzbern mercenary or a traitorous student. My goal is clear: find the local Mage's Association and figure out where it stands. Only then can I secure my rightful place there. Ideally, I'll reconnect with my family, if it even exists in this world, though that seems... unlikely.'

"Easier said than done," he muttered bitterly. "True Magic replicated... the Einzberns would die of envy... Arrogant fool. Thought I was one of the Five Great Magicians. Look where that got me."

These words came from Kayneth Archibald—or rather, James Murphy, a ten-year-old orphan in this world. He sat on a dusty attic floor by a small window with shattered panes, staring out at the familiar sight of London. The drafts and the stench wafting up from the orphanage's so-called "kitchen" didn't bother him. Getting here hadn't been hard—just a matter of stealing an old bronze key, green with age. His faint remnants of magical power had been just enough for that. There was nowhere else to go after leaving the infirmary—shared toilets, overcrowded dormitories crammed with dozens, activities and walks dictated by strict schedules.

Frankly, he was lucky the boy whose body he now inhabited had magical potential. Without it, the ritual likely would have failed entirely, his soul unable to find a suitable vessel. Instead, it would have been drawn straight to the Root. The fact that his soul had crossed into another world no longer surprised him.

For one, he knew someone—if that being could still be called human—who wielded True Magic capable of traversing worlds. Perhaps that individual had interfered in his fate, spiteful that Kayneth had once refused to become his apprentice. Secondly, the beacon ritual he had used was spiritual in nature, tied to a contract with spirits. Spirits, by their nature, interact with worlds differently, and finding no suitable host in one world, they might carry a soul to another. Finally, there was the dying "blessing" of that heroic spirit, a familiar of the highest order with gods in his lineage. Such a curse couldn't simply be shrugged off.

One way or another, this was a different world, and he had no choice but to accept it. If there were a mystery here that could bring him back, he would have to find it through the Mage Association. He had lost everything—but magic was his purpose, and now he had it again.

Kayneth stretched out his hand—dirty, scratched, with two nails torn off—and focused, trying to open his magic circuits and perform basic healing. Nothing happened, not on the first try or the second. In his past life, he had been born into a magus family and possessed numerous magic circuits of exceptional quality. He had begun training in the family arts at five, the same age his father started transferring the Archibald crest to him—a mark containing the knowledge and skills of past family heads.

It had been painful, at times unbearable, but Kayneth endured it, understanding his duty as an heir. When he officially became the head of the family, he strengthened the crest further, adding new spells to it. All of that was destroyed when that cursed bullet struck him, burning his circuits with his own magecraft, crippling his nervous system, and leaving him nearly paralyzed. Even if the Association's enforces retrieved his body and salvaged the crest, they would be lucky to recover a tenth of its power for the next head. Who that might be was anyone's guess. Reines was too young, and the others would likely fight over the family's secrets and wealth rather than take on the responsibility of becoming Lord El-Melloi.

Of course, there was nothing more Kayneth could do to change his circumstances now. His priority had shifted to attempting a crude magical operation using the pitiful scraps of power at his disposal. In this world, James Murphy obviously didn't have a family crest, had never studied magical arts, and it was still unclear just how pitifully inadequate the magic circuits tied to his body and soul were, courtesy of unknown parents.

"Well, at least it's something..." Kayneth rasped after his tenth attempt. Pain coursed through the body—a sharp, familiar agony caused by forcing several undeveloped magic circuits to open at once. His palm glowed faintly as scratches and bruises vanished. The physical body reconstructed the spiritual image of the hand as it was before sustaining those injuries.

However, the nails didn't regenerate—he didn't have enough power. The circuits stayed open only briefly before snapping shut again, completely depleted. Just a week ago, in his own body, Kayneth could have healed a bullet wound with a flick of his wrist, wiped away the blood, and even restored damaged clothing. Now, he had barely managed to seal a few cuts. Pathetic.

The underdeveloped magic system of this body wasn't the only factor to blame. Mundane issues, like hunger, likely played a role as well. Kayneth couldn't stomach the slop they served the orphans—just the sight of it made him retch. The others probably thought it was the result of a concussion and subsequent nervous breakdown. Or maybe they didn't care. Their opinions meant nothing to him.

One way or another, he needed to leave this orphanage. Staying here would only lead to death—either from starvation, pneumonia due to constant drafts, or from a shiv to the ribs courtesy of one of the "lovely" children. James's battered face was no coincidence, and it likely wasn't the first time. Two monumental tasks, with barely any resources to accomplish them.

Sighing, the magus rose and trudged toward the hatch leading downstairs, trying not to inhale the dust swirling up with his steps. It was almost time for "dinner," and there'd be trouble if the adults didn't find Murphy among the children.

On his way, Kayneth once again tried to devise a plan for the near future. Locating the local Association proved unexpectedly difficult in his current situation. How would he, as a rootless amateur in "his" London, go about finding the Clock Tower without knowing its address or the names of its magi?

The simplest option would be to break secrecy—demonstrate his magecraft in front of ordinary people, preferably in a park, a plaza, or even on live television. As long as enough eyes witness him they'd come for him quickly. Of course, he'd only be lucky if they didn't erase him and the witnesses under the guise of another "gas explosion." Especially if the Church got to him before the Association. Ignorance of the rules offered no protection from the consequences…

A sudden blow to the back of his head sent his thoughts scattering. The world flipped, and Kayneth regained awareness lying on a filthy, mold-covered floor.

Three older boys loomed over him. One rubbed his knuckles, evidently the one who'd struck.

"What're you staring at, freak? Didn't get enough last time? We can fix that, can't we, boys?" The leader sneered and kicked James in the ribs.

"Yeah, crush the mutant! Don't want to catch whatever he's got," another boy jeered, delivering a kick to the face. Kayneth barely raised his hand in time, and the dirty boot only grazed him.

"Hey, let me have a go!" the third chimed in. The trio descended into a frenzy, raining kicks down on Murphy's body.

If I die here, this'll be the stupidest death imaginable, Kayneth thought with almost detached clarity. The pain was tolerable—nothing compared to what magi endured during training or high-level rituals. The humiliation and the familiar sense of helplessness were far worse.

Not long ago, he'd lain on the floor in a pool of mercury and his own blood, unable to feel his numbed body, struggling just to breathe. And now, these fools might actually kill him.

"Hey! What're you doing?" one of the boys exclaimed, startled, as James suddenly grabbed his leg.

"Oh, nothing... Want to see a neat trick, you little runt?" Kayneth rasped, smearing blood from his cracked lips onto the boy's leg. A simple straight line was all he needed. He poured the remnants of his magical energy into the rune, thankful that the "Isaz" symbol was so easy to draw. In his semi-conscious state, anything more complex would've been impossible.

"What the hell are you babbling about, freak?" another boy snapped, landing another kick that sent Kayneth sprawling against the wall.

Then the first boy screamed. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his leg.

"I can't feel my legs! What did you do, you bastard?!"

"Just… frostbite," the magus said indifferently, glancing at the boy's pale, frostbitten skin visible through the tears in his tattered pants. "Second degree. If you idiots drag him to the infirmary right now, they might save his leg. It'll just hurt like hell when it thaws."

"You think you're invincible, freak?" the third boy snarled, raising his fist.

"Go ahead, don't rush," Kayneth taunted with a deranged grin. "The longer you hesitate, the more likely your friend gets to enjoy a wheelchair. Trust me, you get used to it. One day you have legs, the next you don't—it happens."

"You're dead, freak," one of the boys hissed, slinging their screaming friend's arm over his shoulder. "We'll drown you in the toilet."

"Try me," the magus called after them. He slumped against the wall, assessing his condition.

He had no energy left for even the simplest healing. He'd have to endure the pain until nightfall—or longer. The minuscule reserve he'd used barely fueled the rune. In truth, the frostbite was barely first-degree. At this age, his past self could have completely frozen someone. But dwelling on past glory was pointless when he faced immediate problems.

Today, he might have bought himself some time. Tomorrow? The day after? He had to leave the orphanage, or his second chance would end in stupidity. These children weren't bluffing—they'd drown him if given the chance.

A strong magus could take on dozens, even hundreds of normal humans—or soldiers with weapons. But doing so required preparation: a fortified location, mystic codes, bounded fields, a full reserve of magical energy and a few magical furnaces. Fighting without those was a recipe for failure and a senseless death.

The next day's escape attempt failed. His plan required at least two distinct magical actions, but the pitiful body he inhabited could barely generate enough energy in a full day for one, even with his constant efforts to rebuild the nearly atrophied magical circuits. As a result, Kayneth spent the entire day ensuring he stayed in plain sight of the orphanage staff or surrounded by large groups of children—cowardly and shameful, but he had no other choice.

The situation grew more complicated when rumors spread about the boy, Murphy, who had ended up in the infirmary with frostbite. Other children, labeled as "weird" like him, avoided him outright. That day, Archibald chose not to spend any magic on healing his injuries. Instead, by evening, he poured all the magic he had accumulated into a simple ritual. Using a nail pried loose from the attic, he scratched an alchemical circle onto the back gate of the orphanage's fence. It was crude and painfully simplistic, but without proper materials or tools, it was the best he could manage.

A day later, during a walk, the magus casually approached the rusty gate, placing his palm on his magic circle to activate it. Sealed power surged forth, altering reality to conform to the symbols and diagrams etched into the decrepit iron. The change was subtle but effective: for a couple of seconds, the metal lock softened, turning from solid to viscous. The magus yanked the gate open and dashed outside, trying to recall the quickest route to the main street.

Navigating the alleyways, he prayed none of the caretakers or those brutish little thugs who would gladly beat the "freak" to death without witnesses were on his trail. After a few twists and turns, he emerged onto a narrow asphalt road lined with dilapidated houses, relics of better days. Dodging a couple of clunking old cars typical of the area, Kayneth spotted an empty taxi. He raised his hand in a practiced gesture.

"Kid, you got money for this?" the driver asked with a disdainful glance at the battered and scruffy boy.

"More than enough, don't worry," the magus replied, waving a few torn scraps of free newspapers scavenged from the orphanage. At the same time, he cast a hypnotic spell. As usual, his magic in this body required him to channel all his reserves into one strong impulse, opening every accessible channel. It wasn't perfect, but all he needed was to make the greedy driver see fifty-pound notes. The rest—Sir Christopher Wren, St. Paul's Cathedral, the watermarks—would be filled in by the man's own imagination.

"Fine, hop in. And I won't ask where you nicked those."

"Whittington Hospital. Quickly," Kayneth ordered as he climbed in. Curse this body and its short stature—every movement was a strain. "I'll pay extra for urgency."

Archibald sighed, watching the familiar streets and landmarks of London pass by. It was astounding how much this world resembled his own, yet its magical underbelly was entirely different. Surely there were secrets here—laboratories, workshops, or magus inns concealed behind barriers invisible to ordinary people. Right now, however, he couldn't sense them, as blind to them as any mundane fool. That had to change, and soon.

"Here we are, Whittington Hospital. That'll be—"

"Keep the change." Kayneth tossed the bundle of paper onto the seat and bolted from the cab. The hospital doors were just twenty paces away. He nearly sprinted the entire distance.

"Hey, you little shit! Stop right there!" the driver shouted after him.

But the magus had already pushed through the heavy doors (far too resistant for someone his size) and entered the familiar hospital lobby. Normally, he came here once a month or so with his advanced students. They needed practice in spiritual healing, and sick magi weren't abundant enough for all the trainees. It had been simpler to strike a deal with a local doctor—a fabricated story about a secret medical research institute, reinforced with hypnosis. No one missed the vagrants brought in from the streets if a novice healer botched a spell. Now, however, he was one of those filthy outcasts—a disgrace to the Archibald name. If any of his colleagues saw him like this...

Spotting the reception desk, the magus made it just past a few doctors and patients before collapsing face-first onto the cold stone floor. He hardly needed to act; exhaustion from the past few days in this body was enough to make him lose consciousness the moment he let his guard down. They wouldn't kill him here. He'd wake up either in a hospital bed or behind bars.

The police weren't called, and he wasn't thrown in jail. When the magus woke up the following afternoon, a doctor gave him an extended lecture about his inappropriate behavior, stealing, and lying. The man even mentioned that they'd paid the taxi driver themselves this time because it was an emergency, but warned him not to try such stunts again. Kayneth nodded weakly, feigning remorse, even mumbling an apology or two. When the farce grew tiresome, he simulated dizziness, disorientation, and nausea—textbook symptoms of a concussion. Faking these signs was child's play for an experienced healer.

Left alone, he finally took in his surroundings. A cramped, six-bed ward for the homeless and destitute. The peeling paint, ancient ceiling lamps, and overall shabbiness screamed "budget care," but compared to the orphanage infirmary, this place was practically a palace.

His fellow patients didn't interest him—at least they weren't trying to bash his head in, which was good enough. For now, he needed rest. The fights at the orphanage had left him battered, and he required a quiet space to meditate, retrain his magic circuits, and plan his next steps. He had a lead on finding this world's Mage's Association but lacked backup plans. Worse, he hadn't solved the mundane issues of money or shelter. The orphanage at least provided a roof and rotting cabbage for sustenance. Once discharged, he'd have nothing.

For a scion of House Archibald, accustomed to power and privilege, this was an unthinkable nightmare. Even in Japan, he could have swallowed his pride and returned to London for financial or magical aid. Here, there was no family, no safety net. Nothing. Still, as long as he had his magic, there was hope.

The magus spent three days in the hospital, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts. The meals were barely edible, but compared to the slop at the orphanage, they were almost gourmet. Kayneth grimaced at the realization of how low his standards had sunk in just a few days. Something had to change.

Most of his time was spent in "sleep"—meditating, stabilizing his magic circuits, and healing his injuries. He focused on the cracks in his ribs and bruised internal organs, which mundane medicine would take weeks to fix. Cuts and scrapes could be left to the hospital staff, as could dehydration and malnutrition. His weakened immune system would need separate attention later. Rationally, it made sense to conserve his limited magical reserves, but his body's circuits could only store so much, and he lacked the necessary materials to create proper storage devices.

At night, he carefully explored the hospital under hypnosis, even venturing into restricted areas. Slowly, a plan began forming in his mind—a way to secure the funds he so desperately needed. For now, though, it was more of a rough sketch than a fully developed strategy.

Several times, they tried to question him casually. A police officer came by, asking about the orphanage. Kayneth answered honestly, hiding nothing. Yes, they were fed slop; yes, the mattresses were infested with bugs, thicker than even the cockroaches; yes, he had been beaten multiple times by other children. But when asked for the names of the director or caretakers, or even the orphanage's exact name or address, he truthfully couldn't recall, only vaguely naming the district. What would happen to that wretched place no longer concerned him. Whether the entire staff ended up in prison or continued as if nothing had changed, it wouldn't matter. He wouldn't be there. The rest was irrelevant.

Early in the morning of the fourth day, Archibald used the magic power he had accumulated overnight to convince a nurse to return his now slightly cleaner rags. His excuse? That he was being officially discharged. After that, all he had to do was bide his time, lingering in the hospital corridors for a couple of hours before slipping out through the main doors, blending into the sparse morning crowd. Waiting for an official discharge wasn't an option. In his current situation, the most he could expect was another orphanage, perhaps marginally better than the last one, but still unsuitable for a magus. Worse, who knew where it might be located or whether Archibald could escape it again to make his way back to central London?

Wittington Hospital hadn't been chosen by chance. Beyond his familiarity with it in his own world, the hospital sat near one of London's largest ley-line intersections.

Walking slowly through the still-quiet streets, Kayneth had the chance to glance around while simultaneously attuning his senses to the increasing magical energy in the air. Ley lines—natural "rivers" of Earth's magical energy—were once widely recognized when magic was an integral part of everyday life. Back then, many could feel their presence and direction, and temples or fortresses were often built at their intersections. These sites were commonly protected by magical barriers, fueled naturally by the ley lines themselves. Over time, settlements formed around such places, first as villages and later as cities.

In cities older than 500 years, at least one ley-line intersection often lies at the heart. These locations frequently house the estates of magical families, research laboratories, branches of the Mage's Association, or even cathedrals and temples tied to the hidden side of the Church. London was no exception. It boasted several such intersections. While the Clock Tower wasn't situated on the largest, its primary intersection remained a vital hub for the magical community in Britain. Kayneth was certain that in this world, too, he could find someone there who might serve as a point of contact.

He sighed, staring down at the cheap tourist map of central London he had picked up from the hospital. Mapping out the ley lines onto it would be easy—he could practically do it in his sleep. Aligning the magical geography with the city's mundane layout and street names was straightforward, given that they were identical to those in his world. However, once again, he'd underestimated the limitations of this body. After just a few miles, he was already exhausted, and there were still at least twice that distance to cover.

But what choice did he have? He gritted his teeth and pushed on. If he stopped now, he might as well give up on his goals, abandon magic, and collapse in the corner to beg for scraps. Judging by his ragged clothes, gaunt frame, and the bruises and scratches still marring his face, people would likely give generously…

Last edited: Jan 22, 2025

140

Johnny_Z

Jan 22, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 3

View content

Johnny_Z

Jan 22, 2025

#18

Of course, it wasn't that easy. As Kayneth wandered along the street near London's largest leyline intersection, he immediately sensed the concentrated magic saturating the air. Layered barriers, powerful and complex, surrounded the area. There might have even been folded spaces concealed within the enchantments, but in his current, weakened state, he couldn't be sure.

He walked two wide loops around the city streets, studying the protected perimeter that spanned several blocks. According to his crude map, most of the area was occupied by two adjacent industrial zones—remnants of shuttered factories—and a smattering of houses and shops that lined the outer edges of the barrier. If there was a way in, it was likely hidden within one of these establishments—perhaps a restaurant or a large store frequented by many people daily.

The discovery thrilled him. This London harbored a magical population and infrastructure of significant scale. However, it raised a pressing question: How was he supposed to get inside? Was entry open to all magi, or were special passes or passwords required? What if a secret war raged behind those barriers, and trespassers were disintegrated on sight without so much as a warning?

On his third lap, Archibald switched tactics. Instead of seeking a physical entry point, he turned his focus to the people nearby, watching for traces of magic. He searched for family crests, active spells, or charged mystic codes. The task drained him; sweat beaded on his brow, and fatigue weighed heavier than it had during his entire trek to this place. James' body, frail and untrained, wasn't suited for subtle magical perception. He'd never been taught to sense energy in people or the environment—truthfully, he hadn't been taught much of anything. Kayneth was forced to rely on his soul's instincts and his own vast experience.

Perhaps that was why it took so long—and sheer luck—for him to notice something unusual after circling several more blocks.

A young woman, perhaps twenty, sat on a park bench with a thick book in her hands. What first caught his eye were her long, lilac-pink hair strands—a shade modern youth favored for its absurdity. Her leather jacket and an excessive assortment of tacky metal accessories completed the image of a brainless fan of some obscene rock band. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Except for the book.

A textbook didn't fit her rebellious appearance. In Kayneth's experience people dressed like her usually had difficulty reading storefront signs, let alone dense academic material. But Kayneth couldn't immediately dismiss her, not with his trained eye. In old magical families, especially those with inhuman bloodlines or a fondness for ritualistic modifications, unnatural hair and eye colors were common. The Archibalds prided themselves on purity and refrained from such things, but even in his last student class, half a dozen young magi had boasted green or violet hair by birth.

Intrigued, he lingered, examining her more closely.

The book deserved attention, too. It appeared to be a standard biology textbook, but Kayneth felt faint magical traces radiating from it. This was not a grimoire imbued with inherent power—this was different. It had been haphazardly veiled with a spell, likely an illusion, overloaded with energy to maintain its concealment.

The woman herself seemed ordinary enough, aside from her ridiculous fashion and dyed hair. No bounded fields, mystic codes, or spells surrounded her—except for the book. Yet if someone more skilled stood in her place, his dulled senses might have missed them entirely. Either way, he needed to make contact. Finding another magus in this world might take far too long.

Drawing a deep breath, Kayneth steeled himself. His meager magic reserves, barely sufficient in this malnourished body with its stunted circuits, would have to suffice. He approached with the best approximation of noble courtesy, preparing for his first conversation with a fellow magic user in this realm.

"May I ask, miss, what are you reading on this fine morning?"

The young woman lowered her book slowly. She glanced around, uncertain if the question was even directed at her, before finally settling her gaze on the shabby-looking child standing before her. His appearance spoke of poverty and trouble—London had no shortage of vagrants, and not all were satisfied with mere charity. She sized him up warily but, confident in her ability to defend herself, answered after a brief pause.

"A college biology textbook, young man. I'm a first-year student, and I need to prepare for my classes. Studying at home is far too dull."

"I see." He nodded thoughtfully. "I completely understand. However, I'm more curious about what you're really reading. I can tell this isn't just a simple textbook. You've hidden its true nature from ordinary eyes, haven't you?"

Her reaction was immediate. Panic flickered in her expression as she whipped her head around, checking her surroundings. She nearly dropped the book as she flipped it over, staring hard at the cover. The color of her eyes shifted—from blue to red, then to violet.

Kayneth allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. His instincts had been right. Someone in this world ensured magical secrecy, likely with deadly efficiency. His initial plan to draw attention with parlor tricks and wait for enforcers had been wisely abandoned.

"No need to worry," he added quickly. "Your illusion is well done. I see only a biology book, of course. But I can feel the enchantment. Recently, I've been able to sense these things. I suspect you're familiar with the higher arts of magecraft—just as I am."

Her gaze snapped back to him, sharp and wary.

To prove his point, he extended a hand toward a slushy pile of snow nearby. Focusing his limited power, he directed it into the icy heap. The center melted, pooled into water, and then briefly boiled before hissing into steam. It was basic water manipulation—once, he could have performed it blindfolded from another room without breaking stride. Now, in this feeble body with an unfamiliar elemental affinity, it felt like driving a nail into steel barehanded. But he managed, barely.

Pulling his hand back, he staggered, fighting the pain and exhaustion that followed.

"Something like that…" he murmured.

"Alright, I get it!" she said hastily, leaning forward as if ready to catch him if he collapsed. "Tell me… you're not from a magical family, are you?"

"I don't really have a family. I'm from an orphanage. I don't even know if my parents were magi or not."

"Wizards," she corrected quickly.

"Pardon me?"

"You're supposed to say wizards," she repeated slowly, as if explaining a simple fact to a child. "'Mages' is something out of Muggle books. In magical Britain, we say 'wizards' and 'witches.' You'll have to get used to it, or people might not understand you. And… sorry for asking such a personal question."

"It's nothing. You didn't know," Kayneth waved it off. Such pleasantries were meaningless, especially regarding James Murphy. What piqued his curiosity far more was the new terminology. In the Mage's Association, the word magus—borrowed from Latin—was the standard term for practitioners of mystical arts. Wizard, an Old English term, had been popular in the late Middle Ages but had fallen out of use centuries ago, surviving only in archaic titles like Wizard Marshal, a high-ranking officer responsible for Clock Tower defenses. And witch? That was outright derogatory. Anyone daring to call Sola-Ui a witch would have faced a duel on the spot. Clearly, the differences between this world's magical traditions and his own were deeper than anticipated.

"And what does Muggle mean?"

"Muggles are normal people," the girl gestured toward the bustling London street, "non-magical folks who don't know anything about magic. It's an old word. I don't even know where it comes from."

"And about the book?"

"What? Oh, right. You're right—it really is something else." She glanced around again before reaching into her jacket pocket, murmuring a nearly inaudible incantation. She was cautious—probably casting a standard divert attention spell. Sensible. Only after securing the area did the book's cover shimmer, its color, illustration, and title transforming.

"Amalthea Wyrmwind's Lightning-Quick Transfiguration and Its Numerous Applications for Offense and Defense, recommended for schools and universities, 1816 edition. So, you're not a college student after all?"

"I am a first-year student, just—oh! Where are my manners?" She clapped her hands together, accidentally dropping the book onto the bench. Awkwardly bowing, she extended her hand. "Tonks. Witch-in-training, first-year Auror candidate."

"James Victor Murphy. Orphan and apparently a… wizard," Kayneth replied, shaking her hand. "A future one, I hope. Is it common for witches to only have one name?"

"That is my surname…" she admitted with a sheepish smile. "I don't like my full name very much. Can we just leave it at Tonks, please?"

"As you wish, miss. What exactly is an Auror?" Kayneth asked. He'd heard the word before, though he wasn't certain of its meaning. In this child's form, he had the perfect excuse to ask naive questions and gather information.

"Aurors are… kind of like magical law enforcement. A mix between police and the secret service in the Muggle world, I guess. They hunt down dangerous criminals and magical creatures, track dark artifacts, and investigate conspiracies. That sort of thing," Tonks explained before waving her hands nervously. "Not that we're drowning in criminals or monsters! It's just important to have people ready in case something bad does happen."

"An admirable profession," Kayneth observed sincerely, bowing his head. In the Mage's Association, they were called enforcers, and the Church referred to them as executors. Only the most skilled combat magi were recruited. He'd had dealings with Clock Tower operatives before, usually when dispelling curses or banishing malignant spirits. "So, if there's a magical police force, does that mean there are many wizards? Over there"—he pointed toward the warded district—"I felt an incredible concentration of power. That's why I was circling it. I wondered if it had something to do with me. Lately, strange things have been happening—doors opening on their own, cuts on my hand healing instantly. I was trying to understand it, and it led me here."

"That's Diagon Alley, the largest magical district in London. It's hidden behind ancient wards. Muggles can't get in unless someone literally takes them by the hand. It's fascinating that it drew you here, James. Are you… not eleven yet?"

"I'm not sure. They don't celebrate birthdays at the orphanage. I think I'm ten," Kayneth answered vaguely. He could have used diagnostic spells to determine the body's age to the day if necessary, but he had neither the energy nor the need to bother with it. "In groups, I was always placed with the ten-year-olds."

"Poor kid," Tonks muttered sympathetically before trying to look more professional. "Anyway, magic usually awakens around age ten, which leads to outbursts—uncontrolled accidental magic. Harmless, but it can scare Muggleborns—kids like you, raised outside the magical world. Adults who don't believe in magic either punish them or panic themselves. It settles down after a year or so. That's when kids get their Hogwarts acceptance letter."

"Hogwarts?" Kayneth raised an eyebrow. There were no institutions like that in his world. Young magi either received private tutelage, as he had, or attended normal schools while learning magic at home. Formal magical education began at the Clock Tower.

"Hogwarts is the oldest and most prestigious wizarding school in Europe," Tonks said proudly, misinterpreting his incredulity. "I graduated last year."

"And are you sure that I…"

"Don't worry. They don't discriminate," she assured him quickly—too quickly. "Everyone gets in—purebloods, Muggleborns, anyone. The days of bloodline-based admission are ancient history."

"I don't quite understand," Kayneth probed. He already had a good idea—similar structures existed in the Mage's Association—but he needed a fuller picture of this society's dynamics. "What do you mean by 'bloodline-based'? Why would someone be accepted or rejected because of that?"

"How should I explain this simply?" It was clear Tonks was struggling to find the right words. Either this society was committed to a show of equality, or she had her own complicated history with her origins. Perhaps both. "Wizards are categorized by birth into three types. Muggle-borns, like you, come from ordinary families who know nothing about magic. Half-bloods have one magical parent—either a witch or a wizard. And pure-bloods have magical parents on both sides, often going back for generations. A few hundred years ago, all the power belonged to the pure-bloods. Muggle-borns and half-bloods were treated poorly, sometimes even barred from learning magic because they were deemed 'unworthy.'" She grimaced but tried to smile. "But that's all ancient history. These days, you can make a career in the Ministry or even as an Auror without twenty generations of pure-bloods in your family tree."

"But wouldn't a wizard with a long magical lineage be stronger than someone who only discovered magic yesterday?" Kayneth asked, stating the obvious as if pondering aloud. "If their ancestors practiced magic for generations, wouldn't that knowledge be inherited?"

"It's... not that simple," Tonks said, shaking her head. "Even in pure-blood families, some children are born without magic. And sometimes, they aren't particularly talented. Meanwhile, Muggle-borns can surpass old family heirs through sheer talent and hard work. The strongest living wizard is a half-blood."

"And you? If I may ask?"

"I'm somewhere in between," she admitted with a casual wave. "My father was the first wizard in his family, and my mother comes from an old magical line. Pure-bloods are usually defined as having at least two generations of magical ancestors, so technically, I'm a half-blood. But it doesn't matter much these days."

"I see, I see." Kayneth bit back a curse. As a noble lord of the Clock Tower, he wouldn't have so much as shaken hands with someone like her, let alone considered taking her on as an apprentice—no matter how desperately she begged. Introducing a first-generation magus into an ancient family and making their child an heir was a disgrace punishable by social exile. Yet here he was, pretending to be a child, forced to deal with whoever happened to provide useful information. Pride, however, was not so easily set aside. He had more questions.

"One other thing. In the orphanage, I overheard my caretakers talking about a name—Archibald. They said it was important. Maybe even connected to me. A wealthy man. I've been thinking… could he be a wizard? A pure-blood, perhaps? I don't care why he abandoned me—I just want to know if I have a father somewhere."

"Archibald… Archibald…" Tonks echoed, sympathy in her gaze. She didn't seem to notice her hair shifting from purple to orange and back again. "I don't know every old family by heart—you'd have to ask my mum—but I don't recall anyone named Archibald among the British pure-bloods. He could be Canadian or Australian, maybe? Or just a rich Muggle with no connection to magic. Sorry, but you'd need to go through the Ministry to investigate something like that. They handle heritage inquiries and such."

"That's all right. It was worth a try." Kayneth shrugged, showing no real disappointment. He had already accepted that he would never see anyone or anything familiar from his old world. If there was another Kayneth Archibald somewhere under the British crown, he must be a non-entity. Otherwise, his name would carry weight beyond mere local fame, just as the former Lord El-Melloi's name had once commanded respect far and wide.

"When you start at Hogwarts, you could write to the Ministry," Tonks suggested, pacing nervously before speaking again. "About school… this might be a little awkward to talk about." She took a deep breath and then launched in. "Education at Hogwarts is free. The Ministry of Magic funds it with taxes from wizards and donations from private patrons. It's full board—nine months a year with meals and lodging covered. But you'll need supplies for your first year—textbooks, a cauldron, robes. The list goes on. And, well… you probably don't have money, do you? Certainly not for seven years of schooling."

"I could take out a loan for tuition. That's common practice, isn't it?" Kayneth replied, calm and pragmatic.

"Not really." She frowned. "In the wizarding world, only goblins offer loans, and their rates… you'd be paying it off for fifty years."

"So, what are my options? Tutors? Private education?"

"That's even more expensive. Only the wealthy afford that." She paused. "There's one other way. Hogwarts offers scholarships for talented students, but only for Muggle-borns and half-bloods. You'd need to demonstrate readiness—basically, pass an exam showing first-year knowledge when your invitation arrives."

"And when would that be?"

"Depends on your birthday. If it's before September, you'd be invited this autumn. If later, then next year." She gave him a curious look. "When is it?"

"I don't know." He repeated the same answer he had given earlier, half-watching her reaction. "At the orphanage, no one celebrates birthdays. Most of us were just assigned January first to keep things simple."

"That's awful!" She grimaced. "But it's fine. The school's magical register doesn't use Muggle records. It identifies wizards by their magic, so your birthday doesn't matter. If you don't want to attend, you'll just take an oath to keep magic a secret. But…"

"Thank you, but the Muggle world doesn't seem all that appealing to me." Kayneth gestured at his tattered clothes with exaggerated disdain. "Magic sounds far better if I have the chance. So, I need to learn about the wizarding world—and first-year subjects—within five months or a year and a half?"

"Roughly. It's manageable. First-year studies aren't too complex. But…" Tonks glanced at her worn textbook, clearly hesitant. "I could lend you my old books. I don't have younger siblings, so I'm not using them anymore."

"I appreciate your generosity, but I must decline." Kayneth's voice was firm. His pride—already strained—refused to accept secondhand charity. Books were essential, yes, but taking someone else's cast-offs was as degrading as wearing someone else's clothes. Even in this child's body, his noble spirit clung fiercely to its dignity. "There's still time. I'll find work and earn enough to buy what I need—once I figure out where."

"I'll show you. It's your choice, of course, but..." She lowered her voice, as if anyone could overhear them in an almost empty park under a barrier. "If you think you can use magic to squeeze money out of Muggles, better forget that idea right now. The Auror Office doesn't care much about Muggle thefts, but there are two other problems. First, accidental bursts of magic are rare and will soon stop. To cast proper spells, you need this." She glanced around, then pulled a short polished wooden rod from her inner pocket.

"A wand. You can only buy one after you turn eleven. Without it, only a few very skilled wizards can perform powerful magic. Second, underage magic outside of school is strictly forbidden. If Muggles see you, the best-case scenario is a fine for violating the Statute of Secrecy, along with paying for Obliviator services. Worst case? Prison. Do you understand what I'm saying?" She tucked the wand back out of sight with a pointed look.

"I understand perfectly." Kayneth gave a curt nod. "Thank you again for the offer, but I'll earn my own money."

"Suit yourself. Let's go then, I'll show you the way." In an instant, she lightened her hair, shifted her height a little, and changed her eyes to gray. Sliding her book into her jacket's inner pocket—far too small to hold it in ordinary circumstances—she motioned for him to follow. Kayneth recognized the enchantments that altered the size and weight of objects; he had used similar spells himself, until Grail War cost him nearly every artifact he'd brought along. "This way, people will think we're related. At least my Metamorphmagus skills are good for something. Come on, take my hand."

Obediently following Tonks and memorizing their route, Kayneth pondered what he'd learned. Using magic only with specific implements... It sounded bizarre. He understood the practical value of magical tools, of course—losing his own collection had played no small role in his disastrous duel—but to be unable to cast spells without a focus? Could this world have developed thaumaturgy so differently that it revolved entirely around a particular kind of mystic code? If so, he shouldn't be able to use any of his old methods—runes, alchemy, or hypnosis. The laws of magic here would reject any rules they didn't recognize. So why hadn't they?

The mysteries piled up. A brief stab of regret pricked him for refusing Tonks' "handout" of beginner-level magical theory books. Still, backtracking now would be even more humiliating.

As for the ban on underage magic... Ridiculous. How did families teach their children spells and techniques, then? Unless the law was more threat than enforcement. After all, in a week of living here, no so-called "Aurors" had come knocking, despite his reckless attempts to drain every ounce of magical energy he could gather.

"We're heading here," Tonks said, tugging him toward a pub. "The Leaky Cauldron. It's charmed to divert Muggle attention, so until your own magic is strong enough, you'll need to focus clearly on your destination." She held his hand firmly, steering him through the subtle barrier.

Kayneth silently admired its design. It turned non-magical passersby with precision, nudging them away without stirring their curiosity. He only felt its effect a few steps from the door.

Inside, the pub resembled a rundown 18th-century tavern. The patrons wore outdated cloaks and waistcoats, the furniture was crude, and candles and oil lamps provided the only light—there wasn't a single electrical device in sight. Yet magic pulsed through everything. Heavy chairs shifted by themselves, spoons stirred cauldrons unaided, and globes of light hovered without visible sources.

The effect struck him as both elegant and absurd. Like attaching a cutting-edge electron microscope to a wooden mallet for hammering nails. Precision paired with an absolute waste of power. Ridiculous!

"The entrance is here." Tonks led him into a small, empty storeroom. Pulling her wand again, she waved it silently before gesturing toward him. "Impatiens Mantellum."

The spell caught him off guard—too simple an aria to affect reality much—but within moments, both of them wore long black robes and pointed hats straight out of a children's fairy tale. In the Clock Tower, such ridiculous outfits were reserved for ceremonial events, where tradition overruled reason.

"My clothes are enchanted for easy transfiguration. Yours only have a glamour, since they couldn't handle a full transformation," Tonks explained. "A Muggle outfit would stand out too much here. Next time, try to buy or borrow something more fitting. It'll raise fewer questions. Now, let's go."

She took his hand again and tapped several bricks on the wall with her wand.

The air rippled as layered protections parted one by one. Kayneth felt the power surge around them—first the barrier spells, then defensive circles intertwined behind them. Whoever crafted these wards deserved respect.

But the street beyond stirred mixed emotions. Like the pub, it felt trapped in a bygone era. Wizards bustled about, most appearing well over twenty, dressed either in ridiculous robes like Tonks had conjured or in outdated suits and capes from the 19th century. Bird familiars darted overhead in unnatural numbers, spells flared harmlessly between passersby, and shop signs twisted with enchantments for animation, illusion, and transmutation.

Yet there wasn't a single streetlight, phone box, or television. The 20th century seemed to have been stopped cold by the district's layers of enchantment.

Old magical families had this kind of aversion to technology in his world too—he'd seen it in the Einzberns and Tohsakas. But even they didn't reject gas-discharge lamps in favor of rune circles for lighting corridors.

Here, progress hadn't just stalled—it had been sealed behind ancient wards. Maybe the local magical school was rooted in tradition and ambiance so deeply that modern devices disrupted its mysteries?

He needed answers. More information. And fast.

"Here it is — Diagon Alley," Tonks gestured broadly, her voice light but purposeful. "This is where you'll find shops, cafes, banks, legal offices, and all sorts of establishments tied to the wizarding world. Wizards don't usually live here — they have manors or reside in separate enclaves… you know, closed settlements in London suburbs or other cities. But all public life buzzes right here. If you need to buy something, this is where you come. Over there are bookstores, potion shops with ingredients and pre-made brews, and at the end of the street, that's Gringotts, the goblins' main bank. That's your first stop."

"But didn't you say they wouldn't lend me money at a reasonable interest?" Kayneth inquired skeptically.

"I wasn't talking about loans," she clarified, steering him slightly aside to avoid the bustling crowd of wizards. She pulled a coin from her pocket and held it up for him to see. "This is a Galleon. It's the currency of magical Britain — goblin-enchanted gold. If you want to buy anything here, you'll need to exchange Muggle pounds for these. Muggle money isn't accepted. It's too easy to counterfeit with magic."

"Ridiculous," Kayneth admitted honestly. The Magus Association had never bothered with its own currency. Among themselves, magi traded in barter — services, oaths, rare ingredients, valuable relics, and knowledge. Of course, pounds and dollars were still common when purchasing reagents or rare gems from ordinary merchants. While forging paper currency was child's play (Kaineth could name a dozen methods offhand), magi rarely paid attention to protective measures or serial numbers, which invited unwelcome attention from authorities obsessed with counterfeit prevention. And that led to trouble with secrecy — something the Association took seriously. Counterfeiting with magic was a short road to a conspiracy breach and the kind of attention no one wanted. Yet another reason why he preferred hypnosis, which left no tangible evidence.

"I think so too," Tonks agreed with a shrug. Leading him further down the alley, she added, "But tradition is tradition. And in the wizarding world, tradition's everything. You'll have to get used to it. Oh, and enchanted gold won't work outside. Try selling it to Muggles, and it'll just turn to ash. A lot of Muggle-born kids think of that first since gold's worth so much more there. By the way, over there — that's Ollivanders. When you turn eleven, you'll need to come back and get a wand. A wizard without one is like… well, not just one-handed, more like mute and paralyzed. You can't go to school without it, and you won't even get through the doors of most magical institutions."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind," he murmured, the comparison to paralysis stirring far too fresh and unpleasant memories. "But how will I get through the… wall? Without a wand, do I just wait for someone to lead me through?"

"Not necessarily. Ask the innkeeper — he can open it. Unless you're running in and out every day, it won't be a problem. Usually, kids come with their parents or guardians until they're older, but there are exceptions."

He pondered that briefly before another question came to him. "Let's say I'm someone who suddenly discovers I have magic, no money, and no knowledge of this world. If I lived in Edinburgh, for instance, and hadn't run into someone like you to explain things — how would I even know where to go, or apply for school, or get supplies?"

"That's simple," she replied. "There's a process for that. If a Muggle-born child shows magical ability, a professor from the school visits. They explain the basics, warn them about the importance of study, and mention that a scholarship might be available if they work hard. If they pass their exam a year later, they're offered a spot. If not, it's usually because they didn't care enough, and the magical world doesn't need them. Personally, I think it's rubbish. But who's going to listen to a half-blood like me?"

"Sorry?"

"Forget it. Boring politics." She waved it off and brightened again. "Come on. I'll show you a couple more places."

Since they weren't buying anything — not with his empty pockets — the rest of the tour wrapped up in half an hour. Tonks had started by pointing out shops a typical child would love, like the sweets shop and the toy store filled with enchanted playthings, but quickly realized James gravitated more toward bookstores and alchemy workshops. Given his precarious position, his thirst for knowledge made sense — survival in this world depended on understanding its rules. She still wished she could infuse a little more wonder into the experience. Her first trip to Diagon Alley had been filled with awe and joy; surely, he deserved at least a taste of that.

As they neared the exit, she gestured toward a narrow side alley and spoke in a lowered voice. "That's Knockturn Alley. Nasty place. They sell all sorts of dark stuff there, and criminals sometimes hide out. Stay away until you're older — and not without trustworthy friends. Aurors patrol it constantly, but it doesn't do much good."

"What do you mean by 'dark stuff'?"

"Stolen goods, unlicensed artifacts, potions made with who-knows-what, fake 'magical relics' someone's granny 'found in the attic'… Basically, a black market. Oh, and books on dark magic and forbidden spells. Half of them are more dangerous to the caster than the target, assuming they even work."

"'Dark magic'?" His eyebrows rose at the term.

"Curses, hexes, blood magic, necromancy… Anything the Ministry doesn't like gets slapped with that label."

As a certified necromancer, Kayneth Archibald could only smirk. It seemed this world had its own strictures and taboos. Best to tread carefully if he didn't want to end up marked as a heretic or criminal. He wondered, amused, if time manipulation or body duplication was fair game here.

"I'll stay away," he promised with a humble nod, lowering his eyes. Drawing attention from a future law enforcement officer was definitely not on his to-do list. "If I want to win a scholarship, I can't afford a bad reputation."

"Glad you understand that," Tonks praised, patting him on the shoulder. "If only more kids your age were as sensible. Instead, they buy some grimoires 'for fun,' and then it's all tears and complaints at the Auror office—'I didn't mean to,' 'I didn't know,' 'It cursed twenty-seven Muggles and half a dozen wizards all on its own.' Come on, I'll lead you back to London," she added, taking his hand again. Once they exited the magical district, Tonks diligently transfigured their clothes back into "Muggle" attire.

Outside the Leaky Cauldron, after reaching the same quiet park as before, she spread her arms in a sheepish gesture. "Well, that's about it. Welcome to the magical world. Sorry if I wasn't clear—I'm no professor or Head of House giving this kind of lecture every year. Still, I hope you'll manage to stay with us. Also, if… well, if money troubles hold you back, or you run into issues exchanging for Galleons or buying supplies, leave a letter for Tonks at the Leaky Cauldron. Give a date and time, and I'll do my best to help. If I can't make it, I'll send advice or a contact. Don't hesitate to write if something comes up."

Kayneth observed her carefully, his eyes sharp with calculation. He still couldn't grasp her motivation. Magi—true magi, even second- or third-generation beginners—rarely did anything without reason. Altruists had short lives, especially in the Clock Tower. More so, she was a future combat magus, a type that barely trusted their own allies, let alone outsiders. Yet, under the guise of a child, Archibald kept things simple. There was no need for veiled meanings or convoluted wordplay. He asked directly:

"And why are you helping me? I'm just an orphan without money or connections. You're a future law enforcer from an old, prestigious family. You owe me nothing."

"Because, unlike many so-called purebloods, I'm not blind to reality," she replied seriously. "Listen, James, after the war and the uprising ten years ago, there are so few of us left. You won't find it in newspapers or Ministry reports—either they don't know the numbers, or they don't want to admit them. I asked a Muggle friend of mine, a college student, to do some math for me once. Based on a few figures I gave her, she estimated about thirteen thousand of us total. Even being generous—considering wizards live longer, die of disease less often, and adding in Squibs and magical creatures—it's still no more than twenty-five thousand in all of Britain. Maybe thirty, at most.

"That's like some backwater town in Cornwall—Saint Austell, maybe. You've probably never even heard of it. And for most of us, Britain is the entire world. Think about that. Every wizard counts. We don't have a single one to spare, no matter what blood-purity fanatics think. I bet they don't even know the word 'degeneration' without checking a dictionary."

"Perhaps… But what about other countries? France, Germany, the United States, or India? Those have much bigger populations—there must be plenty of wizards there."

"You just don't get how the magical world works, James. Muggles have it easy—hop on a plane, and you're in Berlin or… I forget what India's capital is. Magical countries are closed. Except for tournaments once every few years, we stick to ourselves. Every place has its own problems, politics, and gossip. Ten years ago, when we had a full-on war, nobody came to help. For all we know, Sweden might be trying to start Ragnarok right now, and no one in Britain or France would notice until frost giants marched across the border, flattening Muggle cities. British wizards care about British wizards first. That's why we need a bigger, more diverse society. And that's why I hope you make it into school and stay with us."

"Yes, I hope so too," Kayneth replied distantly. The picture forming in his mind was bleak. No global Mage Association, no unified research or cooperation. His own world had isolated regions—Japan famously kept its distance from the Association—but here? A British magus might never hear of a dangerous Eastern ritual unless Tonks was exaggerating. This would require further investigation. But for now, politeness demanded he end the conversation properly. She had helped him for free, a rare and valuable gesture, despite her unremarkable bloodline.

"If insurmountable difficulties arise, I'll leave you a letter. But I'll do my best to handle matters on my own. Thank you for your help. You've done more for me than I expected. Now, I must take my leave. Until we meet again, Lady Tonks."

"Until next time, James. I hope to see you again soon."

166

Johnny_Z

Jan 22, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 4

View content

Johnny_Z

Jan 23, 2025

#31

With all the new knowledge and impressions swirling in his mind, Kayneth made his way back. Not to the orphanage, of course, but to Whittington Hospital, where he convincingly collapsed in a hallway near a familiar ward. The performance barely required any acting—after all, he had walked seven miles both ways, not to mention the endless pacing as he circled the neighborhood and trailed behind Tonks. This body, utterly unfit for such exertion, protested at every step. A feeble reinforcement spell had kept him from collapsing into a ditch on his way back, but the strain on his magic circuits had driven his temperature up to nearly thirty-nine degrees, adding fever to his exhaustion.

It took Kayneth more than a day and a half to fully recover. When he finally awoke, he endured a scolding from his attending physician, who, with a sour expression, declared he'd keep the troublesome patient with his "odd" symptoms for another five days. Archibald nearly grinned with relief—this was exactly what he needed. Yet he managed to suppress his joy, putting on a show of discomfort and fear for his life. Perhaps not entirely convincing, but it was enough. The doctor didn't probe further; after all, he had plenty of other patients to tend to besides another vagrant from the charity ward with an unfamiliar ailment.

Staying in the hospital had always been Plan B. The primary plan—making contact with the Archibald family or integrating into this world's magical society—had seemed unlikely even before his conversation with Tonks. Kayneth understood her views on the diversity within the magical community, but he didn't entirely share them. In the Clock Tower, one dominant theory claimed that the total magical energy in the modern era was a constant. More magi meant less power per individual. Combined with the complications of magic crests and inheritance, this was one reason why old bloodlines deliberately limited their numbers. It also meant that an outsider without connections, sponsors, or an extraordinary gift had no hope of rising above the lowest rungs of the Association's hierarchy. The coveted positions had long been filled by those with ancient pedigrees.

Evidently, despite Tonks' hopes, the reality here was similar. Magecraft—even the simple process of learning it—required something as vulgar as money. Lots of money. A penniless orphan, lacking the strength to breach even a basic magical barrier, was not a desirable investment. If Kayneth wanted to achieve his primary goal and embed himself within this magical world, he first needed to pursue a more mundane objective—earning enough money. Unromantic as it sounded, wealth was his key to survival. Even figuring out how to convert currency would come later; first, he needed something worth exchanging.

Today's discoveries only required minor adjustments to his plan. For example, Tonks' mention of underage magic restrictions was worth noting. However, he needed to clarify the boundaries of that law. Her tone suggested a total prohibition, but was it truly a ban on all magic, or just spells detected by aurors or witnessed by muggles? Perhaps they tracked violations by magical pulse strength, and his feeble spells went unnoticed. Or maybe surveillance relied on bounded fields, meaning a practitioner of different magical traditions could bypass detection altogether.

So many questions, yet pressing Tonks too hard would raise suspicion, perhaps leading to interrogation or worse—arrest. For now, he would assume that weak magic went unnoticed, while stronger spells warranted caution. He certainly wasn't ready to face the consequences of attracting aurors or inquisitors. But, truthfully, his current magical capabilities would limit him to minor spells for some time.

On the way back, seeking distraction from his aching muscles and fatigue, Kayneth brainstormed ways to make money in his current state. A few ideas had emerged.

Addressing the nuances of this magical society and its contradictions would come later, once he had a stable footing. Securing a roof over his head and food for at least a week was his immediate priority. Humbling though it was for someone who'd grown up in a manor, served by attendants, and blissfully unaware of money's purpose until he was nearly ten, Kayneth had little choice but to adapt.

First, he needed to devise a distraction barrier —a minimal-cost magic circle. How much simpler it would be to conjure a bounded field with the necessary properties. But with these feeble magic circuits, he was forced to rely on ritual magic, runes, and diagram-based enchantments—methods that required meticulous calculations and preparation but spared his limited magical reserves. If only he'd inhabited a fifteen-year-old magus' body, he wouldn't be scraping for crumbs of power.

Then again, a magus teenager with sufficient willpower could have expelled Kayneth's soul outright or, at the very least, slowed the possession long enough to call a specialist—someone like himself, a spiritualist skilled in dealing with possession and exorcising unwelcome intruders. Perhaps fate's choice had been merciful. Better to be hungry and alive than well-fed and disincarnated.

On March 31st, five days later, it was time to tackle the most challenging phase of his plan.

James Murphy sat by the ward window, an unusual position for him, staring intently at the parking lot. When a new Japanese SUV skidded into view, nearly scraping the sidewalk and stopping diagonally across two spaces, the boy leapt from the windowsill. Clad in his hospital-issued gown, he bolted down the hallway before anyone could ask where he was going.

Navigating the familiar corridors, Kayneth reached the fire exit, slipping through unnoticed past two patients sneaking a forbidden cigarette. Circling the building, he arrived breathless at the parking lot. The SUV remained in place. Relieved, he dashed toward it, dropping to the cold asphalt. After catching his breath, he wriggled beneath the car. For once, he was grateful for the small size of this borrowed body.

With trembling hands, he fished a piece of chalk from his pajama pocket—borrowed from a makeshift classroom in the hospital, the very one where he'd once instructed students after fieldwork. Ignoring the cold seeping through his clothes, the grime, the stink of gasoline, and the indignity of it all, he pulled a crumpled sheet from his other pocket. By the dim light, he squinted at his rough sketch. Then, steadying himself, he began drawing a magic circle on the car's underbelly.

When, twenty minutes later, the car door slammed shut with a furious bang, and the cursing driver sped off, narrowly missing a lamppost, Kayneth carefully peeked out from behind the front seat.

So far, everything was going as expected. The combination of a lock-breaking circle and an eight-line incantation had worked perfectly, unlocking the vehicle for precisely one and a half minutes before restoring it to its original state. Now, he only needed to hide inside, correctly assuming that the enraged driver wouldn't bother looking around in his frustration over a wasted trip. The hard part was still ahead.

"Good afternoon, William Summers. I'm the one who called you. Don't make any sudden moves — a gun will always be faster," the magus said quickly, raising a hand with what appeared to be a weapon so it was visible in the driver's mirror.

"I mean you no harm. In fact, I have a very lucrative offer for you. So drive forward without attracting police attention or crashing into the nearest wall, and we'll talk."

To Summers' credit, he didn't yank the wheel, scream, or jump out of his seat in shock — nor did he do anything foolish. Summers was a sturdy man in his early thirties, with a close-cropped haircut and the build of someone who may have served in the army. He could probably toss a kid like Kayneth out the window with one hand — if not for the gun, of course. A more hot-headed person might have tried anyway.

Instead, Summers clenched his jaw and spat through gritted teeth, "You people are good. Find out about my wife, call from the hospital with promises of experimental treatment, and then stick a kid with a gun in my backseat. Nicely played. Got me like a damn fool, I'll admit. So what now? What's this 'lucrative' offer? What do you want? Money? A share in my business? My house?"

"Money. But not much. Just a hundred thousand. And in return, we'll save your wife. Evelyn Summers is in Whittington Hospital, stage-four cancer. She has two months left — give or take five days. She might not even make it to summer.

"I can save her. Not just give you hope, not offer 'a chance' or some vague possibility. I'm not here to tell you there are 'new opportunities.' I'm talking about a real cure. No complications, no side effects. I know exactly what needs to be done — and I've performed these… 'procedures' before."

"If this is a joke, it's a pretty sick one."

"I'm not one for humor. I know how I look, and I know if not for the gun, you wouldn't even be listening to a ragged kid like me. I wouldn't either. That's why I had to set up this little act — so you'd at least hear what I can offer. Enough to believe that I can do what I'm promising."

"How could you possibly do it?" Summers growled, gripping the wheel tighter, nearly colliding with a truck stopped at the traffic light.

"The doctors have already given up on her. They even stopped pretending the treatment was working. Now they just increase the painkillers. Everything else is useless."

"Ordinary medicine can't help her. But there are… other methods. I can do it. Just like I know that Evelyn broke two toes when she was a child, got seriously poisoned when she was six, and wouldn't sleep without a light until middle school. At ten, a snake bit her wrist. She lost her virginity at seventeen.

"You met her four years ago on June 16th at the airport. Half of that isn't in her medical records. I also know how to break into a car despite its alarm system. Just as I can make you believe there's a revolver in my hand."

"What?! How—" Summers glanced in the mirror, then twisted around to see the glue stick Kayneth held, pointed like a gun. A moment ago, it had seemed like a convincing chrome-plated revolver.

For the first time, the despair on Summers' face gave way to genuine astonishment. "But that's… impossible."

"Magic can do remarkable things, Mr. Summers. It can unlock doors, make the unseen visible, or hide things in plain sight. It can reveal everything about a person.

"And yes — it can cure the terminally ill. You don't have to believe in it. That doesn't change its existence or the fact that it's your wife's only chance."

"Then what's your angle?" Summers asked, sounding almost ready to accept that there might be a grain of truth in the madness.

"If you're some all-powerful sorcerer, why do you need my money? Why not turn dirt into gold? Or make a bank teller believe a pile of old newspapers is cash? Why all this nonsense? What do you care about my wife? If you're really that powerful, couldn't you just take everything I have?"

"It's refreshing to deal with a smart man," Kayneth replied. "Even without believing me, you're already looking for holes in my offer.

"First, magic isn't omnipotent. You can't ressurect the dead.

"Second, it's forbidden. Everything you just mentioned — making money from nothing, stealing from 'muggles' with magic —" Kayneth deliberately used the local term, hoping it would mislead any investigators later. Let them chase down a native wizard.

"Even showing magic to the uninitiated is illegal. Just talking to you, or using spells to examine your wife, could get me thrown in prison under our laws. And prison isn't the worst punishment — death would be kinder in some cases.

"I need money without leaving obvious magical traces. I can't have witnesses pointing fingers at me. If you take Evelyn out of Whittington, say you're pursuing alternative treatment — I don't care where, make something up. Israel, America — whatever you like. People will try to stop you. They'll think you're insane.

"Find a quiet place outside London. That's where we'll do the ritual. You pick the spot. You can bring security if you trust them to keep quiet about… what you'd call 'witchcraft.' Bring a real gun if it makes you feel safer.

"I'll do my part — I'll heal her. If it doesn't work, or if I die trying, you lose nothing.

"But if I succeed, in two weeks, after you've confirmed Evelyn is fine, you'll give me twenty thousand. Just make sure you do the check up far from Whittington — the farther, the better.

"Then, after another month, when you're sure everything is perfect, you'll give me the rest.

"After that, we pretend we never met. Or — if you want to make some money — find me another hopeless case in six months. One hundred thousand is my fee. Anything you charge above that is yours.

"It won't be in your interest to betray me or expose magic. If the wrong people find out, at best, you and Evelyn will have your memories wiped and her miraculous recovery will get undone. I on the other hand receive the full punishment, and death is not the worst option there.

"So those are my terms."

"Amusing. But all of this could have been faked, couldn't it? To make me believe this crazy nonsense. Look at you—you're in pajamas. Who's to say the hospital doesn't have a psychiatric ward?"

"Of course," the magus replied casually. "Evelyn could have been sent through X-rays and MRIs ten times over, then interrogated under drugs and hypnosis to learn everything about her. The car could have been broken into with… I don't know, some kind of lock-pick for this type of security system. The gun? I could have hidden it in another pocket or thrown it out the window while you weren't looking. And so on, and so on. This could all be a scam, the work of enemies, or someone's cruel joke at your expense.

"You probably know people capable of such things. I certainly did. Or maybe I escaped from an asylum. But in two months, when she dies, you'll remember this conversation. Every day, it will replay in your mind. Over and over, you'll wonder—what if there was even a half-percent chance, a fraction of a percent, that I was telling the truth?

"What if I could have done something—anything—when everyone else had already given up on her? You'll live a long life, Mr. Summers—aside from some liver issues, your health is solid. If you don't drink yourself into the grave this year, you'll have plenty of time to reflect and regret. To replay this conversation a thousand times, dissecting every second. Asking yourself, 'What if I had agreed? Would she be alive now?'"

"And how the hell would you know any of that, kid?"

"I think it's obvious this isn't my real appearance. I'm older than you, William. Once, a fiancee died in my arms because of me—because I misjudged the danger of what I was getting into. I could have saved her if I hadn't brought her along or sent her home sooner.

"I didn't send her away. I didn't save her. So, believe me, I understand your situation even better than you do.

"All right, stop the car over there at the intersection. I can see you don't need my services. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Summers. Wishing you a long life."

"Wait..." William stopped the car, though the magus made no move to exit, waiting for him to speak. "Can you really save her?"

"Yes."

"Swear it."

"I see no point. You're an ordinary man; magical oaths aren't binding for you. A simple promise means nothing to me. Either you believe I can do this, or you don't—and in that case, I'll find another client."

"Fine… let's say I believe you…" Summers shook his head, searching for some loophole or proof he was making a mistake—or not. "But why me?"

"I used to work at Whittington. I know the layout of the wards and patient rooms. It wasn't hard to find the right people," Kayneth said, not entirely lying. "And out of all the visitors to oncology ward, you were the only one wearing a tie worth a year's salary of their head doctor."

"You investigated the families?"

"As good a method as any. Remember those chairs in the corridor? In the past few days, one was always occupied. But did you notice who was sitting there? That's where I was watching from. Enchantments to divert the attention are much simpler than full invisibility. They make people overlook you, look away without realizing it. Why a public hospital, though? Why not Highgate Private or something? You've got the money."

"Everyone told me this place had excellent cancer specialists. They claimed the survival rate here was high. A bunch of charlatans..." William muttered, then added, looking at the magus studying him, "You've already figured out I'm agreeing, haven't you? What do you need besides a quiet place?"

"Here's the list." Kayneth handed him a densely written notebook page. "Everything needs to match exactly—the quality, the quantities. No substitutions, no shortcuts. Once you gather all the materials, I'll need three days to prepare. On the fourth night, we'll conduct the ritual.

"For now, it's better if she stays in the hospital. They'll provide care, and if I disappear, her sudden transfer won't be linked to me—even if someone saw me by your car."

"Silver, mercury, salt, rice, steel knives, charcoal… rabbits? Is all this really necessary?"

"And in precisely those amounts. More is fine; less is not," the magus declared firmly. He didn't expect much from someone utterly clueless about magical practices but hoped they could at least follow simple instructions.

"One more thing—when you're searching for a house or a plot of land, don't use your real name. And plan on leaving immediately once we're done."

"That was the plan anyway—not just because of your… Men in Black or whatever you call them. And now, where to…?"

"James. Call me James. If you've got a place I can stay for a couple of days, I'll stay there. It'll give you peace of mind that I'm not going anywhere, and I don't have anywhere else to go."

"That can be arranged. I'm counting on you, James."

"I'll do what I promised, William. And remember—this conversation never happened."

-

The magus carefully painted more symbols onto the wooden floor with blood—human, though donor-supplied. He inspected the lines closely, checking for smudges or inconsistencies in the structure of the circle.

He also ensured the Latin inscriptions (drawn in charcoal) were aligned and error-free.

Drawing a sixteen-foot diameter magic circle, a foot thick, packed with focusing lines, small circles for ritual tools, and rows of auxiliary spells wasn't a task for a novice. Doing it entirely from memory, without books, was almost suicidal—especially considering the cost of a single error.

But Kayneth trusted his knowledge and steady hands. He had even managed to sketch out a rough draft, though the calculations had taken significant time.

"You know," William said, standing by a boarded-up window, "if I weren't an atheist, I'd be running for the nearest church right now, pounding on the doors."

He tried to sound casual, but his voice betrayed his unease.

"You probably don't notice anymore, but from an outsider's perspective, this all looks like dark sorcery. All you're missing are inverted crosses and a couple of bound virgins in the corner."

"Believe me, Mr. Summers, you wouldn't want to see what real 'dark sorcery' looks like—or pay the price such rituals demand.

"This setup is calculated for maximum safety—or at least as safe as magic can ever be."

Kayneth stood, inspecting the final section of the drawing from above, evaluating its overall integrity.

With a practiced motion, he ran his hand through his hair, attempting to brush it back. He grimaced with disgust as the cold steel bracelet on his wrist pressed against nearly bare skin. Credit where it was due—once Summers agreed to the suspicious boy's terms, he sprang into action. In barely an hour, he had found a rental apartment, left him there under the watch of two armed guards, and provided a couple thousand pounds for expenses before rushing off to acquire the necessary materials and organize the upcoming "event."

He had introduced himself as a businessman, though he didn't elaborate on the specifics of his trade. The magus hoped Summers had enough connections to gather the required components quickly—and enough sense not to hand over a ragged, promise-laden vagrant to the authorities or psychiatric services.

The next three days, Kayneth spent preparing for the ritual, using whatever spare time he had to get himself into minimally decent condition. By the guards' arrangement, several sets of clothing, properly sized for an underfed ten-year-old, were delivered. Meals, simplistic but filling, arrived thrice daily from a cheap local eatery, helping him finally restore his strength. On the second day, a barber appeared, proposing an almost complete shave. "Orphanages aren't just bedbugs and roaches," the man had said, hinting at lice and fleas. The indignity stung deeply, but Kayneth loathed parasites far more. Wasting magic to purge them was not an option.

The remaining time saw the magus irritable and drained, like twenty-seven ancient vampires nursing a grudge. He used the downtime to discharge excess energy from his magic circuits into a set of steel knives—twelve identical pieces purchased by one of Summers' guards. Kayneth hadn't bothered asking their names. The man likely assumed blunt, flimsy blades posed little threat. But to a magus, these knives—while cheap—served as makeshift power reservoirs. As an alchemist, he valued metal far more than gemstones. Shape mattered little; if knives had been unavailable, he would have stored energy in spoons or even hammers.

On the fourth morning, Summers reappeared. He took them all to a small, abandoned village about thirty miles from London, where Kayneth spent three more sleepless days preparing a house for the ritual.

"I've been wondering," Summers spoke at last, watching the magus. "Back in the hospital, did you draw circles like this to examine my wife? Or how did you figure out how many days she had left and that she broke her fingers as a child—without using circles?"

"Who said I didn't use circles?" Kayneth arched an eyebrow. He welcomed the break and surveyed the outer contour of his work under the glaring light. From the start, he'd insisted on ample lighting, warning that a single error in a line or symbol could ruin everything. Four construction lamps now hung from ceiling mounts, powered first by a car battery and later by a diesel generator hauled from the city. A makeshift solution, but it worked.

"Different goals require different tools," he continued. "In your wife's case, a few simple seals sufficed. A small circle by each patient's bed and a larger one near that old man in the neighboring ward. His life was—let's say—useful."

"His life?" Summers echoed warily. One of the guards stood nearby, silent as furniture, giving no reaction.

"Metaphorically speaking. He had three months left. Even if his family had hired me, the best I could've done was extend his life by four years—his body was worn out after nearly eighty. Instead, I used the remainder of his life force to power diagnostic spells. He's likely been dead two days now, but his death saved me hours of work. You, ordinary people, do not even think about how expensive a human soul and life can be and how much can be obtained with the help of even a simple sacrifice," The magus shot a contemptuous glance at Summers' horrified expression. "Don't insult me with ignorance, Mr. Summers. Spirits aren't wolves. They don't prey on the weak and dying—our guest tonight included. If I needed a life exchange for power, you, I, or even your guard would make far better sacrifices than a woman barely clinging to life."

Summers stiffened. "I just want my wife healthy."

"And I just want my money. Perfect understanding, don't you think?" Kayneth knelt, wiped away a blurred line on the floor, and corrected it with a piece of chalk. He glanced at Summers, waited for the reluctant nod, then resumed work, occasionally consulting his notes.

Long after midnight, the outer circle was complete, save for a few inches he purposely left open. He traced the circumference twice, scrutinizing every symbol and adjusting a few. He lingered for a moment, fidgeting with the steel bracelet on his wrist—another knife transfigured for convenience—before finally addressing Summers, who hadn't moved from his spot by the wall.

"We're nearly ready. What time is it?"

"Half past one," Summers replied after checking his watch.

"And sunrise?"

Summers blinked, caught off guard. "Sunrise?"

Kayneth muttered under his breath. "Should've checked myself," he grumbled before speaking up. "Wake me before dawn. That's when we'll begin."

"I thought rituals like this happened at midnight."

The magus opened his mouth—another lecture brewing—but Summers, recognizing the signs, cut him off.

"Fine. Dawn it is."

"James. Murphy, it's dawn already."

"James? What James?" the magus muttered drowsily before yet another nightmare fully released its grip on him. "Ah, right. James. I get it, we're starting."

Rising from the chair, Kayneth glanced at the reddish streaks of dawn slipping through the boarded windows. He nodded and began arranging cages with animals around both circles, setting out his knives and other items that Summers and his men had procured. After checking everything twice, he turned to William, who stood waiting nearby, and confirmed:

"Everything's ready. Place her in the center, and we can begin."

Evelyn, who had been lying in a van converted into a makeshift ambulance, was carried in by her husband. He carefully stepped over the lines on the floor and laid her on the bed. Stroking her face, he whispered something tender before retreating to stand against the wall.

As soon as he was done, the magus quickly completed the circles, moved to the head of the bed, and slid two knives filled with reserve energy into his pockets. Another knife was placed at a specific point on the outer circle. Raising both hands, he began chanting a twelve-line incantation in Latin, releasing his magic circuits and channeling energy with precise control—not too fast, not too slow—keeping the flow perfectly measured.

The circle began to glow softly, pulsing in time with his words. The chalk-drawn lines stretched upward, forming two transparent rings that rose like walls. The knives on the floor trembled and rang as they released energy, drawing on ambient power to sustain the ritual. This transition from external to self-sustained energy was the most delicate part of the calculations. Had Kayneth possessed enough power on his own, such convolutions wouldn't have been necessary, and the design could've been three times simpler. But as it was, his reserves fell far short.

Mist began to form between the two ghostly rings, thin at first but quickly thickening into a swirling, churning cloud. Just as he reached the final words of the chant, the last two lamps overhead flickered and died, leaving the room illuminated only by the dim, silver haze that now obscured Evelyn from view.

"You called, and I have come," whispered a disembodied voice, seeming to echo from everywhere at once. "Do you seek a bargain, wizard?"

"I believe we can strike a deal, Tanlan Laoren," Kayneth addressed the Chinese spirit by name. He had dealt with beings like this before. Reflexively, he touched the knife in his pocket, replenishing his nearly depleted reserves. "You already understand my request. Her healing in exchange for your freedom. The difference in price, I offer in tribute—grain and silver, knowledge and life." He gestured to the offerings arranged within the inner circle: bowls of rice and millet, silver coins, cages with doves and rabbits, even a scroll inscribed with poetry. "Everything according to your tastes, spirit."

"How refreshing," the voice murmured, utterly devoid of emotion. "To meet one who remembers my preferences, rather than dumping whatever trash is at hand. I accept the bargain."

"Apertum," the magus spoke, opening the inner barrier.

For a moment, nothing happened. The mist continued to swirl lazily, then began to churn violently. The spirit's voice turned sharp, filled with malice and threat:

"Did you think to cheat me, wizard? Your payment is insufficient! She stands with one foot in the grave—your offerings are meager for such a task. Pay, or I will take my own price!"

"What?" Kayneth froze, bewildered. This wasn't possible. His calculations had been flawless. He quickly reviewed them in his mind, going over every offering he had placed mere minutes before.

"Your greed knows no bounds, old one! I gave what was agreed upon. Honor the terms!"

"Pay! Pay! PAY!"

"Damn it..." The magus swore as spectral tendrils lashed against the outer barrier. It wouldn't hold much longer; the structure itself was already fraying. He had no backup array—there had been neither time nor resources to construct one. As a veteran magus, he could tell when a spirit was haggling versus when it had the right to demand its due. And now, it appeared he was the one who had erred.

"What's happening?" William's voice was taut with fear, even he could tell something had gone wrong.

Kayneth turned to him, hesitating only briefly before raising his hand and commanding sharply:

"Capturent!"

The bracelet on his wrist shifted, unraveling into a dozen thin, flexible steel wires that shot toward the nearest guard. The threads wrapped around the man in an instant, binding him before he could draw his weapon. They tightened, biting into fabric and flesh alike. Kayneth had imbued the improvised mystic code with two combat commands—this one for binding, and another for dismemberment, which he did not yet dare to use yet.

"James!" Summers cried, fumbling with trembling hands to draw his pistol.

"Not now!" Kayneth snarled, pulling the guard off the ground with a gesture and dragging him toward the barrier. The effort drained nearly all his remaining power. Fixing his gaze on the mist, he spoke coldly, "Will blood suffice? Fresh and warm. Human, not vermin. You enjoy that too, Laoren, don't you?"

"Blood! Yes, blood! Give it to me now!" the spirit rasped, pausing its assault on the barrier.

Ignoring the stunned Summers, Kayneth crouched by the chalk lines, frantically sketching a small semicircle and inscribing the necessary words and sigils. Time was running out. The barrier would fail any second. Touching another knife, he drained the energy stored within, snapping the cheap blade in half—poor-quality steel barely withstood even minimal magic.

"Gradation Air," he whispered, conjuring a shallow glass basin from nothing, a temporary physical form created from his own magic circuits. He gestured again, lifting the blood pooling on the floor and transferring it into the vessel. Control slipped, and some splattered onto the ground, but it was enough. Erasing a few symbols, he expanded the barrier with a swift motion. "Feast, spirit."

"My thanks," the voice hissed as the mist surged into the new space. "Now the debt is paid, the contract fulfilled. Her health for my freedom and your tribute. You tried to cheat me, but I forgive you. The blood was exquisite."

"What about the woman?"

"She is healed. I keep my bargains."

"Then I release you," Kayneth answered simply, reciting the two-line dismissal spell. The mist vanished in a soft flash of light.

"Stay back!" he barked as Summers lunged toward the circle. "Cadunt," he commanded, dispelling the outer barrier. He watched as the glass basin dissolved into thin air. "Go. Check on her."

Breathing heavily, drained to his core, the magus slumped to the floor beside the guard, who had finally ceased struggling. He closed his eyes, trusting the spirit's word. Spirits, unlike humans, were easier to handle. They might twist language, but outright lies were rare. If it said Evelyn was healed, then so she was.

The real challenge would come soon, when William Summers recovered from his shock and decided how to deal with the magus who had just offered human blood for a miracle.

151

Johnny_Z

Jan 23, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 5

View content

Johnny_Z

Jan 24, 2025

#41

"For the first time in a year, she actually looks like my Eve again—not her ghost," Summers said quietly, approaching the magus with his wife in his arms. He moved cautiously—after the lamps had gone out, the room was lit only by the faint glow of dawn struggling to filter through the cracks in the windows. He nodded toward the guard and the bloodstains on the floor.

"But was that really necessary?"

"There was no choice. Armilla," Kayneth commanded, and the steel threads released their victim, coiling back into a bracelet. He picked it up from the floor and slipped it onto his wrist. "The spirit demanded extra payment. If it had escaped the circle, everyone in this room except for your wife…" He gestured toward a nearby cage holding a rabbit, dried and shriveled as if mummified.

"But you said yourself that it was 'safe,' sorcerer," William protested, his face paling.

"'As safe as possible,'" the magus snapped dismissively. "Don't twist my words, profane fool. No magic is ever completely harmless. This wasn't supposed to happen. I never miscalculate! Either the spirit grew bolder from too many sacrifices, or…" He hesitated. "Her condition was even worse than we had assumed."

He didn't like admitting that aloud. Saying so meant acknowledging an error in his initial diagnostics, a mistake Kayneth prided himself on never making. Especially not during a summoning ritual as straightforward as this one. However, he had another theory—one he did not think Summers needed to hear. Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand. He relented.

"Fine. Let's call it my oversight. As compensation, I'll waive ten percent of my fee—use it for your guard's treatment. But we'll settle the finances later. Unless you plan to shoot me right here and leave my body for the Aurors to find, we need to leave. Now."

"Yeah, we should get out of here," William agreed quietly, glancing around the room at the remnants of the ritual. Archibald almost thought the man hadn't seriously considered killing him, strange as that sounded.

Summers cast a glance at the guard, who was still unable to rise, and shouted toward the boarded-up window, "Sam! Charlie! I need help here!"

"Open the door first, then start yelling," Kayneth muttered wearily. "I set up a sound-dampening bounded field before the summoning. It'll hold for another half a day." What amateurs he had to deal with.

By the time they had finally exited the loathsome shack, Eve was lying in a van equipped with medical gear, and the injured guard had been hastily bandaged and shoved into an SUV. Summers turned to Kayneth for clarification.

"What about evidence? Your circles, the dead animals, fingerprints, tracks…?"

"Already taken care of. The fire will destroy everything."

"What fire?"

"The one that's starting now." The magus, irritated by the obviousness of the answer, touched a chain of runes etched into the wall. A small pulse of power activated the pre-set spell, and flames crackled to life in several parts of the ancient wooden house. "Get moving. Now."

"Into the woods?"

"No. The shortest route to the highway. We'll blend into the traffic; they won't find us there," Archibald assured him, thinking of Diagon Alley and its almost medieval atmosphere. If the entire magical world of Britain was like that, wizards here probably had only a vague notion of how automobiles worked.

As their convoy of three vehicles turned from the narrow dirt road onto the main highway, Kayneth thought he saw swift shapes darting through the sky above the forest, heading toward the rising column of smoke. Then again, perhaps he was imagining things. He had worked to exhaustion over the last four days, snatching only three or four hours of sleep a night.

Casting a glance toward the forest fading behind the bend, then at the cars around them, Archibald exhaled slowly. It seemed the local Aurors had failed to pick up their trail—even if they had arrived before the house was reduced to ash.

Glancing at William, who was driving them alone in his car, without even a guard, Kayneth remarked, "You can relax now. Your wife is safe, as long as you don't decide to turn yourself in. And it seems we aren't being followed."

"Is she fully cured?"

"Mostly. Her body is weak from the illness, so normal care will be necessary—a proper diet, fresh fruit, trips to the seaside, that sort of thing. No magic required. Now that we're talking about it, I assume there's a reason we're alone. What's next? Do we continue working together? Go our separate ways? Are you planning to chain me up in your basement to get free services whenever you want? Or will you just kill me and bury me in the woods so I can't turn you in to the Aurors?"

"Is that an option?" Summers asked, his tone ambiguous.

"Continuing or parting ways is possible. Killing or imprisoning me? You could try, but I wouldn't recommend it. Cursing someone—especially someone I know well—is far faster and easier than healing. No threat intended, just a fact: like the spirits, I always expect fair payment for my services."

"I've been thinking… And I've decided magic isn't for me. My business already gives me enough headaches and gray hairs. Getting involved in your occult mess would just make it worse—even if I don't believe in God or devils. But I have a contact… someone who always knows the right people. He can acquire things that aren't exactly legal. There are rumors about him—that he knows a guy, who knows a guy… Anyway, he seems connected to people like you. Those who offer special services outside the law. I dropped a few hints; he knows enough. You might find it easier dealing with him. I'll pay you through him if you two can work together."

"Fair enough," the magus said, shrugging lightly. What else could he expect from a man clinging to his own narrow understanding of the world? Ordinary people panicked when even a glimpse of true reality was revealed. The only surprising thing would have been if Summers had responded any differently. Having achieved what he couldn't obtain by mundane means, he would likely invent some fantastical story about a miracle drug from a leading pharmaceutical company to explain his wife's recovery.

"Why didn't you go to him sooner? Didn't you search everywhere for help?"

"I did," William admitted grimly. "Eventually. I didn't have much hope, but I had to try. He listened, looked at the diagnosis, and the next day, he called back. Said none of his contacts would take the case—too difficult, too risky. I didn't understand what he meant then, but now… I think I'm starting to get it."

"Understood," the magus nodded, evaluating the situation. If Summers' acquaintance had connections to the fringes of the magical world—renegades, criminals, or desperate youths seeking money—they might have either refused the difficult case or lacked the skills to cover their tracks properly. Even so, access to the underbelly of the magical society could be valuable; some things were only obtainable there. He had personal experience in that regard.

"Introduce us as soon as possible. The sooner, the better. I've already wasted too much time preparing," Archibald added, mentally calculating dates. Today was April 7th. He had awakened in this body on March 13th. Nearly a month had passed, and he still had no stable residence, no money, and no worthwhile connections in either the magical or mundane worlds.

Summers, as always, wasn't one to procrastinate (Kayneth assumed he was simply eager to shove the young wizard out of his life along with all the associated madness). He arranged a meeting with his contact for that very afternoon. The timing gave William just enough leeway to escort his wife home under guard, where the doctors he had summoned would be waiting, and then deliver the magus back to the rented apartment to wash up and change.

Kayneth had brought little with him besides makeshift magical reservoirs, and after three days spent drawing ritual circles, his clothes were covered in chalk, soot, blood, and dust.

The rendezvous point was a small restaurant in Camden's tourist district—unremarkable, though not entirely unknown. Archibald had even visited it in his own world, the last time with Sola in 1993. By aristocratic standards, it was barely passable for a man of his station, but he had always liked the place—the food was excellent, and it was a rare opportunity to dine without encountering familiar faces at every turn. Pity his fiancee had never shared his appreciation…

Summers reserved a private dining room. On the way in, he ordered the dish of the day for two without bothering to check the menu. Kayneth didn't object. Neither of them had eaten all morning, and there was no telling how long they'd be waiting for the mysterious contact.

Though caution dictated he should have cast sound-dampening and bounded fields to divert attention, his magic circuits were too drained for even a simple spell. Drawing circles here would have been far too conspicuous. A proper mystic code was essential in the future, but for now, even activating his circuits made him flinch. His reserves were still recovering from the last ritual, where he'd hastily drawn a new barrier and offering circle when the spirit nearly broke free.

About fifteen minutes later, a portly red-haired man in a crumpled raincoat entered. He looked like a worn-out traveling salesman, easily in his forties. He paused, sizing up the silent room where Summers and Kayneth sat with rare steaks before them, staring ahead in tense silence. The magus simmered with frustration over his unacceptable blunder during the ritual. Summers, meanwhile, appeared simply numb to the madness of the day—processing that a ravenous Chinese spirit had nearly devoured his soul.

The newcomer cleared his throat.

"Not to interrupt your meditative mood, gentlemen, but as they say, time is money. Mr. Summers, care to introduce us?"

"Yes, of course." William seemed to shake off his stupor and spoke too quickly. "This is Albert MacDougal—'Al' to his best clients—a generalist in trade operations. And this is James Murphy… let's say, a young man with certain unique talents. I believe you two can be of service to one another."

"Bill," MacDougal's tone hardened as he studied Kayneth, "are you pulling my leg? The kid's what—nine? He probably doesn't even have a wand yet. What's he supposed to do for me?"

The magus, irritated, glanced at his bracelet hidden under his sleeve. His patience was at its limit. Clenching his fork tightly, he hissed as pain flared up. Magic circuits flared, and the utensil liquefied without heating, morphing into a solid metal rose in seconds.

Kayneth stabbed the rose into the table halfway, abandoning the fork entirely, and resumed eating with his knife. Unorthodox, perhaps, but he needed to show confidence. Losing two-thirds of his remaining energy on a basic transmutation was a high price, but with no reputation or resources here, making an impression was critical.

Fixing MacDougal with a sharp glare, he asked,

"They didn't tell you much about real magic, did they, Mr. MacDougal? Or did you think a wizard without a wand was completely helpless?"

"This… this isn't a trick, is it?" Albert stared at the rose.

"Feel free to keep it as a souvenir," Kayneth offered dryly. "But I wouldn't recommend testing the thorns with your fingers."

MacDougal plucked the rose from the wood, examining it under his breath. After a moment of thorough inspection, a grin spread across his face.

"Alright. I think we'll get along just fine, young man. And if you ever feel like enlightening me on the finer points of wizardry, I'd be grateful. So… what can I do for you?"

"Five months from now, in August," Kayneth began evenly, "I'll be prepared to heal a patient, even in terminal stages, provided they can last another week. My fee is one hundred thousand pounds. How much you negotiate and what cut Summers takes for brokering the deal doesn't concern me—as long as your greed doesn't bring us unwanted attention."

"Is that for real?" MacDougal turned toward Summers.

"Too early to say for sure," William replied cautiously, "but if today is anything to go by… it's starting to seem like this anti-science nonsense actually works. If I believed in prayers, I'd be on my knees."

"Religion doesn't quite work that way, Bill," Albert chuckled. "Still, you're going to need some serious spin to avoid unwanted questions about your wife's recovery. I can help."

"I've got it covered," Summers assured him. "The story's ready—proof, plausible explanations, the works."

"Fair enough," Albert shrugged, then refocused on Kayneth. "One patient in August. And until then?"

"Until then, I need a workshop."

"A workshop?" the red-haired man repeated, tilting his head slightly.

"A place to live and work," Kayneth explained in simple terms. He figured either the term was unfamiliar here, or this merchant was genuinely under informed about the magical world. He quickly calculated his current financial possibilities and decided to stick with the bare minimum.

"A rented property will do. An apartment in the north—Waltham, Haringey, or Barnet. Two or three rooms will be enough for now. I'll need a housekeeper who doesn't ask questions. I have money now, but no papers, no parents or guardians... in the 'Muggle' world. The biggest challenge will be avoiding questions about why I live alone, don't attend school, and so on—anything that draws attention. Additionally, I'll need access to certain materials, including dangerous ones, which won't be sold to me. And I may require your connections later to obtain things I can't access in the magical world yet."

"Got it. Apartment, supplies, documents… Whose name should it be under?"

Kayneth paused, seriously considering the question. On one hand, he could reclaim his true name, abandoning the identity of James Murphy. After a few years, once he had strengthened his circuits, crafted a few specialized mystic codes, and accumulated enough magical energy, he could gradually alter this body's appearance to something more familiar.

On the other hand, everything he had done in this world so far was an embarrassment to the Archibald family and the title of Lord El-Melloi. The thought of linking his current pathetic state—weak circuits, poverty—to his noble heritage disgusted him. Perhaps when he gained influence and began creating a new magic crest for the family, it would be more appropriate.

"James Victor Murphy. If you're aware of the St. Someone-or-Other municipal orphanage in South Lambeth, they might have records for that name. Anyone there would confirm I was once a resident."

"And in reality?" MacDougal asked, his curiosity plain.

"In reality, you didn't ask that question," the magus replied darkly. He tried, at least. Threats from a ten-year-old rarely sounded convincing. "All you need to know is that the necessary documents are stored there. But be cautious—there might be a police inspection going on. It's best to wait rather than draw unwanted attention."

"I'm sure we'll manage the details," MacDougal interrupted with a condescending smile. "As for the rest, I might have a solution for half your problems. I'll find a suitable woman to handle the housekeeping. She'll be the legal tenant of the apartment and handle all legitimate purchases. For an extra fee, she'll pose as your mother—or better yet, your adoptive mother, for authenticity. We'll fabricate the adoption papers retroactively. A single mother with a child—sadly, a common sight these days. She'll only interfere in your affairs as much as you allow. Specialized purchases will go through me."

"Reasonable enough," Kayneth admitted. The arrangement was slightly degrading, but he was coming to terms with the indignities of being a child. Spending energy to maintain a convincing illusion of an adult form would be far more taxing, and he didn't have the magical reserves for that—and wouldn't for a long time.

"What kind of budget are we working with?"

"Twenty thousand in two weeks and another fifty in a month," the magus declared confidently, without a shred of doubt that the ritual had cured Evelyn and that the doctors would find no trace of illness. Nor did he question that Summers wouldn't dare cheat him on payment—anyone, no matter how ignorant of magic, would know when it wasn't worth risking their neck.

MacDougal glanced at William, waited for a confirming nod, then pulled a notepad and a flashy pen—gold-tipped, or perhaps actually gold—from his inner pocket. He began scribbling calculations. Occasionally, he looked to the ceiling, presumably running numbers in his head, then continued writing.

Finally, he tore out a sheet and slid it across the table.

"Something like this."

Kayneth set his knife down by his empty plate and examined the uneven scrawl, growing more surprised with each line. Contrary to his assumptions, rent was the least of his concerns—forty to eighty pounds a week, 160 to 320 a month, 800 to 1,600 for half a year. In his previous life, property matters were handled by the family's stewards, with little need for his involvement. He had expected the cost to be at least an order of magnitude higher. Then again, what could he expect from a rented shack on the outskirts?

Housekeeping, with all the extra duties and secrecy bonuses, was much more expensive. The notes also included rough estimates for living expenses, food, transportation, and utilities. But the cost of obtaining documents was downright obscene—full legalization, with papers, registrations, and zero questions, would devour nearly all the remaining funds.

There would be little left for magical books or experimental materials, let alone school expenses and preparation.

"Five months is a long time," MacDougal murmured, clearly noting the change in the magus' expression. "Healing will bring you good money, and I understand you can't perform it too often without raising dangerous rumors. But between those treatments, there are other ways to earn discreetly. Potions, enchanted items, specialty services… You wizards don't realize what treasures you possess. Things that seem trivial to you are worth fortunes."

He sighed nostalgically.

"Once, I held a vial of liquid luck. Just a few sips, and Fortuna herself graces your side, like you've spent the night with her, and she whispers you're her greatest lover. Bet on a lame horse, and it wins by three laps. Sit with card sharks, and your hand is all aces… I sold it for a king's ransom, took a healthy cut, but I still wonder what might have happened if I'd drunk it myself."

"Interesting," Kayneth said neutrally. He'd never heard of such a mystery, but it didn't violate any known magical laws. Conceptual manipulation of luck through a potion… The creator of that recipe had to be a unique individual.

Thinking over MacDougal's proposal, he found it surprisingly sound. Yes, Archibald wanted the payment so he could focus on studying the new magical world and training, not bothering about money or housing—like a normal magus. But with only the vaguest idea about expenses, especially in criminal circles, he had failed to realize how much was needed to gain legitimate British citizenship with zero scrutiny. It was another miscalculation—two in a row—unforgivable. Lack of knowledge was no excuse.

And yet, this shady type offered a solution: work for him and make enough to cover the costs—maybe crafting magical items. That clashed with everything Kayneth stood for as a magus and scholar. In his old life, he'd never needed to chase money, devoting his time to research and, later, teaching the younger generation. His Clock Tower salary had been merely a token of respect, which he transferred to the family account without a glance. Now he'd have to spend time, effort, and—most importantly—magical energy on silly trinkets and marketable oddities just to keep food on the table. One ritual was bad enough, but doing it routinely? A disgrace, an indelible stain on any true magus and aristocrat. In proper houses, he would be persona non grata once word got out.

But he had no choice.

Dwelling on all this, Kayneth realized he respected his ancestor—his great-great… great-grandfather Arthur Archibald, founder of their line—far more than before. After all, that man had built their family's magical crest from nothing nearly four centuries ago, juggling the perpetual problem of finding money along with forging new developments in alchemy and necromancy. It was humiliating, but if Arthur had endured it, so would he.

"I suppose I can offer my services. But not on a permanent basis—just enough to cover my main pursuits. We'll work out the price and details once I'm settled in. And, of course, only work that won't draw Auror attention. I won't risk my reputation in the magical world for a handful of coins."

"I'm already neck-deep in Azkaban-worthy deeds, so believe me, I don't want to meet them either," Albert answered vaguely. From his phrasing, Kayneth guessed he was referring to some wizard prison, but it made little sense—no one would lock up a mere Muggle in a magus facility if they could just modify his memory or ensure he vanished quietly. Possibly, the people MacDougal dealt with had scared him enough to avoid betraying them, or he misunderstood something about the magical world. Or local wizard laws were absurd. Archibald doubted it was that chaotic, though.

Meanwhile, Albert extended his hand.

"Happy to work with you, James."

"Likewise," Kayneth said without warmth, giving the man's hand a limp shake. Then he froze, feeling a faint current of energy, and focused on the sensation. After a moment, he asked: "Do you happen to have wizards in your family line?"

"No idea. My other contact asked the same thing. Far as I know, no. But, say, I never knew anything about my maternal grandmother's parents, and my paternal line's fuzzy too. So it's possible. But I can't do any… magical stuff," he said, casting another glance at the metal rose in his other hand.

"I could be wrong. But it feels like you've got a tiny spark, though it's so weak I wouldn't bother awakening it—especially at this age. If you have children, though, who knows what might happen."

"I'll… keep that in mind," Albert replied politely, steering the conversation away. "But for now, let's deal with our issues."

"I agree," the magus said. He had no interest in this man's potential lineage—a couple of poor-quality circuits didn't really qualify someone as a magus. And if his kin did contain legitimate wizards—whatever that meant here—they might attract unnecessary scrutiny. Still, he seemed intelligent enough to figure it out for himself.

"Looks like you two have settled things," Summers concluded, standing up from the table. "Sorry, but I have a busy day. I'll cover the bill, including the table repairs and all. If everything holds up, I'll transfer the money to Albert on the agreed date. You can pick it up from him in cash or open a bank account. Anyway, I'm off."

He hesitated for a second, then offered the magus his hand. Kayneth, after pondering for a moment, accepted it with a slight nod. Despite all the difficulties, William had so far kept his word. He hadn't tried to renege on payment the moment his wife was cured, nor had he attempted to kill a wizard who knew far too much, even though he'd had the chance. That merited a modicum of appreciation.

"Good luck," Archibald said icily to the man's back.

"Take care, Bill. We'll talk," Albert called cheerily, waving. Then he pulled a bulky radiotelephone from the depths of his coat, extended its antenna, and turned to James: "So, what will it be—two or three rooms?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You mentioned a 'workshop,' and that you need a two- or three-room apartment in the north of the city. So which is it? I have to let my people know what to look for."

"That soon?" The magus felt a twinge of surprise. "William's not transferring the money for another two weeks."

"You're certain he'll pay, and I'm certain you'll pass those funds along to me to cover all this," Albert said, nodding at the slip of paper with figures on it. "So I'm willing to work on credit for now. Finding decent housing isn't easy, let alone dealing with new documents. You should have started yesterday, lad—or before you planned that ritual. Time is money."

Thrown off by the man's drive, Kayneth struggled to respond. Not that he minded—barring the humiliating fact that he'd be living on credit for a while—but he had no real choice. Among magi, deals were made more slowly and with a measure of dignity, rather than in a mad rush. Yet the merchant was right; he'd already wasted enough time.

Making up his mind, he played along:

"Then three is better. Three rooms: one for the housekeeper and to receive visitors, one for a small library, and one as my workspace. The bare minimum, but it'll have to do for now."

"Excellent. Then gather your things, and let's go. We'll drop by for a standard photo for your papers, and along the way, I'll make some calls so they can start looking for a place. Lucky you, wizard—the housing prices in London are low right now…"

Still talking a mile a minute about everything under the sun, Albert promptly tucked the slip of paper and the metal rose into the depths of his coat and nearly dragged the child out of the restaurant, phone in hand. They had a great many urgent tasks ahead. After all, good profits demanded quick action.

"Fervor, mei sanguis."

Obeying Kayneth's will, a hemisphere of mercury soaked in magic, nearly three feet across, hurtled forward across the yellow sand of the duel arena located deep beneath the British Museum in the bowels of the Clock Tower. The shining, giant droplet of metal moved swiftly and almost gracefully despite its immense weight. Any onlooker would sense the threat it posed, even without advanced knowledge of alchemy or magecraft in general. Kayneth's opponent was no exception.

The swarthy magus, who had arrived from the Continent just last week but had already slandered the methods of instruction at the Department of Spiritual Evocation and thereby provoked a duel, raised his hand and hastily shouted, "Gandr! Gandr! Gandr!"

In the blink of an eye, the droplet repositioned itself into a shield-like veil, intercepting a flurry of rapid, though not terribly powerful, curses. Several dark projectiles—each no more dangerous than a pistol bullet—smashed helplessly against the thin, enchanted mercury. Then the droplet resumed its approach toward its prey.

Sensing mortal danger, the other magus drew a short knife from behind his back and slashed it across his own wrist, invoking some family spell wordlessly. Blood gushed from his veins, spreading into a pink mist in midair, drifting toward Archibald. Barely a second later, the cloud ignited, turning into a wave of flame.

El-Melloi didn't so much as move in search of cover—his mystic code was trained to handle such threats on its own. Almost instantly, the mercury elongated into a semicircular wall of metal, absorbing the brunt of the magical fire. The flames were nowhere near strong enough to harm Kayneth's creation. Only a faint ripple of heat reached the magus himself, slightly ruffling his hair and the hem of his coat. Once the threat dissipated, the mercury coalesced back into a mobile sphere and slid forward.

Time to show this cocky fool that Volumen Hydrargyrum wasn't just an impenetrable shield but also a lethal sword. A very, very sharp sword…

"Scalp!"

"Aaaaaah!"

At his command, a yards-long whip of liquid metal neatly sliced the magus's arm in half up to the elbow. The next strike would have taken the upstart's legs off below the knee, when Archibald glimpsed a dark figure at the edge of the arena. Spinning around in place, he found himself staring into the barrel of a submachine gun, aimed at him by a disheveled, unshaven Asian man in an old coat. A moment later, the weapon roared, unleashing a long burst. Kayneth's mystic code darted to intercept, trying to position itself between its master and the assassin, but even its incredible speed had limits.

Several bullets hammered into the magus, hurling him onto the sand, which began quickly soaking up his blood. Then, the mercenary drew another pistol, this one with an unusually long barrel, in his left hand and squeezed the trigger… Simultaneously with the shot, Archibald awoke in his new bed.

"May you be cursed…" growled the former Lord El-Melloi through clenched teeth, struggling to steady his pulse and catch his breath.

This nightmare, in various forms, had haunted him even in his previous life. Dying had only made it worse—now the bastard with the gun showed up in almost all of Kayneth's dreams, even scenarios where he should never have existed, like now, when Kayneth relived a duel from about three years prior. In reality, he had cut off that arrogant simpleton's limbs, then used healing magic to reattach them, then cut them off again, repeating the process three times until the fool grasped the full extent of his mistake. The conditions of that duel had prohibited killing…

Taking another deep breath, the magus glanced around, recalling where he was. A nearly empty room, with several magical circles on the walls and floor—some incomplete—and only a bed, a table, one chair, and a small wardrobe in the corner. Not even shelves yet. Through the slightly open door, he could see a bigger room beyond, completely vacant. His new "workshop," if one could call such a cramped closet by that dignified name.

A week ago, he and MacDougal had driven all around London in search of an acceptable apartment. By evening, having grown weary of that pointless exercise, Kayneth remarked that if all the places they'd seen were identically miserable, why bother? So in the end, he chose this three-room flat in the Haringey area. Over the past seven days, he had tried to at least prepare some semblance of a workspace for his research. Comfort was secondary; more urgent was to shield this future workspace with even minimal bounded fields for privacy, noise suppression, and most importantly, to install an improvised reservoir that would absorb the inevitable magical surges from experiments—valuable both for safety and secrecy.

He'd finished forging the reservoir last night, well after midnight, and placed it in the corner before collapsing into sleep. It resembled warped, asymmetrical deer antlers made of steel, with a barrier focused on it that could absorb surplus magic. But the protective and security spells around the apartment still needed considerable work, especially given that operating magic directly was nearly impossible and he had to rely on crutches like runes, alchemical circles, and mystic codes assembled from random scraps. He'd had almost no time or energy left for real training. In seven days, he'd only managed two diagnostic rituals, discovering that James Murphy's birthday fell in November—some small clarity for his future plans. Of course, the magic circuits were at least in some constant use, accumulating and releasing energy as he worked, but that was nothing like a dedicated training regimen scheduled hour by hour, factoring in the body's peculiarities and external conditions.

He cast a disgusted glance at the cheap alarm clock on the table and saw it was barely six in the morning. That meant he could finish another bounded field around his workshop before breakfast. Running a hand through his still-short hair in resignation, he dressed quickly and picked up one of his drafts full of calculations from the table. Many figures were crossed out or amended—he'd had to verify and tweak them at every step. After the fiasco with summoning Laoren, which had almost turned into a bloodbath, Kayneth had sworn off relying solely on memory and the formulas he'd once memorized. He already had a couple of theories about what had gone wrong, the main one fairly obvious: it was all because this was a different world.

It wasn't merely an issue of altered magical flow or the density of leylines, though those factors mattered. More critical was that even if the basic principles of magic were unchanged, the evolution of local magical schools had shifted the "weight" of certain mysteries—how willing the world was to "accept" changes to reality, and how much energy it demanded in return. Wherever a particular system of magic was most widespread, its miracles came more easily and cheaply to its practitioners through their collective belief. Conversely, if, at roughly the same number of magi, this world had embraced a system relying on universal wands—completely unknown to him—it must have happened at the expense of something else, perhaps runic, drawn, or spirit-based systems. Hence they ended up less common and therefore more "costly" to wield.

This was why the spirit demanded extra payment: in this world, that was his rightful due. From his perspective, the magus had tried to cheat him. Everyone had been extremely lucky that Summers had brought along extra guards…

Thought for a couple of seconds

"Mister MacDougal asked me to inform you that your documents will be ready by the eighteenth," Miss Stone notified him over breakfast. In addition to her duties as maid, cook, and housekeeper, she had also taken on the role of liaison with Albert.

She was a short brunette, appearing about thirty-five years old. Her plain clothing and minimal makeup convincingly conveyed the impression of an endlessly busy and exhausted single mother—either MacDougal had specifically chosen someone who fit the backstory he had concocted, or she had made the effort herself, but the result was strikingly believable. At least, Archibald had pictured such a person in precisely this manner, not that he'd had frequent dealings with lone mothers from poor districts in his previous life.

It was unclear how much she knew about the true nature of her "foster son." However, she never asked questions about his work. Aside from her wonderful knack for minding her own business, Kayneth also appreciated that she didn't try to play the mother role in private. She didn't treat him like a ten-year-old brat except when necessary for appearances. In truth, her services likely did merit the fee he was paying—or, more accurately, would pay when he finally got any money at all.

"In addition," she went on, "he asked me to remind you that you should think about the kinds of services you could provide and their approximate costs."

"I'll deal with it," the magus muttered through clenched teeth. They barely knew each other, and already this merchant wanted to squeeze immediate results from him. Still, there was no point in taking out his frustration on Miss Stone—she was merely delivering a message. In principle, he couldn't really blame MacDougal either—like any moneylender, the man was simply in business to earn a profit. Archibald himself had agreed to cooperate, becoming yet another resource in the merchant's eyes, a hired hand. His anger, therefore, was best directed at himself and at those who had forced him into this situation in the first place. A pity he couldn't get at any of them without being a master of True Magic.

"I need to finish preparing this place first," Kayneth continued. "After that, I'll get to work. On the eighteenth, along with the documents, I'll need a sum in cash—I think three thousand will do—plus fifty pounds for travel expenses."

"I'll pass on your requests to Mister MacDougal. Anything else?"

"Don't disturb me until dinner unless my personal presence is required. I have pressing matters to attend to before the eighteenth. There's not much time left."

135

Johnny_Z

Jan 24, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 6

View content

Johnny_Z

Jan 27, 2025

#52

"Here we are, kid. Whittington, the Blockbuster store."

"Thank you," Kayneth replied tonelessly as he climbed out of the taxi, paying the fare. Since ordinary people were virtually unaware of the "Leaky Cauldron," he had given the address of some film rental across the road. The magus remembered it from nearly a month ago, when he'd wandered the area in circles trying to locate the barrier entrance, precisely because of its utterly banal and obvious name.

Focusing and activating his magic circuits, Archibald spotted the desired sign across the street, dispelling the misdirection charm intended for what people here called "Muggles." Scanning for anything suspicious and seeing none, he walked toward an ancient, blackened door.

Inside, he crossed the grimy, half-lit tavern without minding the stares from the patrons, heading straight for a back room. Perhaps they were gawking because he looked so young, or maybe because of his "Muggle" outfit—a dark-blue suit that resembled the uniform of one of many private schools found in London. In any case, Kayneth couldn't care less about anyone's opinion so long as it didn't cause him trouble.

He extended his palm toward the wall, unleashing several weak magical pulses, much like Tonks had done with her wand. The gateway in the barrier opened obligingly, after all, the spell was intended only to keep out ordinary people with no magic, and the method of casting or tools used were secondary details.

Nothing had changed on the other side in the past month: the same buildings, a thin crowd in old-fashioned clothes. If they each cast illusions or transformed their attire every time they stepped through from mundane London, Kayneth dreaded to think how much power was wasted daily on such pointless ostentation. The amount of magical energy they likely squandered here in a week would have been enough for him to summon a couple of decent phantoms, with surplus left over.

From his previous tour with Tonks, Archibald remembered where the places of greatest interest to him lay. But his first stop, in any case, had to be the bank—since these locals apparently couldn't keep things simple and insisted on their own, entirely unnecessary, currency system.

On the way, he paused in front of one shop, frowning at the display window: there were a dozen brooms of varying shapes and colors. The sign above the door read "Everything for Quidditch," which clarified nothing—this final word was entirely unknown to him. It seemed unlikely that a store of this grandiose appearance sold cleaning supplies, and the presence of saddles, handles, and what looked like stirrups on some of the wooden shafts indicated one was meant to sit on them. But… it all looked absurd.

In the Clock Tower, the mystery of broom flight was known in principle. It had been created—or more likely reconstructed—some twenty years earlier by one of the Grands, i.e., a top-tier magus (Kayneth was registered in the Association one rank below that but had intended to climb higher in time). The result, however, was extremely specialized: the flight basically served only to travel to a predetermined spot or to return to a set anchor, requiring a lengthy setup and, furthermore, was only available to women. It appeared that in this world someone had managed not only to refine a similar ritual but even to commercialize it. Still, Kayneth couldn't fathom why or who would buy such a thing. Shaking his head skeptically, he turned away and continued on his way.

He emerged from the bank half an hour later almost in shock, stopping at the entrance, gripping one of the columns, and breathing in the damp air laced with smoke and alchemical fumes. The experience simply defied belief. The procedure itself was nothing unusual, just your regular bureaucratic hassle — lots of quill scratching, ledger signing and the usual currency exchange. What was unusual, however, was the blunt and rather rude staff. They weren't helpful in a conventional sense but their clipped and somehow menacing questions made a quick work out of all that tedious paper pushing. But the 'icy courtesy' of the staff wasn't the reason behind his dismay.

He hadn't taken Tonks's mention of goblins seriously back then, which turned out to be a grave oversight. The entire customer hall, every post behind the counters, was manned by squat, grotesque humanoid creatures with disproportionately long claws and fangs. Real life living representatives of a Phantasmal Species in 20th-century England, and several wizard customers chatting with them as though it were the most normal thing on earth! Moreover, the building itself looked ancient, as if it had stood there for centuries. Something was definitely off about this world.

In Kayneth's original reality, mythical beings—griffins and wyverns, or non-human races like elves and centaurs—had either gone extinct or been hunted down, while others retreated to Reverse Side of the World two thousand years earlier, when the Age of Gods ended and the Age of Humans began. There simply wasn't enough magic left for their survival, and humans, proliferating rapidly, had actively destroyed those that were too different. Here, however, it seemed a portion of these creatures and races had chosen to remain on Earth, hiding from ordinary folk alongside the wizards.

Archibald felt a powerful urge to rush to a bookstore and buy up every text available on this world's magical history. He had successfully exchanged his pounds for gold despite the shock, so at least he had the funds to do so. However, he needed one particular item first. If he recalled, the right store was ahead on the corner…

Twenty minutes later, he was approaching the largest bookstore in the district, "Flourish and Blotts," holding a newly purchased suitcase with a brown leather covering. It was "new" only in the sense of recent manufacture—the style was stuck around the 1880s, with metal corner guards, an archaic lock, and an overall coffin-like heft.

Of course, what mattered was not the look but the expansion enchantment and real-weight compensation. Nevertheless, it didn't remotely compare to the similar case Archibald had owned in his previous life, left under the ruins of that hotel along with all his belongings. This mass-produced item would suffice for now, though. It had cost nearly thirty Galleons, out of the roughly six hundred he had on him—the pound-to-Galleon rate was about five-to-one, but the bank also charged a percentage for service.

Upon entering the nearly empty shop, Kayneth paused for a couple of seconds, barely acknowledging the mild greeting from a tall wizard behind the counter, who looked to be over forty. Books—books of every possible size—hundreds and thousands of them, thick grimoires and slender pamphlets, handwritten or printed, spanning various schools and branches of magecraft unknown to anyone in the Clock Tower (except maybe that old bloodsucker). Even if the mysteries and techniques they described turned out useless, as a magus and a scholar he couldn't help but feel the sacredness of this moment.

"Young man? Young man!" A voice reached him as though from a distance.

"Ah, my apologies…" Archibald forced himself back to reality, tearing his gaze from the rows of books—those lining the shelves, laid out on windowsills and tables, or simply stacked in piles on the floor. He turned to the shopkeeper. "I'm here for the first time. I… got a bit overwhelmed," he added honestly.

"That happens," the vendor said with a condescending yet good-natured smirk, then asked, "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"More like I'm interested in everything," he said, gesturing broadly at the bookshelves. "I'm… what you call 'Muggle-born,' I believe. I only found out about magic about a month ago. I'm curious about it all. But if there's some special type of book or guide for people like me, I'd like to take a look."

"What about school textbooks?"

"I won't be going until next year, so I don't need them yet."

"All right, I understand. There's something, but not much—mostly Ministry pamphlets," the shopkeeper added with a faint sneer, suggesting a low opinion of their content. "Just wait here, I'll see what I can find. And remember, all the books are enchanted—don't take anything out of the shop before you buy it."

The magus merely shrugged in silence, indicating he wasn't going anywhere. That final warning might have sounded insulting, but one had to allow that they believed him to be a novice who knew nothing about magic. He himself could sense weak, uniform spells placed on the books around them, which seemed an appalling waste of magical energy in his view—although perhaps there was something fundamental about the local school of magic he had yet to grasp.

"Here's what I managed to dig up," said the returning shopkeeper, setting a modest stack of four drab, grayish pamphlets—painfully bureaucratic in appearance—on the counter. As Kayneth spread them out, he saw a large stamp on each, reading "Approved by the British Ministry of Magic."

"'Welcome to the Wizarding World.' 'Now I'm a Wizard.' 'Magical Britain in Questions and Answers.' 'Quidditch Basics for Muggle-born'… And what is 'Quidditch'? I've seen that word just recently."

"The greatest wizarding sport," the shopkeeper replied, proudly jabbing his finger at a black-and-white framed photograph on the wall… which moved, looking more like a short piece of video footage. It showed a massive stadium with about ten people zipping around in midair, evidently on brooms. "Here in Britain, we have one of the strongest teams in the world. And Hogwarts has a very good school team. I'd swear there's nothing like it among Muggles."

"Probably," Kayneth shrugged; he had never been interested in sports. Merely the thought of expending precious magical energy on something like that… it bordered on sacrilege against the art of magecraft. He set aside the last pamphlet, gathered the other three into a pile, and asked, "How much for these?"

"One and a half Galleons for the three," the wizard responded, shaking his head in disapproval. Perhaps he was a devoted fan of that broomstick mayhem. "Anything else?"

"Oh, I'm just getting started. I want to learn so much more… but I'm not sure I can find what I need by myself," the magus admitted, surveying the floor-to-ceiling shelves in this two-story shop, plus the heaps of mismatched tomes scattered everywhere. There seemed to be no system at all to their arrangement. "Do you have a catalog or some alphabetical listing? For instance, how would I locate books on magical history?"

"That's simple." The wizard gave a bit of a showy flourish of his hand and said, not even touching his wand, "Accio 'A History of Magic, Volume One.'"

Kayneth sensed a mild surge of power. Almost instantly, a thick volume slid from somewhere behind the shelves and flew into the shopkeeper's grasp. He placed it on the counter and explained, "Until you've learned such spells, you can just tell me what you need. I'll pick out the right volumes."

"Excellent." Taking the book and flipping through a few pages, the magus glanced around, inhaled, and began: "Right, let's get started. All histories of magic—everything you have, plus the international situation of the magical community, magical theory from general to specific, a list and descriptions of the most important magical families, the code of magical laws—English and international, a reference to branches of magic, mythical creatures and races, summoning magic, healing magic, alchemy, nec… nectar uses in alchemy, wizard duels, combat magic, rituals, artifact creation, runic magic…"

"Hold on, hold on!" The shopkeeper, clearly overwhelmed, waved his hands. "What's your name, young man?"

"James Murphy, sir."

"Cornelius Hallowabbis," the wizard introduced himself, scrutinizing the boy's face. "James, do you happen to have a sister, maybe a year older, even a cousin?"

"Not that I'm aware of, sir," Archibald answered honestly, masking his surprise. "Might I ask why…?"

"Because last summer, we had a Muggle-born girl come through here trying to buy out the entire shop in one go. Her professor from the school ended up threatening to hit her with a Body-Bind and drag her out levitating. She came back alone the next day, but ran out of money long before we ran out of books. You're not very alike, but I thought maybe you were relatives."

"No, but it'd be interesting to meet her," the magus said with a half-smile. Such enthusiasm for knowledge deserved encouragement, especially in first-generation magi—greater the chance they'd establish a family line that wouldn't vanish in fifty years without leaving a trace in the Association's records. Otherwise, they enroll all sorts of incompetents, and you end up stuck teaching them six generations later, and they still can't tell the Root from the Origin or think the Reality Marble is one of the Sorcery Traits… Archibald grimaced, recalling some of his former students.

"And since we're already talking money—sorry to pry, but how much are you willing to spend here? This one, for instance," he tapped the cover of A History of Magic, "costs two Galleons."

Kayneth pulled from his jacket pocket the coin pouch the goblins had sold him at the bank (with a "discount," they'd claimed) after he exchanged his money, calling it a necessary first item. Loosening the drawstrings, the magus whispered a password and tilted it over the counter, clearly articulating the sum: "Five hundred Galleons."

A few seconds later, a modest pile of heavy gold coins lay there. The voice-recognition instead of blood or magic circuits was rudimentary, and its design probably hadn't changed since the Hundred Years' War, but it did have a small internal barrier that distorted volume and reduced weight—its main selling point. Without this little bag, six hundred gold coins would weigh a very real forty pounds or nearly so; who would willingly lug that much around in their pockets?

"Spending everything?" Cornelius asked with a chuckle, casting a satisfied look at the coins. He whistled, turned toward the back of the shop, then called out, "Hey, Robert, forget your ledgers—there's a good order here, I need a hand."

"I'll leave a little spare change for potions," Kayneth answered frankly. He pushed aside several piles of books on a nearby table, set down his new suitcase, and opened it, activating the barrier within. "So, let's start with the history of magic…"

"You are discovering a new and wondrous world, full of thrilling adventures, great mysteries, and fantastic revelations. All your life, you were told that magic doesn't exist, that dragons and wizards survive only in ancient tales. But these people, in their naïveté, cannot see how the world truly works. They were wrong! A world brimming with magic, a world you have now become a part of…"

"Thank Akasha the Clock Tower had no middle school! If I had to write this drivel for a bunch of adolescents who've just learned how to light candles with a glance, I'd hang myself," exclaimed the former Lord El-Melloi in despair, slamming shut the Ministry of Magic pamphlet on the first page and fighting the urge to turn it to ash. Even though fire had never been his favorite element, he had more than enough theoretical knowledge to pull off such a feat—and he found himself dangerously tempted to do so, secrecy be damned.

After finishing his purchases and spending almost all his "magical" money (keeping only about a dozen coins for study), Archibald left the barrier-shielded district. Yet his curiosity—both scientific and practical—proved too strong to ignore, and rather than searching for a taxi, he returned to the same park where he had first met Tonks. Finding an empty bench, he sat down. This time, the weather was far warmer; the last traces of snow had melted long ago, and the trees and grass had turned green, but the magus paid it no mind. He only noted the absence of nearby people.

Rummaging in his suitcase, he pulled out one of the local Ministry's pamphlets that he had set aside earlier. Then he wrapped it in an opaque cover—purchased on the way in an ordinary bookstore for a few pence—and began to read. He didn't even make it through the introduction before he lost patience.

Still, such information wasn't entirely useless. At the very least, it illustrated the patronizing—if not downright overprotective—approach of the local authorities toward children with first-generation magic. But even the small details, like the relationships among various factions in this society, were worth knowing. So, gritting his teeth and resisting the urge to curse the author with some incurable affliction, Kayneth forced himself to continue reading—or more precisely, skimming the text and skipping large swaths of the endless praises for magical Britain in general and its all-problem-solving Ministry in particular.

In short, stripping away the flowery language, there was a worldwide Magical Confederation that united wizard communities of different countries. It was led by a "Supreme Mugwump", apparently a Brit at the moment, though from the list of his other titles, the position seemed purely ceremonial with no real power. The main international issues were handled by a Council of delegates from various nations, though the pamphlet said little about how that actually worked.

In Britain, the magical community was governed by this very Ministry, which—aside from printing such nonsense—handled the affairs of wizards, phantasmal races, and creatures living in the country. Beneath them were countless officials along with a law enforcement branch that included, but was not limited to, Aurors—something like an elite guard, powerful but small in number, while minor and less threatening cases were handled by ordinary Ministry patrol wizards. These patrollers also cleaned up traces of magic in the normal world and erased witnesses' memories if needed. Tonks had mentioned something to that effect, but without details.

Memory needed to be erased because, since the late 17th century, an international decree known as the Statute of Secrecy had officially obligated everyone to hide the existence of magic from "Muggles," with the exception of certain top-level officials in a few nations. How strictly it was enforced varied widely: in Britain, it was very strict, but in Africa or India it depended on luck—this pamphlet harshly condemned such "lax interpretations of the law by irresponsible communities."

Crucial to the magical world were schools teaching wizards the basics of their craft and the statutes of the Magical Confederation. There were eleven oldest, universally recognized schools: one each in North America, South America, Africa, and Australia; then one each in the "island" nations of Great Britain and Japan; the remaining five in Eurasia—Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Russia, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia. There were also smaller institutions from primary schools to colleges, but typically they were only a century or two old and lacked the prestige and authority of the older schools.

"That'll do for a general picture," Archibald concluded, stuffing the irritating pamphlets back into his suitcase. He had hoped for something more… academic, more details on research and major achievements or theoretical branches, but it was foolish to expect that from a novice-friendly propaganda piece. He would still have to study the material thoroughly instead of skimming it two paragraphs at a time, but that could wait.

Right now, he needed to understand how it had all come to pass, why this world diverged so greatly from the reality he knew. Next, he pulled "A History of Magic" from the depths of his suitcase. Naturally, it was just a school textbook, not a scholarly monograph, yet it would suffice to grasp the basics—particularly since he was still unacquainted with much of the local specialized terminology.

So it started with the Age of Gods—"Legendary times when deities walked the earth, magical creatures lived openly among humans, and fantastical beasts filled the forests, seas, and steppes…," to quote the book. Here, it was called the "Era of Magic," but it amounted to the same thing—just like in Archibald's home world, from the rise of the earliest human tribes until the start of the modern age, magic on Earth had been far stronger and an everyday part of people's lives. The magi of that era supposedly drew power directly from the Root and could effortlessly accomplish feats unimaginable by present standards.

Likewise, in this world, around the eighth century BCE, the might of gods and demigods began to wane along with the overall magical stream, and the planet's leylines, once like rivers in full flood, diminished to narrow trickles. In his own world, that led to magi—having lost direct connection to the Root—clinging to every last scrap of power that appeared in their magic circuits, refining and training those circuits to the utmost, and later partially passing them down by inheritance or exchanging them in the form of family crests. By doing so, they siphoned off most of the already weakened magical flow, and those beasts and races with a magical nature either died out or withdrew to the Reverse Side, a sort of magical 'mirror' of Earth where humans did not exist.

In the legends of ordinary folk, that memory remained as Avalon, the Land of Cockaigne, the Valley of the Dead, Kitezh-Grad, the Realm of Yan Wang, Asgard, and many other fabled places where heroes went, where elves, kobolds, and demons supposedly hid, and where miracles occurred. What the legends got wrong was any story of a hero or wise man accidentally stumbling into such a realm or forcing his way there in search of treasure—humans, even magi, had no path to that realm. Though a few "windows" still existed on Earth, and summoning rituals could temporarily forge a connection.

But in this world, events had followed a different course.

"Skipping school, young man?" came a stern voice nearby.

Kayneth, who had just reached the most intriguing part, actually jumped, snapping the book shut and spinning around. Standing beside the bench was a policeman. Judging by his relaxed posture and the fact that he was bothering a child quietly reading in a park, the officer was simply bored with nothing better to do. The magus quickly regained his composure and answered calmly:

"I'm homeschooled, sir. My mother submitted all the permits to Social Services. I don't need to attend a regular school."

"Social Services?" The policeman looked surprised that a nine-year-old (by his reckoning) was using such terms.

"She's not my biological mother. I'm from an orphanage. When she decided it would be better for me to study at home, she had to file documentation proving I was really getting an education instead of just wandering about. I assumed that's something police officers learn about, sir?"

"Oh, we learn a lot of things… Only, aren't you a bit young to be reading that?" He smirked, nodding at the closed book.

At first, the magus didn't understand the question. Then it dawned on him: a child, on his own, reading something in an opaque cover and shutting it hurriedly the moment an adult appears. The policeman evidently suspected the book was some indecent material. Smirking faintly, Kayneth held the volume up for the officer to see, even flipping a few pages as he said:

"I agree, sir, organic chemistry is a bit tough right now—lots of formulas, especially isomers and polymers are a real challenge. But I'm sure I'll manage by the end of the year."

"R-right… Sorry to bother you," the policeman replied, visibly rattled by the tables and equations he barely recognized. Tipping his hat politely, he added, "Study hard, lad, so you can find yourself a decent job. But you'd be better off reading at home or at least in a cafe. Being alone in a park isn't always wise—there are all sorts of people about."

"Thank you for the concern, sir. Indeed, I should probably head home," the magus agreed, quickly stowing his textbook in the suitcase. "Otherwise, my parents might worry. Have a good day, officer."

"Take care on your way, young man."

Absurd as the situation was, the policeman was right—such books should be read at home. It was fortunate it was just a mundane officer. If a more vigilant patrol wizard from the Ministry had decided to check on him, it could've been a breach of secrecy leading to special scrutiny. That wasn't worth the risk. Even so, once Kayneth got into a taxi and settled the suitcase beside him, he took out the book again. There was no one else in the car aside from the driver, and the man certainly couldn't see the text from his mirror.

Archibald entered the apartment without taking out his keys. Without stopping, he used magic to unlock and push open the door. His hands were full—one held the suitcase, the other held the second volume of A History of Magic. He walked straight to the library door, ignoring the somewhat startled housekeeper who had witnessed his dramatic entrance. Then he paused, as if recalling something, and said:

"Miss Stone, would you kindly close the door? Also, I need coffee," the magus hefted his suitcase and added, "A great deal of strong coffee. And after that, please do not disturb me, even if reds try to storm London."

"Uh… The Soviet Union broke up last year…"

"Really? Who would have thought. Well, you understand the point, Miss Stone. And don't forget the coffee…"

He managed to tear himself away from the books only around three in the morning, and only because his vision was blurring and doubling. This body's stamina was sorely lacking, and he had no time at all to train it, even minimally.

Rubbing his eyes, the magus walked around the room, once again reminding himself to order a proper chair—and forgetting immediately as he tried to consolidate everything he had read. Over the evening, he'd already scolded himself multiple times for his naivete and, he was ashamed to admit, his narrow-minded approach. Despite the overall similarity between the two worlds—down to the map of leylines and the specific effects of certain spells—the dominant system of magecraft here had several extremely significant differences that he, in his complacency, had failed to notice until he came across them in the books. It appeared he was losing his edge after all he had been through.

Still, the number of discrepancies was perfectly understandable once he realized the key point of divergence happened, give or take, 2,400 years earlier. As in his old world, the Age of Gods here gradually approached its end, and magi—deprived of most of their former power—searched desperately for some way out. Finally, in the fourth century BCE, they succeeded. That was when the world's first wizard wand was created—or rather, the principle underlying that artifact came into being.

Various magic schools embodied it in wooden staves, metal rings, bone rods, and even enchanted swords—countless forms were tried, but the core mystery remained the same. No one knew who discovered it: the book offered a multitude of theories, naming the elven king Oberon, Odin renouncing his divinity, Iblis the greatest of all djinn, every major magus of that era by name, or even Death itself in person. The author, showing her characteristic British patriotism, mentioned Merlin or Morgana, but that made little chronological sense. Regardless, the mystery was created and woven into the fabric of the world. Artificers then replicated it, produced it in different forms, and experimented, with many focusing exclusively on wands, forgetting everything else.

When Kayneth assumed that what Tonks held was merely a standard auxiliary type mystic code, he was technically correct. Just as, technically, a lizard is a dragon—only a very small one. The crux lay in how it worked. Everyone knew that magecraft meant creating miracles powered by magical energy.

In the Clock Tower's first-year curriculum (something any self-respecting magus learned in childhood), they taught that magical energy comes in two forms—external and internal, or Mana and Od. Od accumulates over time in a magus's magic circuits or in the magical core of a mythical beast, like a dragon or a phoenix. Mana flows along leylines and is present in the world around them.

Most spells rely on Od, the internal reserve, but with skill, a particularly expensive ritual can be supported by external power—Kayneth himself had done so recently with the summoning circle for that spirit of greed. Yet only higher demons or a few ancient artifacts of Holy Grail caliber can directly absorb and use Mana.

Nevertheless, a wizard wand (or ring, sword, staff built on the same principle) can, through movement, accumulate a small reserve of ambient Mana and apply it instantly to cast a spell. Simultaneously, it forcibly stimulates the user's magic circuits, requiring them to expend only a small portion of their own Od in the process. It was truly ingenious. Archibald found himself inclined to bow to the brilliance of whoever had designed this mystery—and lament that it never occurred in his home world.

Therefore, since magi here did not turn themselves into metaphorical drilling rigs or wells, extracting every last drop of magical power through their magic circuits, the overall flow of energy remained richer—by a factor of three or four. Many magical creatures and beasts stayed on Earth. Although some also withdrew to the Reverse Side here, including elves (the book, for some reason, referred to them as True Elves, as if there were others?). Possibly there were other contributing factors—some alliances with mythic peoples or a different attitude among magi toward various monsters—but in the end, far more of them survived in this world, generally in remote or magic-shielded regions of the planet.

The text then moved on to less compelling topics: the story of Cú Chulainn, for instance, or the rise and fall of Camelot, some ancient goblin uprisings, and battles against giants. Essentially, the closer it approached the modern era, the more the textbook focused on Britain alone, mentioning fewer and fewer events in the magical world beyond its borders. He found nothing else so… fundamental as the creation of the universal mana conductor made to look like a simple stick. So far, Kayneth had reached only the seventeenth century, precisely the time of the Statute of Secrecy's adoption and the magical community's official retreat underground—perhaps more interesting details would come once he read further.

Instead of continuing into modern history, he turned his attention to textbooks on magical theory and skimmed a reference guide on wands and their use. This device intrigued him the most, given that the dominant magical tradition here was built entirely around employing this mystic code.

A rough estimation yielded the following: if we treat the energy for the simplest Reinforcement of an object as a single unit, then performing an "Gradation Air"—creating, from "nothing," an object familiar to the magus for a couple of minutes—would cost five units. A wizard with a wand, however, would spend only one-quarter of a unit of their internal reserves for the same strengthening spell, and a single unit for the Gradation Air, compensating the rest with ambient mana.

Of course, that's the broad scenario, ignoring the magus's condition, compatibility with the mystic code, and a couple dozen other factors. It's as they say: all this is under standard sea-level conditions. Even so, one can guess the approximate numbers.

Did that mean Tonks, for example, might surpass Sola four- or fivefold in terms of her magical reserves? Apparently not. While a wand is an immensely powerful magical tool in capable hands, it also… makes the user complacent.

Children here don't begin training until about ten, not five or six. While that's humane, it's also unwise. Since awakening and training magic circuits without external help from a mystic code is exceptionally painful, wizards never devote proper time to it. At best, they achieve the bare minimum, still leaning on their wand. By seventeen, the most gifted of them can perform simple mysteries with only their internal reserve. Yet in a real battle or complex ritual, their capabilities without the mystic code remain severely limited. But for the majority, that's enough. Hence…

When Kayneth realized that yesterday, he simply dropped the book, choked on his coffee, and spent quite some time coughing and catching his breath. It must have looked both pathetic and laughable. Had anyone walked in on him then, the magus might well have killed them, no matter who they were. Yet after he'd composed himself, he tried again to calmly come to terms with what he'd discovered—this world's wizards never developed magic crests, not even the ancient families whose lineage spanned over a thousand years.

Despite how absurd it sounded, an explanation was possible. Wizards here had no need to burn themselves out in constant training for years before launching into research that might only bear fruit for their grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Hence, they never faced a compelling reason to devise a hazardous and frequently painful method for boosting the next generation's magical reserves and transmitting certain family secrets directly with a fragment of one's own soul.

Instead, they focused on marriage strategies, genealogical records, and counting how many generations of wizards a family contained—while preserving the crafts in the form of enchanted books in family libraries. Perhaps, too, over the course of more than two thousand years, the wizards themselves had changed in some small way, adapting to the persistent use of "crutches" like wands. Their magic circuits may have "mutated" across countless generations.

In his previous life, Archibald had encountered a theory suggesting that modern magi differ from those who lived three or four millennia ago and thus no one's body can again access the Root—called the Swirl of the Root, the Akashic Records, the Great Void, or by some, simply God.

Frankly, Kayneth had always regarded the pursuit of the Root—so widespread in the Association—excessive, bordering on religious fetishism, something a true researcher should avoid. He was pleased to learn that here, no one wasted centuries of struggle and mountains of resources chasing such folly. Compared to that, the local British wizards' fascination with so-called Deathly Hallows was almost endearing.

Feeling that his endless pacing back and forth was making his legs ache and grow numb, Archibald sat on a stool and cast a glance at several half-finished trinkets he'd been putting together on the side, just to keep MacDougal off his back for a while and balance his negative account up to zero. But now, with these fresh insights, he realized he had only more expenses ahead. Which meant he'd have to postpone his research once again and focus on junk for sale to ordinary folk.

Based on his new knowledge from the books, he could at least refine some of the formulas and constants—particularly regarding the density of the magical flow—and speed up his calculations. It was an awful pity that even a talented magus without money was stuck pouring precious time into such nonsense. Then again, not wanting to do anything half-heartedly, Archibald had ended up creating a couple of interesting things from a theoretical standpoint, which might be refined further someday—if he could find the time.

He glanced at the clock: it was already half past six in the morning. Technically, that was an acceptable time for business. Swaying with exhaustion, Kayneth went into the "living room," lifted the phone receiver, and dialed a number. He waited a long while for someone to pick up, but he had patience.

"Mister MacDougal? Glad to see you're not asleep yet. About your reminders: I think I've assembled a few interesting items to put on the market. But it'd be best if you examined them in person to see if there's any demand. Let's meet at the workshop in two days and sort it out. Also, I'd like to ask a favor—but I'll tell you then. Wonderful. Good day."

Setting down the receiver, the magus stood motionless for half a minute, weighing whether to finish the "merchandise" first or push onward in The History of Magic up to the twentieth century. Realizing that just standing still was putting him on the brink of dozing off, Kayneth shook his head and trudged back to his laboratory. First, he'd invest some energy in those trinkets and a couple of mystic codes for his own use, and then he'd return to the books. It was unlikely anything truly important had occurred in magical Britain after the Statute of Secrecy came into force.

155

Johnny_Z

Jan 27, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 7

View content

Johnny_Z

Jan 31, 2025

#92

"The tradition of magical duels in Britain has largely fallen out of favor during the latter half of the twentieth century, yet it continues to be practiced—unlike in various European countries that have abandoned this custom in favor of settling disputes exclusively in court.

"The rules for issuing a challenge… the rules for conducting a duel… the conditions… permissible weapons are solely a mystic code, that is, a wand or, far more rarely, a staff. Firearms are not employed, and melee weapons are used only occasionally. Hand-to-hand combat remains at an amateur level, more often preceding a duel rather than being used to inflict harm (slaps, blows to the face as part of a challenge, etc.).

"There is no gender discrimination—a witch can challenge a wizard, and vice versa. Duels between wizards rely heavily on the wide application of shields, both full and localized, to absorb or reflect direct conceptual and elemental attacks. According to examples, an experienced duelist can, with a properly placed zonal shield of about a foot in radius, bounce a stunning, paralyzing, or igniting spell back at the opponent…"

"Mr. Murphy, Mr. MacDougal has arrived for you, just as agreed," came the impeccably polite voice of Miss Stone from behind the laboratory door, after a light knock. She even managed to address the ten-year-old boy as "Mister" without breaking into laughter—professionalism at its finest.

Kayneth shut the guide to magical duels and slipped into a desk drawer the notebook in which he had been summarizing the most crucial points about how local wizards conducted combat. He had no doubt it would be useful sooner or later. Rising from his chair, he rolled his neck to relieve the stiffness, then went to the living room to greet his visitor. He hadn't exactly forgotten about the meeting—he just hadn't expected time to pass so quickly.

"You look awful," the "trade operations specialist" greeted him cheerily, getting up from the couch. As always, Albert wore that same old coat, though late April had turned out rather warm. He held a small case in one hand, apparently unwilling to let it out of his sight even for a moment. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Day before yesterday… I think," the magus answered, shrugging indifferently. He glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall. Indeed, his appearance was not good—dark circles beneath reddened eyes, wrinkled clothes (unchanged since his trip for books), a couple of scratches, and a small burn on his cheek. Anything but aristocratic, though it suited a ragged brat from a pathetic orphanage well enough.

He had become so absorbed in newly discovered knowledge and tinkering with mystic codes that his appearance had slipped down his list of priorities. He would tidy himself up… later, once he had time. "But does it really matter to you if I'm here to sell you something unusual, or do you prefer pretty boys? I believe that wasn't part of our deal."

"Fair enough—business first," Albert agreed with a flourish of his hands.

"Precisely. This way, please." Turning around, the magus indicated the open door to another room. The passage was covered by opaque plastic, like something used in hospitals or labs. A magical curtain of mist would have raised more questions, and creating a believable everyday illusion behind the doorway, visible from the living room, would have required more effort and energy than he could spare. Hanging a makeshift curtain had been simpler.

After letting MacDougal enter ahead of him, Kayneth followed and locked the door, activating the barriers he had already set. They were not very powerful yet, but they would at least keep them from being overheard. The visitor peered around with interest, taking in the magic circles, the stacks of books piled against the wall (no time to acquire shelves), the table buried under scribbled pages, and a smaller folding table holding several puzzling items plus a jumble of spare parts—metal scraps, bits of wire, and similar refuse. Back in the living room, Albert had noticed that besides the bracelet he'd seen before on the boy's wrist, the kid was now wearing an oversized metal cross on a cord over what had once been a white shirt.

The magus gestured toward the single chair, remaining on his feet near the worktable.

"On the phone, you mentioned you'd prepared a few things for sale and wanted my opinion. Here I am," Albert said with polite interest. From his expression, it was unclear whether he genuinely expected anything from this arrangement or was humoring a cocky child. Then again, if he saw no chance of profit, he wouldn't bother investing his time or money.

"In that case, let's not waste time. First, something simple." Archibald brushed aside some scraps and bits of trash. Into the cleared space on the table, he placed several small, gray lumps of metal. "Bullets. Plain lead, imbued with a modest spell that, on striking any part of the body and coming into contact with blood, liquefies and then continues traveling through the capillaries and, later, the vessels with the bloodstream. Once per second, it does this, then turns liquid again and keeps moving."

Taking a scalpel from the table, the magus nicked his thumb and allowed a drop of blood to fall on one of the bullets. Almost immediately, it spread into a gray puddle on the surface, then formed a metallic hedgehog of long, spiky quills clanking on the tabletop—only to melt and reshape into tangles of razor-thin edges, repeating the transformation several times. Meanwhile, Kayneth rubbed his fingers, activating his magic circuits to seal the cut. This now came easier than a month ago—he had boosted his overall reserve a bit.

"The spell lasts about ten seconds, but that's enough to cause multiple internal and open wounds, damaging muscle, nerves, and likely reaching the heart. If it hits a leg or an arm, it will follow the venous flow. Should it strike the torso and be carried into the pulmonary circulation, it might circle it two or three times."

"What a…" Albert shivered slightly, though the skepticism in his tone vanished. "…interesting invention. Strange that no one ever offered me this before."

"Wizards don't use guns, Mr. MacDougal," Archibald remarked with haughty detachment. Privately, he noted that some former magi would. "We have far more convenient methods. Besides, there are obvious drawbacks—you still need to hit your target. And they're useless against foes lacking blood."

"Those exist?"

"There are all sorts—at least in our world," Kayneth waved dismissively, hinting that this second flaw was irrelevant here. He carefully took hold of the interwoven set of tiny, now magic-less and thus brittle blades, lifting them for a clearer demonstration. It was a habit he had picked up after years of teaching. "But if some thug wants to make sure he, as you say, 'finishes off' another, this method offers a reliable approach with no chance of rescue. Even if there's an ambulance nearby or a team of doctors, they won't be able to do a thing."

"Well, I'll think about it. Some might decide that's 'not how things are done,' but others will be interested, I'm sure. Anything else?" he asked, now genuinely intrigued.

"Of course, that's not everything," Kayneth replied, carefully placing the "bullet" back where it belonged. Adopting a lecturer's tone—which, unfortunately, clashed with his rather high-pitched child's voice—he went on:

"As far as I can tell, the people you associate with tend to die young and quite unpleasantly. They spend plenty on security, guard dogs, and high fences, to put it simply. All those modern gizmos with electronics and fancy locks"—the magus waved a hand vaguely in the air, never having bothered to learn such things and never regretting it—"once invented, they can be broken just as easily. But I can offer an alarm system no top-notch burglar can bypass in any way, even if they're aware of its existence."

"Interesting. And I hope it's not just a line of salt on the doorstep?"

"I'm surprised by your folklore knowledge, Mr. MacDougal, but no—this is something more reliable," Archibald replied. He touched the cross hanging around his neck and murmured something that, from the outside, might have sounded like a prayer. "Just the simplest possible ghost."

"I… I see that it's a ghost!" Albert blanched slightly, staring at some spot behind Kayneth's shoulder. He fumbled beneath his coat, as though searching for a weapon.

"Really?" Kayneth glanced at the grayish, translucent figure that had appeared behind him, then turned back to Albert. "Ordinary people generally can't see them. Evidently, you really do have a rather unusual lineage. And yes, a pistol won't help you here, at least not with normal bullets. Well then, the ghost"—the magus waved his hand behind him—"it can guard a particular area, and if someone crosses the assigned boundary, it lets out an audio signal.

"In short, it howls. This isn't a banshee—just a feeble spirit from the nearest cemetery. Its howling won't cause physical harm, but it can scare someone and alert the guards. Past that, it's up to them. No burglar—'Muggle' or otherwise—will be sneaking by unnoticed if they have a soul. I doubt today's thieves or killers typically bring an exorcist along just in case."

"Are we not gonna get busted for this?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, won't it get us caught…" Still seeing Kayneth's bafflement, Albert drummed his fingers on his case, struggling to find simpler words. "As in, won't they track us down? Your Aurors or whoever?"

"No. Ghosts aren't particularly rare—just usually found in less-populated areas. If a random wizard, even an Auror, passes by a factory or a manor and spots a ghost, he'll merely shrug," Kayneth explained. He hadn't read through all the books on magical creatures and monsters yet, but he'd studied the parts about spirits, ghosts, and how the wizarding world perceives them before heading to the cemetery to summon one himself. "And for ordinary people, it'll just be some overly sophisticated sonic alarm."

"Well, I'll trust you on that. I'm sure there'll be customers for that kind of thing."

"Then let's continue. This next item is best demonstrated in the lab," the magus said, picking up a small object resembling an aluminum ashtray with a lid. He gestured for MacDougal to go first and locked the door behind them, setting off another barrier. The adjacent room was larger, nearly empty aside from the steel "antlers" of a magic reservoir in one corner and numerous magic circles on the floor, walls, and ceiling. Kayneth shuddered at the memory of how much hassle it had been to stand on a ladder, arms aching, drawing the ceiling's circle overhead.

"Gradation Air," he pronounced, conjuring a tripod in the middle of the room. He placed the ashtray on top, pricked his fingertip on the sharp edge of the lid, leaving a few drops of blood in a tiny groove. Then Archibald walked calmly to the wall, motioning Albert to stand beside him, and touched a chalk-drawn mark on the floor—a line that, upon closer inspection, was made up of countless rows of minuscule symbols. A grayish, nearly transparent barrier materialized between them and the object on the stand. And then… nothing happened.

"Er, so…"

"Another fifteen seconds… ten…"

At some point, most of the ashtray seemed to evaporate into fine dust, leaving only a small metal cone solid. Then a spark flickered atop it. The explosion was minor, but the building seemed to tremble; the tripod was blown to splinters, dust billowed up, and the shockwave threw Albert and Kayneth against the wall, leaving them deafened for a couple of seconds.

"Listen… you pint-sized shaman, wouldn't it be better to test stuff like that outside the city?" demanded the indignant merchant, shouting over the ringing in his ears. He nervously glanced at the window, apparently undamaged by the blast. "They're gonna call the cops, or the fire brigade, we won't have time to run."

"Mr. MacDougal, please don't take me for an idiot," Kayneth retorted scornfully, trying to smooth his hair back down. "The barriers in this room absorb sound, the shockwave, and any excess magic. For something this small, they can easily handle it. Nobody outside will even notice a thing—not the neighbors overhead or below. The better question is: do you think anyone would be interested?"

"So how does it work?" Albert asked, a little calmer now.

"The blood acts as a catalyst. You can set the timer in advance. A spell on the object breaks down nine-tenths of its material into dust, then ignites it. Ever heard of dust explosions?"

"I've even heard of thermobaric bombs," Albert muttered, then coughed, trying to clear his throat of the dust swirling around. "What's the advantage of this over a normal bomb?"

"No trace of explosives whatsoever, and no magical residue after about ten minutes. Just a perfectly ordinary object you can carry anywhere—an ashtray, a cigar box, maybe a trophy cup or a paperweight. The main requirement is that it be metal—iron or aluminum, for example. You place it, prick your finger, walk away—nothing ticks, no lights flash, and to any Muggle it's just a harmless lump of metal, something you could only use to whack someone over the head."

"Right, I'll ask around, though don't expect too much—stuff like this is usually desired by people who, let's face it, you'd be unwise to cross even with magic if you value your life."

"That's your job. I deliver," the magus said coolly. He opened the door to the laboratory and gestured for them to return to the "library." Albert sat down once more, and Kayneth remained standing at the table.

"This is all just rushed work," the magus continued. "After all, wizards and Muggles have very different needs, so it's not easy to find items that will interest your clients and that they can't get through ordinary science or technology. But I'm sure we can uncover other unique products over time. I have a few ideas, for instance using ghosts or familiars for reconnaissance. Let's not rest on our laurels—there's always scientific progress."

"No argument there. Not all at once, though we don't have years for research either."

"I understand. Rent needs paying now, not in a decade. But research costs money, so we'll start here and gradually move to more advanced developments." The magus glanced at a dagger lying near the edge of the table, though he didn't pick it up to show. Instead, he changed the subject: "By the way, I mentioned I need something too. Can you set up a meeting with one of your usual suppliers from the magical world?"

"I can arrange that. But what do you have in mind?"

"We could place an order with them. Ever heard of mandrake root? The real one, I mean. One can create several extremely interesting things from it, all involving magic, of course. People have always confused it with that ordinary plant with strange roots, useful for nothing but scopolamine.

"But around this time, late April, the magical kind of mandrake ripens. We could buy some with ordinary money, and I'll prepare a handful of potions that're guaranteed to sell. Scar reduction, healing old injuries, restoring joint flexibility, and one elixir that, if it works, might even knock five or seven years off someone's age—only for a Muggle, and only once. There's also a pair of especially potent poisons, but that's for very specific purposes," Kayneth enumerated in a near-dreamy tone.

In his home world, true mandrake was insanely rare; even he, who'd become a Master in alchemy at the Clock Tower, had laid hands on it maybe half a dozen times in his life. Therefore, they only studied and recorded the most powerful recipes for it, the ones worth using such a rarity on where no substitution was possible. Of course, most formulas were meant for rituals or work on magic circuits, so fewer would be useful for normal people. But here, witches and wizards cultivated mandrake in greenhouses as though it were a common carrot, and its tincture didn't cost its weight in gold.

Archibald readily admitted he knew metals better than he did potions, but he was sure he could brew what he needed within three or four tries. And given the approximate ratio of the black-market price of those concoctions to the relatively trivial local cost of mandrake, they'd profit, even if three-quarters of the material ended up wasted.

"If you're not exaggerating, it really might be worth the risk. How much do you need?"

"I'll write down the going rates in legitimate apothecaries, so you'll know where to start haggling."

"If you can just walk into a magical apothecary and buy this stuff, why all the fuss?" Albert asked, puzzled.

"Mr. MacDougal, how much do you actually know about the wizarding world?"

"A bit, though clearly not enough. Magic and wizards exist for real, as do werewolves, ghouls, trolls. All of them stay hidden, and maybe a dozen top people know about it, plus people like me who run our little businesses but don't get caught. Anyone who learns about magic—catches sight of a wizard or some gremlin—will have their memory wiped, and might forget even their own name or what year it is.

"There's something like a police force, your 'Aurors,' who punish criminal wizards and make sure people never find out magic is real. They've got a prison you go to for that—both regular folk and wizards. What else?

"Wizards can be born among ordinary humans, but at eleven they get a wand and go off somewhere in Scotland for seven years to study. Also, they hardly ever use modern tech; for most of them, a TV or microwave is like…" he nodded at the cluttered table, "…your tricks with ghosts and exploding ashtrays is for me. It's something they have no clue about. And apparently the aristocrats still run everything, plus there's some big scandal about racism—didn't get half of it, though."

"In broad strokes, yes. Let me share a secret and clarify. I'm 'Muggle-born,' meaning I had no wizard ancestors—or none I've ever heard of. I knew nothing about magic until around five, when some wizard from outside Britain found me—he needed an assistant, figured it'd be easier to train a new kid than to re-educate an adult. So he taught me this and that for five years, then… he was gone, leaving me in a wizarding world I knew almost nothing about. I had to adapt. That's how I came into contact with William, and from there you know the rest.

"So for everyone in Britain, I'm just an orphan who doesn't even know which end of the wand to hold. I'd prefer it stay that way. But I did learn some specific arts, and I'm willing to share that knowledge so I don't have to sleep on a park bench and brawl with bums for a rotten morsel of food. Do you see why I can't simply walk in somewhere and buy a bucket of mandrake without being pestered by pointless questions?" Kayneth had devised this story after reading through various books, a story that would explain both his lack of ties in the magical community and competence in certain specialized areas—and, if need be, ignorance of obvious things. Under thorough interrogation or close scrutiny, it wouldn't hold up, but for now it would do, especially given how these magical countries in this world seemed self-absorbed with their own affairs.

"All right, I get it," Albert said, giving no indication how much he believed. He neither contradicted nor argued. "But you said you need something else from my contact besides these plants?"

"Yes. A couple of books that aren't for sale. But we'll talk about that in person."

"You're planning to go with me?"

"Can you tell mandrake from turnips disguised by a spell?"

"What about your 'image'?"

"I think that for someone in the contraband business, spreading rumors about me won't exactly help them. And besides, in case of trouble, I can be useful. I doubt any of your bodyguards know how to exorcise hostile spirits or restless undead."

"I'm skeptical anyone's gonna bring a friendly ghost to the meeting."

"That's exactly why they generally should," Kayneth observed, referencing his own experience.

The night of April 26th turned out unusually cold, damp, and foggy, even by London standards. It did nothing to improve the mood of two individuals who stood at around midnight on a deserted construction site by the river. The work lamps were off; only a few streetlights behind the fence provided illumination, quickly blurred by the fog. They'd left their car by the gate, which had been simple enough to unlock using magic with minimal effort.

"Wouldn't it have been simpler to find a more public and better-lit place?" MacDougal asked, shivering from the cold beneath his coat. "Plenty of 24-hour cafes lie empty this time of night—we could have sat down, made the exchange, parted ways. Better that than freezing here."

"That's fine for a repeat meeting when everything's settled already. Here, I need to see the product, and you can't do that in some random diner—unless you plan to chase out the whole staff first. Plus, it's best not to flash money," Archibald pointed at the small bag Albert held. Only ten grand in pounds, but the smuggler insisted on small bills, like a movie kidnapper. Likely he wanted to use them in the ordinary world instead of converting them to wizard gold. Both men understood this perfectly well, magus and merchant alike. But standing around doing nothing was tedious—they might as well chat about nothing. Kayneth, too, was shivering under the chilly wind despite wearing a hooded raincoat over his suit, and conversation provided a partial distraction. "He'll definitely want to count it."

"Certainly I will," rasped a third voice, coming from the empty doorway of the half-built structure. He carried a similar bag in one hand and a wizard's wand in the other. "Lumos."

The bright glow flared at the tip of his wand, illuminating a wizard of moderate height wearing a wrinkled, tastelessly assembled ensemble, painfully trying to exude "luxury." A gold chain glinted on his neck, along with a pair of rings on his fingers. To Kayneth's eye, he looked like a pimp or a low-end drug peddler from a slum—just missing the cheap fake-fur coat. That attempt to look "flashy" with no more than twenty pounds in one's pocket would earn anyone's scorn.

"Good evening, Mr. Fletcher."

"And the same to you, Mr. MacDougal. Afraid I don't know your friend here."

"This is Jimmy. He's related to a client, one of yours. He needs something, so I figured I'd bring him along."

"Oh, is that so?" Judging by his tone, the smuggler didn't believe a word. Nevertheless, he approached them, lighting the way with his wand's spell. "Well, as long as you've got Galleons or pounds, I'm all ears. But first, the main business."

"Of course," Albert agreed. After a pause, he added in a bored voice, "Mr. Fletcher, considering how long we've known each other, it'd be rude of me to remind you you're the one who can vanish into thin air, while I can't, so I always check the goods first. Right?"

"Damn, I totally forgot!" the wizard swore unconvincingly. He set his bag on the concrete and backed away a few steps. "Take a look. Exactly what was ordered—no junk here."

MacDougal placed the bag on the ground, took a flashlight from his pocket, and peered inside. He jerked back slightly upon spotting a handful of leaf-rustling little roots wiggling in the gloom, but he steadied himself and beckoned the magus.

"What's your verdict, Jimmy?"

"Let me see," Kayneth answered, stepping forward and waving a hand over the bag. The mandrake looked genuine, but one glance at Fletcher told him to triple-check any product he sold. A couple of testing spells—standard in alchemical ingredient checks—surprisingly revealed nothing catastrophic. "It'll do, more or less. A couple are on the brink of dying, one's partly rotted, another five have wilted somewhat, but they'll still go in the cauldron. Not top quality like we asked for, but your friend might not know enough herbology to notice. I'd say that just saved you maybe twenty percent off the full price."

"You gonna argue?" Albert asked, almost condescendingly. Seeing the wizard merely shake his head—making no attempt to pass off stale goods as the freshest—Albert unzipped his own bag and transferred a few packs of pounds from it into his coat pocket. "All right then. The original terms still stand."

He placed his bag on the concrete and likewise backed away, giving the smuggler room to step up and count. With a couple flicks of his wand—wordlessly—Fletcher sorted the bills by denomination, gritted his teeth, but finally nodded to show the deal was done.

"Good. And what's the kid want, exactly? Perhaps a sack of Chocolate Frogs at a discount? I can arrange that."

"I'm not much for sweets. But a wand with no Ministry tracking charms—I'd find that quite useful," Archibald said, cutting to the main point of this meeting. Truth be told, he could've scraped up the necessary mandrake himself at pharmacies or shops over a couple of weeks, but he needed a fence for black-market wizard items as soon as possible. This was the perfect excuse for an introduction. "I have a genuine thirst for knowledge, you see. I like to study outside the school curriculum."

"Uh-huh, and then someone tosses around 'Avada' with an untraceable wand, and guess who gets blamed—muggins here, your dealer. Don't think you're so clever, kiddo."

"You really believe a nine-year-old knows the Unforgivables? You've got a high opinion of my skills, Mr. Fletcher."

"I have a high opinion of our Auror Office, and I know anyone could be the dreaded Mad-Eye under Polyjuice."

"And you'd sell contraband to him?" Kayneth had no clue who this 'Mad-Eye' was; he hadn't yet read up on Britain's modern wizarding history. Probably some legendary law-and-order wizard?

"Damn it, smuggling's one thing. But an untracked wand is quite another. I do have principles, y'know!" the wizard cried indignantly, though not very convincingly—perhaps upping his price.

"More like fear for your own skin," Albert interjected. "If I vouch for the boy, is that enough?"

"No. You're just a Squib—there are a dozen ways to make you believe you've known him your whole life, that you are his dad or mom if he wanted, and you'd never know it wasn't true."

"And if I add that I want books on practical necromancy, and I'm prepared to pay double for them, same as for a wand?" Archibald interjected, recapturing attention.

"Okay, that's intense, even for a Mad-Eye sting. Tell me, Jimmy—this wouldn't happen to be because of your innocent childish prank that's got the Aurors losing their minds for the last month?"

"No idea what you're talking about, Mr. Fletcher."

"Oh, really, now?"

"Oho, look who we've got here," came a suddenly jovial voice to one side. "A Squib, a snot-nosed kid, and Dumbledore's pet rat."

"Bloody hell! Protego!" Fletcher spun around, wand raised, conjuring a faint translucent shield in front of him.

Albert and Kayneth did much the same, though the Squib drew a worn Browning from his pocket, while the magus raised a short dagger, aiming its blade at the newcomer. The lamplight from the wand and a few streetlights was enough to reveal a tall, lanky man in a grimy mackintosh and a ridiculous top hat, wand in hand pointed their way. A split second later, the air beside him seemed to distort and rip outward, clearing space for a second wizard with wand at the ready—this one dressed not in a quaint 19th-century style but in a cheap track suit of the kind favored by factory-town drifters. The first looked about forty, if cleaned up, the second hardly more than twenty-five.

The appearance of the second man nearly made Archibald drop his dagger. He'd read fleeting references in the books to "Apparition," meaning a wizard's ability to teleport from one point to another by sheer force of will, no incantations or mystic codes required—but he'd assumed it was either rare or mastered only by experts. Clearly, these men weren't Aurors, nor refined aristocrats; they looked more like low-tier criminals from the underbelly of the wizarding world. Yet they freely wielded a mystery that, in his previous life, only a handful of people could manage, restricted by numerous conditions and limitations. And apparently this smuggler, going by Albert's remarks, possessed it as well. If it was so commonplace here, Kayneth realized, he needed to figure out how it worked. Plus, he'd do well to remember in the future that a potential foe here might easily perform what, just six months ago, he would have considered near-True Magic.

"Competitors?" MacDougal asked Fletcher quietly, not taking his eyes off the newcomers.

"Something like that. Acquiring that much stock in a short time wasn't simple. Someone might have noticed."

"Half of Knockturn Alley already knows you're selling mandrake to someone outside," the wizard in the mackintosh informed them—he'd caught that bit of whispered conversation. "So we decided to join in, help you with your difficult task. Come on, prove you're not a rat—share some with your old friends. These two losers won't remember a thing tomorrow anyway, and you'll be able to swindle them again, old man."

"You're only three years younger than I am, Ebbie," Fletcher retorted, sounding genuinely offended. "And for the record, I don't like where this is going…"

Instantly, the construction site turned dark—Fletcher had vanished, along with his wand and the light spell on it. And of course, with the money. All four of them stared in bafflement at the spot where he'd been standing, then slowly shifted their gazes from one to another. Albert cocked the hammer of his pistol with his thumb, while Kayneth shifted the dagger into both hands and triggered his magic circuits.

"Reinforcement. Reinforcement. Reinforcement," he whispered, causing first his legs and then the blade to glow faintly.

For several seconds, nothing happened. Everyone waited to see who would make the first move. Then someone's nerves snapped—maybe everyone's at once.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Stupefy!"

"Surgere!"

Albert said nothing, forgoing incantations in favor of firing off a shot at one of the wizards while unexpectedly nimble for his build, dodging aside so as not to get hit by a stray spell. Kayneth was flung back five or so paces, feeling his magically reinforced legs flare with pain and the cross on his chest heat up. The second wizard's spell beam passed straight through the ghost that had appeared in his place. The phantom ignored it, hung in place for a second, then floated toward the enemies. The mist around it condensed onto the ground as frost, and cold dew filmed over the damp concrete.

MacDougal's bullet missed, as it was hard to aim on the move in the dark. But it did divert the wizards' attention—they focused both their wands and at least half a dozen spells on slowing and then paralyzing the ghost. That gave Albert enough time to poke his head out from behind a heap of reinforced concrete blocks and fire three more shots. Two went wide, but the third clipped the arm of the wizard in the mackintosh, making him jerk; even injured, though, he kept his grip on the wand and swung it repeatedly, blurting incantations in panic.

"Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus!"

One of the three red beams managed to hit Albert, ripping the Browning from his hand and knocking him back a couple of meters. Cursing, the Squib rolled along the wet ground until he tumbled into some trench, going silent there. The wizard turned his head, letting the flying gun pass by without trying to catch it. Meanwhile, his partner was searching for the boy—and managed to spot him sooner than expected.

Kayneth waited for the wizard between a crane and the building's wall. From the outside, he looked cornered. The dagger he held in both hands gave an image of someone desperate.

"Lumos. Hey, kid, why don't you just drop that toy, and we'll settle this peacefully, yeah? You'll forget a couple of hours, that's way better than dealing with broken bones or puking slugs for two days straight, isn't it? I can Stupefy you right into the wall, might misjudge it a bit, then maybe toss in a few 'fun' curses on top. You get me?"

"And if I surrender, you'll guarantee no harm comes to me?" the magus asked in feigned relief, taking one hand off the dagger and slightly lowering himself, as though preparing to lay the blade on the ground.

"Who do you think I am, eh? I wouldn't hurt a f—"

"Scalp!"

The bracelet on the magus's left wrist tore through the sleeve of his coat, lunging at the enemy as it stretched into three interwoven thin blades resembling a tangle of silvery snakes. Once they reached flesh, within seconds the man would be slashed and stabbed in a couple dozen places. But the wizard managed not only to spot them but to yank his wand sharply, fearfully shouting:

"Impedimenta!"

A pale-blue beam struck the twitching blades, freezing them almost motionless in midair. He hadn't skimped on the power. "Depulso!" came a second flick, hurling them somewhere into the murk. Flicking his wrist to point the wand at the kid, he lacked the time to counter the new attack.

"Acuto!"

The dagger's hilt split into about half a dozen coiled metal wires, snapping straight like springs and launching the blade at almost bullet speed. The knife pierced the wizard's arm, nearly going straight through. He dropped his wand and clutched the wound, but then couldn't move, couldn't cry out, couldn't even draw breath—he simply fell onto his back, utterly still. The alchemical poison embedded in the dagger's blade was potent enough on its own, and the strengthening spell had multiplied its effect for a couple of minutes, while a second enchantment had made the blade sharp enough in that brief time to puncture even concrete.

"Altera vita," the magus murmured, flicking a hand and triggering his magic circuits again to power the dagger. The symbols and runes inscribed on the blade glowed a weak gray. Nearly all his circuit reserves vanished in the process, but it was the lesser evil—Kayneth had run out of mystic codes, and trying to fight another presumably able-bodied wizard with just spells now would be suicidal. Having set things in motion, he tapped the copper ring on his finger, draining the small store of energy within and causing the ornament to crumble. He paused a moment, estimating the timing, then shouted:

"Hey, Mister! Your friend's not looking so good! He's lying there, not moving—maybe he's dead already?"

"What?! Mort, what's taking you so long?" a distant voice responded. About half a minute later, the tall wizard with a bullet-scarred arm emerged from behind the crane, lighting his path with his wand. To his credit, he carefully peeked out first, took a quick look around, and only then approached his partner's body. Keeping one eye on the boy pressed against the wall, he prodded Mort's side with his foot, then crouched. "Mortimer, you worthless… Hey, Mort, you—" he paused uncertainly, feeling for a pulse and finding none. He glanced at Mortimer's face, twisted in a spasm and staring blankly, then raised his eyes again. "Hey, you runt, what'd you do to him?!"

"I haven't done anything," Kayneth replied icily, shrugging. At the same time, he kept a close eye on the opponent's mystic code. He struggled to maintain his composure and not let the pain in his magic circuits show, now that they were working at full capacity. "He just fell on the knife all by himself."

"That's utter bullsh… Fulgari!"

"Nebulous clipeum," the magus said almost simultaneously, lifting his arms and crouching low. From the drifting fog, a rectangular shield emerged roughly two feet by two, just enough to cover him at his height. This barrier, formed of water vapor dense with magic, withstood the first curse, then three more in rapid succession. The next one blasted it apart into clumps of mist when Archibald's reservoir of energy finally ran dry.

This four-line incantation—Kayneth's own barrier system—had many advantages, including the ability to be invoked in advance and shifted to active mode with a short aria, but it guzzled magic relentlessly. Once, that hadn't mattered to him, but now…

"Stupefy!"

The spell, which he couldn't dodge, slammed Kayneth into the wall, leaving him dazed for several seconds and defenseless. But once the colored spots cleared from his vision, the magus saw that Ebbie was preoccupied with his revived partner, who was clutching at his legs.

"Mort! Hey, Mort, what's wrong? Everything's fine—I got that little bastard. Now I'll help you… Mort, wait! Mortimer! Stoooop!" The wizard's shouting turned into unintelligible cries as the dead partner yanked him down with inhuman strength, toppling him to the ground and sinking teeth into his shoulder. "Stupefy! Petrificus! Incarcero! Confr— Aaaaah!"

Stunning and paralyzing spells had little effect on the undead. Perhaps, if the wizard had struck with something explosive or slicing straight off, he might have escaped with minimal harm. But he never expected to face an inferius here, let alone his own partner turned undead, well-suited to that name.

Staggering and clumsily trying to shake off the mud that covered his entire raincoat, Archibald got to his feet. He limped over to the corpse, who had already torn out the wizard's throat. With a wave of his hand, he uttered the formula for cancelation, which required no direct infusion of energy:

"Requiescer."

The undead fell still, reverting to a lifeless body permanently. The magus cast a glance at both corpses, then shook his head and hobbled back to their meeting place, supporting himself against the walls. The first spell had stretched the ligaments in his leg—he was lucky it was only one—and smashing against the wall didn't seem to have broken anything, though he had plenty of bruises, contusions, and a mild concussion in this frail body. And that "harmless" stunning spell, in the local textbooks, was recommended for second-year wizard children. Perhaps Kayneth was too quick to assume these wizards coddled their youth.

"Hey, Albert, you alive? Do you still remember my name?" Archibald yelled into the fog.

"I remember, I remember—Jimmy, or James…" came the grumbling reply as MacDougal reappeared from behind the same pile of slabs. He, too, was caked in filth after tumbling into the trench and struggling out, half-dazed. "What about those two? Ran off?"

"They're dead—both of them. I said I'd be useful. I got wounded, but not mortally. You?"

"I'm almost all right, though I wouldn't put money on a couple of ribs. They cracked something nasty. And my fall was no fun. Everything'll hurt like hell tomorrow…"

"That's not so bad. If you don't feel pain at all, then you're either dead or undead yourself, and neither prospect is encouraging," Kayneth replied, regarding his ghost, which had only just begun to stir after being pinned by spells. He noted the sack of mandrake, still lying on the concrete. "Get up, Mr. MacDougal. We need to find your gun in all this muck, and then we have to retrieve my dagger from the corpse before we vanish from here, or the police and the Aurors will be on us any minute."

"And the bodies?"

"The river's just past that fence. I'm counting on you for that."

"Forgive me for being blunt, but aren't you a little too casual about having just killed two men, especially for a ten-year-old brat? Guilt? Conscience? That sort of thing?"

"A magus's path is always one walking hand in hand with death," Kayneth stated the obvious. "Any spell—yours or someone else's—can be your last. Once you accept that, it gets easier. And anyway, they wouldn't have spared us. I see nothing wrong."

"You know, I'm starting to regret dealing with you. Fletcher was shady, sure, and sold me crap sometimes, but at least I didn't have to shoot anyone."

"It's all for profit."

"The only reason I put up with you wizards at all. I'm a proper Catholic, mind you—my mom took me to church every week. Good thing she doesn't see me now…"

"It's also for the best that no one else sees us here tonight. Let's go—time is money, and right now it's also our freedom."

By early morning, lying in bed and aching in every muscle while his magic circuit regenerated by mere crumbs, Kayneth reflected that once again, he had miscalculated and underestimated the danger—just like so many times this past month. His familiarity with local combat wizardry and dueling was purely theoretical. Teleportation could be dismissed as an unpredictable factor, but he hadn't properly accounted for the lightning-fast reflexes needed in duels where shields are constantly in use, demanding you notice an enemy's spell at once and form a defense right in its path.

One wizard had intercepted and deflected his blades mid-attack; another, in mere seconds, pummeled his barrier with half a dozen fairly strong spells in a row. These were criminals—riffraff from the wizarding underworld with stolen or scrap-made mystic codes. What about Aurors or even ordinary patrol wizards who were supposed to catch such thugs? And what about the aristocrats of the old families?

Archibald had never been big on sports or martial arts. He kept in shape more out of a noble's sense of decorum—set an example for the lower classes, stay dignified, not let himself get fat. As for the trend among some young Clock Tower students to combine magic with fistfighting or, worse yet, gunplay—he found it barbaric. Let the brutes of the Fraga family amuse themselves with that. Kayneth had heard tales of that family's heiress, rumored to smash brick walls with a fist by age ten—imagine what monster she'd become. Either way, speed and reflexes had never numbered among the best traits of the former Lord El-Melloi, but he had always excelled at using his head. That was precisely why he'd invented a protective mystic code able to outrun bullets and shield its master from attacks from behind or any other angle. But he wouldn't be able to recreate or power Volumen Hydrargyrum for quite some time, and plain body-strengthening spells couldn't fully offset his weaknesses.

Therefore, if he wanted to survive in this new wizarding world without moving into a gym and swapping books for dumbbells for the next seven years, he needed to find another way to adapt to local duels.

He fell asleep with that thought, drifting into his usual nightmares.

144

Johnny_Z

Jan 31, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 8

View content

Johnny_Z

Feb 3, 2025

#102

Despite the whimsical atmosphere and complete lack of technological advancement in London's magical district, there were certain things they did exceptionally well. For instance, the tea in the local establishments was simply exquisite, even though it was oddly purple—likely enhanced with some magic.

Sitting at a small table in one of Diagon Alley's cafes, Kayneth ordered another cup and returned to his reading. He still had a quarter of an hour before his next appointment. It was important, he reminded himself, to take breaks and occasionally venture into public spaces.

After a month of crash-course immersion into the magical world of Britain, interspersed with crafting magical gadgets for money, running on minimal sleep, and relying heavily on wakefulness spells, he sometimes felt that the concentration of caffeine in his bloodstream was nearing a lethal level. That thought alone was a sign his clarity of mind had started to wane.

Setting aside the thick book he had been poring over, Kayneth glanced around at the witches and wizards strolling by in their archaic attire. He now understood the community a little better, and it no longer seemed quite as absurd. Take their clothing, for instance. At first, he had assumed they expended enormous magical energy constantly altering their outfits purely for vanity. But given that at least two widely accessible magical methods existed for near-instantaneous Spatial Transportation, wizards genuinely could go years without encountering the mundane world. They could wear whatever they liked because they didn't have to traverse London's streets—they could simply teleport from their homes or use fireplaces.

How fireplaces worked was still a mystery to him, despite combing through half a dozen books on the subject. He was convinced it was a "trick"—the calculations didn't add up. A mystery of that level couldn't possibly function with such ease, requiring nothing more than cheap powder made from basic components. Apparition was another enigma. Then there were owls, which defied all logic entirely. When he retrieved a reply from Tonks, he had spent hours trying to understand how this separate "postal system" of the magical world functioned and whether it was even possible.

To say he had thoroughly read up on any single subject, however, would be an exaggeration. Over the past month, Kayneth had managed to sort through about 150 purchased books, plus another thirty acquired later. Some were always at hand for reference, others were shelved for future perusal out of scientific curiosity, and a few were marked for frequent consultation—like the introductory tomes on magical history, textbooks on wands, and their theoretical workings. He had studied those carefully, cross-referencing calculations and notes. The same went for everything available on combat magic (which turned out to be woefully limited) and the sections on spirits and ghosts in bestiaries.

However, this was a drop in the ocean. He had barely skimmed the surface of the local, peculiar form of alchemy, focusing only on its practical applications for income. Necromancy was even scarcer, mostly mentioned in historical references or encyclopedias of magical creatures. Clearly, the Ministry's censors had diligently scrubbed this area clean. Undoubtedly, the libraries of aristocrats contained far more material on such "forbidden" topics, and so did the Ministry itself or the Auror offices. But accessing those would require time. Public libraries hadn't yet reached magical Britain, and the only resources at his disposal were a few bookstores, whose shelves held only what was deemed harmless and marketable. Anything too controversial or overly specialized in professional theory was conspicuously absent.

There were also a few secondhand bookshops. Kayneth had ventured into them, overcoming his distaste, but sifting through piles of useless tomes felt like digging through muck in search of, at best, mica or quartz. Nevertheless, he had managed to uncover a couple of intriguing and mildly subversive books on medieval magical history.

The black market, meanwhile, was sluggish. A week after the nighttime skirmish, Fletcher resurfaced and reconnected with MacDuggal. He seemed to have dismissed the notion of an Auror sting, forming his conclusions. However, he now haggled fiercely, demanding guarantees, magical oaths, and outrageous prices. Negotiations were inching forward, albeit slowly—especially after one of their attackers' comments made Kayneth suspicious that Fletcher might be playing multiple sides and ready to hand him over to the Aurors for rewards or leniency for past transgressions. Mutual assurances were required, and Fletcher wasn't eager to provide them. As a result, Kayneth still hadn't acquired a single wand to study.

He had been sorely tempted to take one from the dead criminals that night but refrained. He only knew that some wands (perhaps all) were tracked by the Ministry but had no idea how or how to defend against it. Carrying one in such ignorance was far too risky.

At least his finances were stabilizing. Just two days ago, Summers had transferred the remainder of the money for his treatment. Buyers had snatched up several magical bombs, and his "security systems" were in high demand. Kayneth even considered slowing down production to avoid an alarming rise in ghost sightings around London, which would surely draw unwanted attention. The bullets were also selling steadily, especially after he realized it was simpler to modify factory-made ammunition from a client's stock rather than crafting them from scratch. It saved him from dealing with calibers and powder loads, which he barely understood. Testing his spell on bi-metal jacketed bullets proved equally effective.

The mandrake venture had yielded about thirty thousand pounds from an eight-thousand investment, though Kayneth had hoped for more. Four-fifths of the material had gone to method refinement and failed attempts. Unfortunately his potion to reverse aging in humans couldn't even be replicated—it required a complex synthetic component unavailable on the open market. Moreover, the process demanded sublimation and distillation, equipment he lacked. A proper alchemy lab might have solved those issues, but given his limited resources, it was impossible.

Once again, Kayneth was reminded of how unused he was to operating without a reliable safety net and with a chronic shortage of… everything—information, time, and skilled help. Still, his balance was positive for now, and that would suffice to continue his work.

Aside from history, science, and finances, there was another topic Kayneth had yet to delve into but knew could involve him at any moment—politics. While the books he read provided a wealth of information about the structure of the magical community, the Ministry's workings, Aurors, and the laws and codes that governed wizards, the overall picture remained fragmented. Censorship further muddied the waters, glossing over or outright omitting many issues, particularly those surrounding wizarding lineage and the blood purity conflict.

That's why Kayneth decided it was time to talk to someone who could answer his questions directly. Tonks, though young and a future Ministry employee, would at least provide one perspective. It was a start before he sought other connections in the magical world. Besides, she was his only current contact.

Kayneth hadn't changed his views on the importance of calculated marriages between magi families to strengthen magical potential in future generations. He believed any rational magus would see this as their duty. However, he had to admit that for wizards, this issue seemed less pressing. They rarely worked at the limits of their personal magical reserves, relying more on training and skills in manipulating internal and external energy through mystic codes. If Tonks was being groomed as a combat Auror, she likely had the competence and knowledge befitting the heir of an old family.

In short, he resolved to give her a chance to prove herself. Their acquaintance might prove valuable in the future, given his own precarious position. But that was a decision that he would make only after their conversation.

When the Metamorphmagus entered the cafe ten minutes later, she found James sitting with a cup of tea, engrossed in a book titled The Fenian Cycle: Historical Truth, Wizarding Theories, and Muggle Folklore. He wore a blue Muggle suit reminiscent of a private school uniform. Tonks, on the other hand, had arrived in a plain robe, having transfigured her jacket at the entrance to the alley. Sitting across from him, she remarked:

"Hey, James. Modern magic not enough for you? You're digging into myths two millennia old now?"

"Good afternoon, Lady Tonks," Kayneth replied politely, closing his book. By etiquette, he should have stood, pulled out her chair, and let her order first. But coming from a ten-year-old boy, such manners would have seemed absurd—especially when the "lady" was almost twice his age. Besides, he'd been so engrossed in his reading that he hadn't noticed her approach until the last moment.

"No, I think modern magic will keep me occupied for a very long time," he continued. "But I'm also catching up on ordinary school subjects—things I missed in the orphanage. That includes history and literature, where legends like these come up. Medb, Finn McCool, the Hound of Culann… It's fascinating to learn what's myth, what actually happened, and how it all played out. If magic exists, and wizards were around two thousand years ago, then it's logical that they—well, we—didn't always hide from Muggles. Later, people must have turned everything into 'legends.'"

"Interesting perspective. I'll admit, I've never compared Muggle textbooks with our history books," Tonks said, surprised. As she spoke, she quickly ordered tea and pastries, though James politely declined the latter. "Honestly, I'm glad to see you settling in. When we first met…"

"I know I looked awful," Kayneth interrupted. "I'm not ashamed of it—it wasn't my fault—but I can see how I must've startled you. Some stray wanders up out of nowhere…"

"No, no, nothing like that," Tonks quickly shook her head, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. "I was just surprised. In any case, I'm glad everything's working out for you. How are your new parents? Treating you well?"

"Everything's fine. After living in the orphanage, I'd have been happy with anyone, but I have no complaints about them."

They chatted about trivial matters for another five minutes. Kayneth asked about her studies and Auror training, but Tonks brushed it off, saying it was great but left her with little free time. Finally, satisfied that the boy was genuinely doing well with his adoptive family, she shifted the conversation to the reason for their meeting.

"So, you said you had questions about the magical world. I'm no teacher, but I'll do my best to explain. What's unclear?"

"The obvious question," Kayneth said, gesturing toward the street with its enchanted signs and displays. "Why does everything here look so… outdated? Not a phone or a lamppost in sight. Do wizards use magic just to save on electricity?"

"That's… complicated," Tonks admitted with a sigh. "Short or long version?"

"Long, please. I'd rather understand now than make stupid mistakes later."

"Alright, I'll try. There are several reasons. First, wizards invented many things long before Muggles did—flight, long-distance communication, bright cheap lighting, devices for cleaning and cooking, effective medicines, and so on. Some of these, as I understand, Muggles haven't managed to replicate with science even today. Unfortunately, this has led many pure-blood families to look down on Muggle inventions, thinking, 'What can those savages possibly achieve?' Especially since wizards live longer. Imagine your grandfather telling you how he once saw a paddle steamer as the pinnacle of Muggle ingenuity—what kind of opinion would that kid form?

"Some even believe wizards invented the locomotive and bus, not the other way around. And in places with high magical concentration—like here, the Ministry, St. Mungo's, Hogwarts—electronics tend to glitch or stop working entirely. Mechanical and simple electric devices function fine, but they often have magical equivalents or they were never needed enough to gain traction. Magical radios exist, and some students enchant magical abacuses, for instance."

"Do some use crystal balls to watch TV shows too?" Kayneth asked, mentally piecing together the picture she painted. It wasn't entirely implausible—if the magi of the Clock Tower had as much excess power and a penchant for frivolous uses, they might have gone the same route. After all, he'd once heard about a magical fax machine crafted from enchanted wood and gemstones, used by some old families.

Still, he'd never encountered such issues with electronics at the Clock Tower. Perhaps it was due to the side effects of frequent manipulations of external magical energy—a norm here but poorly studied phenomena by the Association.

"No, I must admit no one's thought of that yet," Tonks replied, momentarily thrown off by the suggestion. "And a crystal ball is meant for divination—doubt it can be enchanted like that... But when you start school, you'll have Professor Flitwick for Charms. Pitch him the idea—I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Or, once you've gained some experience, try doing it yourself. If it works, you could make a fortune selling such gadgets to pure-blood families."

"I was joking, really," Kayneth said with a small smirk. "But since we're on the topic, what's the deal with relationships between pure-bloods and non-pure-bloods? The books touch on it, mentioning the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' and blood traitors, but everything is so vague it's hard to make sense of it."

"Oh, what a lovely day, delicious tea, and you go straight for the dreariest topic imaginable," Tonks sighed, setting her cup aside. "But if you've figured this much out on your own, I'd rather explain it myself than leave it to someone else. So, here's the deal…"

She paused to gather her thoughts. "No one knows when the first wizard was born, but they've existed since time immemorial, long before humans even left their caves. There's a theory that the first wizard came from the union of a human and a magical being—maybe a Veela or an elf—but no one knows how true that is. What we do know is that for thousands of years, witches and wizards were born into both magical and non-magical families, as well as from unions with magical creatures related to humans.

"And it works the other way, too. Even when two wizards marry, their child can sometimes be a Squib—a person practically incapable of performing magic but still able to see certain things Muggles can't. In the past, some families would hide their Squib children—send them to orphanages or monasteries to erase their existence from the magical world entirely. It was easier to do when families had six or seven children; one more or less wouldn't draw much attention."

"Why would they do that?" Kayneth asked. He'd come across mentions of this tradition in books but never understood its logic. Among magi, even a family member without magic circuits could still serve as a loyal ally, provided they were well-trained and their status appropriately defined.

Tonks tilted her head, trying to simplify her explanation. "Some worried people would think the child wasn't theirs—that it must've been switched at birth or something. Others feared societal judgment. You know, rumors about their bloodline weakening, people saying things like, 'Oh, magic has abandoned their family.' Back then, people believed that nonsense—and in some places, they still do. So, Squibs were sent into the Muggle world. Sometimes, their children or grandchildren would be born with magic and return to the magical community. That's where some of the pure-blood prejudice comes from."

She straightened her posture and smoothed her hair, elongating and lightening it to resemble a snooty aristocrat. Adopting a mocking, haughty tone, she drawled, "'I am from a family of twenty generations of magical lineage, and you, some mongrel great-grandchild of a Squib, dare to breathe my air?'" Several people at nearby tables quickly turned away—some stifling laughter, others shaking their heads disapprovingly. It was clear everyone recognized the person she was parodying.

Returning her hair to normal, Tonks continued in her usual voice. "That's where it all comes from. Magic is what wizards value most—it's their defining trait, what sets them apart from Muggles. So, if someone has generations of only wizards in their family, they may start believing they're further removed from ordinary people than Muggle-borns or half-bloods. They think people like you and me have too much Muggle in us and not enough wizard."

"And in reality?" Kayneth asked, his face carefully neutral.

"What do you mean, 'in reality'?" Tonks blinked, momentarily thrown.

"I mean, in practice," he clarified. "Remember our first conversation? I asked if a wizard with twenty generations of magical lineage would be stronger than one who just discovered magic yesterday. So, will they?"

"No," Tonks answered firmly, meeting his gaze. "A wizard raised around magical beings, surrounded by enchanted objects, watching their parents and relatives use wands every day will have an easier time believing magic is possible. That's something Muggle-borns struggle with, having grown up in a world where they're taught magic doesn't exist. Pure-blood kids will know the names of certain spells or potions and may have mimicked gestures their older siblings made. But that's it.

"The strength of a wizard or witch depends far more on their knowledge, reflexes, skill, and practice than on how many pure-blooded ancestors they have. Of the three most powerful wizards of this century, two are half-bloods."

"I'm guessing the three you mean are Headmaster Dumbledore, the tyrant Grindelwald, and Lord Vol—"

"Stop!" Tonks held up a hand, cutting him off. The abrupt motion caused their cups to clink against the table. "Don't say his name. I don't mind, but others don't like it. Better to break the habit now. Come up with something else to call him—'Whatshisname' will do fine."

"That's another weird superstition I don't understand," Kayneth said with a touch of irritation. He hated being interrupted.

"It's not superstition—it comes from the war," Tonks explained, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "You're not to blame for not knowing. See, there are special spells that allow tracking people or objects. For example, the Ministry puts tracing charms on wands to detect magic used outside safe, approved areas. Keep that in mind—it's taken very seriously, and you'll only get a warning the first time," she added, taking the opportunity to caution him again.

"And Whatshisname managed to cast a similar spell on his own name. Imagine sitting around, casually discussing his plans—or cursing him out—and half an hour later, his followers are knocking at your door. People over twenty remember the fear of that time. For them, his name still carries that terror. For your generation, though, it's just an old superstition. Shame it's mindlessly passed down to Muggle-borns."

Kayneth tilted his head slightly. "I imagine his head must've ached if someone gathered forty people, synchronized their watches, and had them shout his name simultaneously across the island."

Tonks laughed despite herself. "By then, he'd delved too deeply into dark magic. From what his captured followers said, he wasn't 'entirely human' anymore. I doubt it would've done him much harm." Still, she made a mental note to ask Moody someday whether anyone had ever tried such a tactic.

"Alright, enough jokes. What did they actually want, both of them?" Kayneth asked, leaning forward intently. "Textbooks hardly say anything beyond the usual 'he was evil, so he did evil things.' But they were people, not monsters that eat humans just because they're hungry. People always have reasons."

"They did," Tonks agreed, studying him thoughtfully. It was a rare question, even among Hogwarts upperclassmen. Most didn't bother wondering why You-Know-Who did what he did; it was easier to accept "he was evil" as an explanation. Gryffindors, in particular, rarely looked beyond that. But Tonks, being a Hufflepuff, had a habit of putting in effort where others didn't, including History of Magic, a subject notoriously poorly taught in the lower years. She'd only graduated a year ago and still remembered much from her NEWT preparation.

"You might not fully understand this, but I'll try to explain it simply. Gellert Grindelwald publicly declared that the Statute of Secrecy was a mistake. That it wasn't in our best interest. He believed wizards should dominate Muggles and rule over them as a superior race, as more evolved beings."

"You're kidding," Kayneth said incredulously, leaning forward as if trying to gauge whether she was making fun of him.

"I'm completely serious. At Hogwarts, we had optional materials on modern history in the upper years, including excerpts from Grindelwald's speeches and writings, along with commentary. It's widely believed he genuinely believed what he preached, not just used it as a convenient excuse."

"I see… Tell me, milady, could you cast Silencio on me for a moment?"

"I can, but… why?"

"It's… very necessary."

"Alright…" Tonks shrugged, pulling out her wand and performing the spell with a simple flick. "Silencio."

Kayneth nodded in thanks before leaning back in his chair and silently laughing. Not the carefree laughter of a child but an almost hysterical reaction, his shoulders shaking as he covered his face with one hand, the other slapping the table. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he laughed without sound, his reaction drawing confused glances from nearby patrons. After a couple of minutes, he finally regained his composure, straightened his hair and collar, and nodded for her to lift the spell. Tonks, who had kept her wand at the ready, obliged.

"Finite. So… what was that all about?"

"I'm sorry. That was very rude of me, but I just couldn't help it," Kayneth said, trying to explain. The sheer absurdity of what he'd heard had genuinely shocked him, and his reaction was entirely unrestrained. To anyone else, it might've looked strange, but he simply couldn't stop himself. The thought of wizards declaring war on Muggles in the hope of victory… It was laughable to the point of hysteria. Such an utterly foolish way to ensure the annihilation of the magical community wouldn't occur to most.

"I haven't heard anything this ridiculous in ages. It contradicts practically everything I've read in at least a third of the books over the past month. This Grindelwald—he attended Hogwarts, didn't he?"

"No, he went to Durmstrang in Eastern Europe. That school supposedly allows more freedom in studying the Dark Arts. But even they expelled him before he could take his exams."

"Judging by his ideas, the teaching there must be abysmal. Even I—a 'Muggle' who first picked up a magical history textbook just a month ago—already know how things really were with the Inquisition and the Holy Church, which was quite effective at wiping out people like us."

"The Holy Church was disbanded in the mid-18th century, shortly after the Statute of Secrecy was enacted," Tonks replied reflexively, then paused, realizing just how deeply James must have delved into magical history. Information about the Inquisition and the Church's conflict with wizards had been censored even more thoroughly than details about the Dark Arts, replaced with tales of powerful witches and wizards laughing off Muggles' attempts to burn them at the stake thanks to protective charms and illusions. One had to dig deep to uncover any hint of the truth.

"It became too much of a threat to the Vatican once their global witch-hunting mission ended," she added.

"Yet, in the book I read, the author suggests that many of their records and archives survived, despite numerous attempts to burn them over the past two centuries. If we declared open war on Muggles, I'm confident the Church would eagerly dust those off and start recruiting new executors openly in cathedrals. If it even comes to that. There are far too many ordinary people for us to have any chance of winning.

"Let's say a powerful wizard can fight off a hundred or even two hundred Muggles. But there's one wizard for every three—let's be generous and say two—thousand Muggles. He might intimidate, kill, or subjugate two hundred of them, but the remaining 1,800 will form a mob, drag him to the stake, and burn him alive. Muggles would suffer massive losses but ultimately survive. We wouldn't. Isn't that the entire reason the Statute of Secrecy was enacted?"

"Did you figure all this out on your own, James?" Tonks asked, clearly impressed.

"It's all in the books. I've been reading a lot this past month. Honestly, it's practically all I've been doing. I imagine anyone discovering magic exists and realizing they can use it would do the same, wouldn't they? I wanted to understand how wizards can live alongside Muggles without revealing themselves, and why they hide the truth. It's not like Muggles hid from us—they were perfectly willing to keep killing wizards, even without priests or royal decrees. A village mob and a bad harvest were enough: 'Clearly, the wizards are to blame; let's burn a few to fix things.' We were the ones who feared them. Trying to overturn that now and establish a wizard dictatorship… Grindelwald must've been insane."

"Many people think he was," Tonks agreed, glancing nervously around. Thankfully, James wasn't speaking too loudly. Discussions about war with Muggles, the Inquisition, or killing wizards were heavily discouraged by the Ministry. Official textbooks and published works sanitized or outright omitted such topics. But anyone willing to think could piece together the truth. James had already shown he was more than capable of that. It might cause him problems during his education.

"Maybe he was mad, but he wasn't stupid. He orchestrated the Second World War, using Muggles and their armies as pawns instead of fighting them outright. He planned to subjugate them after securing victory."

"That doesn't make the ultimate goal any less absurd. Alright, I understand Grindelwald, but what about the other one—You-Know-Who? What did he want?"

"Their ideas were similar," Tonks began, leaning back in thought. "Many sources say that in his youth, he admired Grindelwald and his writings. A lot of their principles overlapped, but while Grindelwald wanted wizards to simply rule over Muggles, You-Know-Who believed in purging what he called 'dirty blood' from the wizarding world before moving on to anything else."

"'Dirty blood'?"

"That's their term for anyone with Muggle ancestry. To them, a 'Mudblood' is any wizard who has Muggle relatives within the last two—or better yet, three or four—generations. That includes you. Me. My father. Professor McGonagall. Headmaster Dumbledore. The author of Magical Me, Gilderoy Lockhart. Two-thirds of magical Britain…"

"And what was the plan for them—or, I should say, us?"

"Elimination," Tonks said plainly. "According to his ideas, only purebloods—those who never sullied their lineage with 'pathetic Muggles'—should remain."

"That makes no sense!" Archibald exclaimed, genuinely shocked. He had prepared himself for many revelations, but not this. Tonks nodded, used to such a reaction, and confirmed calmly:

"None whatsoever."

"Alright, Grindelwald was insane, but at least in theory, if wizards somehow managed to seize power, I'd hope they'd focus on studying magic and enhancing it, freed from resource constraints. That's what wizards should do. But if you start slaughtering most of them… Leaving only those twenty-eight sacred families? Thirty heirs of ancient houses in all of Britain? That's absurd! Not even madness—pure nonsense."

Kayneth was many things, but soft or overly humanitarian for a magus he was not. A world where individuals devoted their lives to uncovering the universe's most dangerous secrets was inherently ruthless and unforgiving. But even cruelty had to serve a purpose. What he'd just heard went against every principle he understood about magic and the structure of magical society.

"My mentor says the same," Tonks said with a nod. "He's a pureblood himself, but he fought against that… lunatic for eleven years."

"I read in a book on British wizarding houses that nearly all pureblood families are already interrelated. If no new families emerge—families that could become pureblood over five or six generations—they'll just keep marrying among themselves. Twenty-eight families… How long before they start marrying cousins, then siblings?"

"So it doesn't bother you that their plan involved killing off all other wizards?" Tonks asked, genuinely trying to follow James's train of thought.

"I'm not discussing morality here; I'm trying to understand the reasoning. And there doesn't seem to be any. This isn't just a crime against individual wizards—it's an attack on magic itself and the magical world. If everyone understood this, why did the war last so long? Didn't the International Confederation of Wizards do everything they could to crush such a threat immediately?"

"The Confederation…" Tonks hesitated. They had stumbled onto another sensitive subject. Today was just full of those. "Didn't get involved. The war was declared an internal matter of magical Britain."

"What?" Kayneth was growing weary of the paradoxes and absurdities of the local political landscape, if it could even be called that. "Who declared it an internal matter? Britain or the Confederation?"

"I don't know," Tonks admitted with a shrug. Her knowledge had its limits, and she had deliberately avoided delving too deeply into the murky politics surrounding He-Who-Causes-Endless-Trouble, given her plans to become an Auror. "The newspapers covered it extensively; rumors were even worse. Officially, everything was polite and orderly—'The Ministry of Magic and the international community strongly condemn the actions of the infamous criminal and his followers…' That sort of thing. The war was swept under the rug for a long time. The conflict wasn't officially acknowledged until 1974. Until then, the Ministry worked hard to pretend everything was fine, and other countries pretended to believe them. He hadn't directly attacked them yet, just spread his ideas and recruited volunteers.

"Apparently, he had plenty of admirers in Europe. Maybe other nations feared that if they got involved, some of their own purebloods might switch sides. Or maybe there were a dozen other reasons. Politics is always murky and dirty, whether among Muggles or wizards."

"I'm starting to wonder if I made a mistake agreeing to this," Archibald said, though in truth, he was playing a role rather than expressing his genuine thoughts. Some madman's delusions wouldn't deter him from pursuing the study of magic. But James Murphy, the orphan who had only learned of wizards' existence a few months ago, might well be shaken by the less-than-pleasant secrets hidden behind the magical world's whimsical robes, brooms, and brightly lit shop signs.

"Britain, with all its flaws, is still a peaceful and safe country. We don't even have to worry about the Reds anymore. Maybe I should swear not to reveal magic or even ask you to erase my memory and live as a normal schoolboy. I wouldn't be able to travel by Floo, but at least no self-proclaimed tyrant would torture me and my parents to death because of our heritage."

"To be honest, I had similar thoughts when I was a bit younger than you," Tonks admitted candidly, giving him an understanding look. Then, switching to her warmest, most reassuring tone, she added, "But that madman is dead. His followers are either in prison or in hiding. There's nothing to fear anymore. You can go to school, visit a giant castle steeped in magic from the dungeons to the tallest tower, fly on a broomstick for the first time, see dragons, hippogriffs, centaurs, and mermaids. You'll learn what it's like to transform objects with just a gesture and a word, heal illnesses instantly, or repair an entire house," she said, lifting her nearly full teacup into the air with a flick of her wand and spinning it mid-air without spilling a drop. She then caught it in her hand and added, "Magic is a part of who we are. Don't give it up because of a few lunatics, James."

"Well, it's hard to argue with such wisdom. But I do have another question."

"Go ahead."

"What do wizards do after school? I understand what adults in the Muggle world do—drivers, clerks, soldiers, scientists. You're essentially a police officer. At St. Mungo's, there are healers. At Hogwarts, teachers. At the Ministry, bureaucrats. Here in this quarter, shopkeepers, cooks, craftsmen selling enchanted items. But what do the other wizards do? The aristocrats who don't have to worry about money, at least?"

"That's an unexpected question," Tonks admitted, clearly caught off guard. She hadn't anticipated the conversation shifting in this direction. The question itself, however, made perfect sense—especially coming from a child. Magically born or not, Muggle-raised kids typically started pondering such things later, after being more immersed in the magical world.

"Most work in the Ministry. Some sit on courts or participate in the Confederation Council. They lead social lives, weave intrigues, or juggle all these things at once. A sizable portion of adult wizards, however, are employed by the Ministry or its subsidiary organizations or work in professions serving the magical community. Some go into sports professionally. Others run businesses or offer various services."

"What about science? I mean, the study of magic. Someone must be creating new spells, brewing innovative potions, or crafting new artifacts, right? Or am I wrong?"

"There's the Committee on Experimental Charms under the Ministry," Tonks replied, giving the straightforward answer. "Although it doesn't have much influence and isn't taken very seriously. If you want to work there after school, I'm sure they'll have a spot open for you. Beyond that… Potion-makers experiment with new formulas in their spare time, as far as I've heard. Most new artifacts are designed here, for sale in Diagon Alley shops. Hogwarts professors and some private tutors sometimes publish articles. There are wizards who conduct experiments with charms and transfiguration at home.

"Unfortunately, many get too caught up in it and forget about precautions. We were told during training about a particularly gruesome incident involving a witch several years ago. Then there's Knockturn Alley. Some people there try to make a living by mixing potions or layering spells in bizarre, backward combinations, hoping for miraculous results. But more often than not, it comes to nothing because they lack the knowledge or resources to conduct proper research."

"And the aristocrats? Those so-called 'Sacred Twenty-Eight'—the Goyles, Yaxleys, Greengrasses, and the rest? They've got the money, knowledge, and free time. They're practically obligated to advance magic."

"In an ideal world, perhaps," Tonks said with a faint sigh. "But in reality… they're too busy with power struggles and scheming."

For several minutes, silence hung over the table. Kayneth pondered her answers while Tonks reflected on the questions. The witch had reason to feel satisfied with their conversation. Despite touching on some sensitive topics, she had more than accomplished her goal—ensuring that the prospective wizard wouldn't go within a mile of any Death Eater recruiters.

Kayneth, however, was left with mixed feelings. The more he learned, the more glaring the inefficiencies and contradictions of this magical society seemed. Still, he finally broke the silence.

"Well," he said, "I think that's more than enough. Forgive me for my curiosity—it's already getting dark, and I imagine I've taken up most of your day off."

"Not at all. I joined the Aurors to help people. And that doesn't always mean waving a wand around. If this makes it easier for you to integrate into the magical world, and if you one day help someone else in turn, how could that be a bad thing? If you ever need help, don't hesitate to write. Oh, by the way, have you figured out the owl system? I mentioned it in my letter…"

"No problem. Your instructions were very detailed. Although it's still a little strange that wizards dislike phones so much. But I'll get used to it."

"Progress is happening—it's just slow. Even the Auror office has a phone at reception," she said proudly.

"Yeah, I know."

"How do you know that?" Tonks asked, surprised.

"Well, I might've dialed the wrong number once…" Kayneth began, initially fumbling for an excuse before deciding to tell a modified version of the truth. "At the orphanage, I needed to make a call—I don't even remember why or where. I accidentally ended up reaching your office. Back then, I didn't know about magic and just thought the name was weird."

"That happens sometimes. Occasionally, Muggles call us by accident too. But we've never managed to invent a spell that restricts dialing to a specific group of people, instead of allowing anyone to call from a random London payphone. Though I've heard some tried."

"And that brings us back to the importance of research," Kayneth said, standing up and offering a slight bow. He left money for the tea on the table and headed toward the exit. "Until next time. I appreciate everything you've shared, miss."

"Take care. Write if you need anything," Tonks called after him with a wave before signaling for the check.

On his way home, Kayneth gazed at the city lights and his reflection in the window, mentally organizing the new knowledge and plotting his next steps. Steering the conversation with Tonks toward politics hadn't been random. In this world, he was entirely on his own—no support, no allies. If that was the case, he would eventually need to align himself with one of the factions within this society to avoid being devoured.

In the Clock Tower, the major factions were clearly defined: the aristocrats, staunch defenders of the old families' rights (to which the Archibalds had loyally belonged); the democratic faction, advocating for greater privileges for neophytes and magi without lineage; and the large neutral faction focused on maintaining the status quo.

Here, the magical community wasn't all that different. There was a group of aristocrats obsessed with strengthening their power through terror and mass executions. While Archibald would never be mistaken for a liberal or a champion of weaker magical houses, the idea of annihilating all of them was unthinkable.

Old families, in his view, should remind newcomers of their place—like adults guiding children—while denying them serious decision-making power. At the same time, they should push these new magi to improve and develop. A first-generation magus was practically useless—lacking a crest, possessing weak magic circuits, limited knowledge, and few resources. But with proper effort, education, and careful planning, their descendants could take their rightful place within the magical community within four or five generations, even contributing new mysteries and sorcery traits to enrich it.

In other words, while Kayneth had no intention of abandoning his old worldview, the radical faction of Britain's magical aristocracy was clearly not for him. A better option might be to join one of the more moderate families—if he could prove himself valuable enough as a wizard. Yet, cruel irony (or the bizarre circumstances of his current existence) meant that he was now a first-generation wizard with no family or patrons. Other houses would only take him in as a subordinate—the highest position he could ever hope to reach would be that of a trusted servant.

And that, Archibald would never accept. His pride wouldn't allow it. For the same reason, a marriage alliance (not that such a thing would even be possible for another six years, at minimum) wasn't worth considering. He would always be a weaker party in such a union.

The Ministry of Magic presented itself as a thoroughly neutral—perhaps excessively so—entity. It clung to the existing order with a tenacity that seemed to defy both self-preservation and common sense, as evidenced by its actions during the civil war. The fact that three Ministers had been replaced over the course of the conflict indicated that the issue lay not with the competence of individual leaders, but with systemic flaws.

Kayneth scoffed derisively at the thought of them. These weren't magi in pursuit of understanding the mysteries of magic; they were petty bureaucrats with mystic codes—paper-pushers preoccupied with regulating the length of flying brooms according to some antiquated decree from 1700-whatever, rather than advancing magical knowledge. He saw no future for himself in their ranks unless the organization underwent a fundamental transformation.

Then there was the school—Hogwarts, the domain of the "strongest wizard of the generation." According to available information, it was reasonably liberal in its treatment of "Muggle-borns." As a repository and disseminator of magical knowledge, it was invaluable, especially in a world that seemed largely indifferent to the study of magic. However, despite the school's broad-minded stance on blood purity it also imposed stricter limitations on certain branches of magical practice than even the Ministry.

There was always the possibility of leaving the country altogether, relocating to the States or the Continent if magical research there proved more fruitful. Kayneth had no overwhelming patriotic feelings for the United Kingdom, though he acknowledged its contributions to magic and its many discoveries. But if forced to choose between patriotism and advancing his mastery of the magical arts, he would choose magic without hesitation. For now, however, his understanding of the international magical landscape was far too limited to make such a decision. At least within Britain, he had begun to form a rudimentary understanding of the situation and had established some basic connections.

In the worst-case scenario, he might be forced to gather a faction of his own—one that approached magic differently from the existing groups. He didn't relish the thought of such a monumental undertaking but acknowledged it might become necessary. For now, though, he had a small window of time. Summer would soon arrive, bringing school holidays, and with them, the opportunity to meet students who were currently enrolled. Observing them could provide insight into the mindset of the new generation of wizards, as well as open avenues for gathering more information and viewing the magical world from diverse perspectives.

Lost in these musings, Kayneth reached his "workshop." He stepped into the library, where shelves for his growing book collection had finally been installed. He paused in front of his worktable, gazing at a small tungsten dodecahedron perched on a stand at the center of a magical circle. As he had done that morning, he touched it lightly, channeling the energy accumulated in his magic circuits throughout the day into the device.

This ritual had become routine over the past week, performed once or twice daily, steadily charging the new, far more reliable energy reservoir to its capacity. It would take at least another month to fully saturate it, but the experiment he was planning would require an extraordinary amount of power.

TN: Unfortunately, I messed up and skipped the Interlude. I'll post it next time and swap its place with Chapter 8. Fortunately, this won't cause any continuity issues.

Last edited: Feb 3, 2025

138

Johnny_Z

Feb 3, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Interlude 7.5 (Metamorph's problems)

View content

Johnny_Z

Feb 7, 2025

#120

Nymphadora Tonks hated her name. Among witches and wizards, ancient or flamboyant names were hardly uncommon, especially within the old families long detached from the Muggle world. Take her mother's side of the family, for instance—Regulus, Bellatrix, Narcissa. Who names their children that unless they harbor some deep resentment toward them? Apparently, her mother hadn't been tormented enough growing up with the name Andromeda to consider sparing her own daughter with something simple like Jane or Susan. Worst of all, no one around seemed to care how absurd her name sounded or how much of a tongue-twister it was for everyone to say it. Tonks had gotten used to it over the last twenty years, but really, did they have to make it so hard on themselves?

"Nymphadora, that report should've been on my desk two hours ago!"

"Sorry, Mr. Shacklebolt, I'll have it ready in five minutes."

"Nymphadora, a dragon in your handbag, have you checked the archives, or does my order mean nothing?"

"Apologies, Mr. Moody. I'll get the report to you within thirty minutes."

"Trainee Tonks, you're joining O'Neil's group for an operation in Knockturn Alley in twenty minutes. Understood?"

"Understood, Director Scrimgeour, sir!"

"Not so loud, trainee, though I admire your enthusiasm. And try not to drop those files on me—they've got ten pounds of dust alone."

The head of the Auror Office pushed past Tonks, who was struggling with a stack of folders piled higher than her head, and marched off to issue more orders for the upcoming raid. Tonks sighed softly as she watched him go. Scrimgeour might be an egotistical careerist, but his habit of addressing people by their surnames was oddly endearing. Barely managing to avoid spilling her dusty stack of files—some of which appeared to be centuries old—and narrowly sidestepping a doorframe, Tonks reached the corner designated for trainees.

Now, she had three minutes to finish the report for Kingsley (with a quill, no less, in what was almost the 21st century!) and another fifteen minutes to prepare for the next inspection. Considering her unique talent for getting tangled in her official robes, even after straightening their folds, a quarter of an hour wasn't much time. Someone once told her that American Aurors had been wearing 1930s-style Muggle trench coats for the last fifty years. Lucky them.

The chaos engulfing the Auror Office had lasted for two relentless months. Veteran Aurors claimed they hadn't seen such a frenzy since the height of You-Know-Who's reign. Even old Moody had stopped complaining about his never-ending retirement plans—a sign of just how dire the situation was. Tonks herself hadn't seen the sun for days at a time, living in a relentless cycle of "home-fireplace-Ministry dungeons-fireplace-home." This was certainly not what she'd envisioned when she signed up for Auror training during "peaceful times."

Her last proper day off had been in March when she'd encountered a Muggle-born orphan in a park and introduced him to Diagon Alley, explaining the basics of the wizarding world as best as she could. Not long after, the usual routine of dull lectures, occasional hands-on practice, and mundane patrols of London's stations and outskirts had been thrown to the proverbial three-headed dog.

It started one night in early April with the blaring alarm of an all-hands call across the second and third floors of the Ministry. As the story went, a massive enchanted map of London and its surroundings—shared between the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes—had flagged a powerful but unfamiliar magical signal in a forest near London, at the edge of their jurisdiction. It appeared to be the site of a dark ritual accompanied by a significant magical surge.

The intern on overnight map duty, one of Tonks' classmates, panicked and triggered the alarm, waking everyone up. By the time the Auror Office figured out which department was responsible, assembled a team of five seasoned Aurors led by Moody, and had them Apparate to the fields outside London before flying to the site, the moment had passed.

They arrived at an abandoned village of about ten houses, only to find a spreading fire and not a single living—or non living—soul. Once it became clear there would be no battle with dark wizards, possibly remnants of You-Know-Who's forces, half the department was summoned to the scene. Aurors extinguished the flames, patrolling officers set up a perimeter—not so much to keep Muggles out (though they had to redirect a Muggle fire crew later) as to ward off nosy journalists—and the remaining Aurors secured key locations, fearing terrorist attacks like those eleven years ago. Thankfully, nothing happened, and most of the team was withdrawn after a few days. However, strengthened patrols remained.

Once the initial chaos was over, the fire doused, and the smoke cleared, the Aurors began searching for evidence. Unlike Muggle police, who would've scoured the area on hands and knees, collecting ash fragments with tweezers, the Aurors had far more efficient methods. After photographing the burned-down house and village from every conceivable angle—both from the ground and the air—they moved on to the wondrous spell "Reparo."

Trainees weren't allowed near such delicate work, so Tonks watched from a neighboring yard as a few experienced Aurors restored the charred ruins into a complete, albeit shabby, cottage in a matter of minutes. The result wasn't perfect—some wood planks, floorboards, and upholstery were missing, as if a few puzzle pieces had been lost. But it sufficed for their investigation. The radius of the spell was limited, and much of the material had been reduced to smoke and ash, scattered by the wind. An exact replica wasn't necessary.

Unfortunately, any magical traces from the ritual had been obliterated by the fire and subsequent reconstruction. There had likely been a ritual circle drawn on the floor, evidenced by smudges of blood, chalk, and soot, alongside bowls and cages placed at equal intervals. The cages contained small animals and birds—dead, of course. No spell of repair, healing, or restoration could bring them back to life.

That discovery immediately escalated the level of alarm. Moody, in his usual paranoid fashion, almost issued orders to patrols to attack any suspicious shadows in the city on sight—he was barely talked down. Rumors had long circulated, whispered among the Aurors, that You-Know-Who wasn't entirely dead and that the so-called "innocent" Death Eaters, who had escaped trial by blaming potions or Imperius, might attempt to bring him back. What if this unknown ritual, involving sacrifices and summoning a powerful otherworldly entity, was just such an attempt? Worse, what if it had succeeded?

Scrimgeour, however, dismissed this as an overreaction. He pointed out that the scale of magic and sacrifices involved was insufficient to resurrect a dark wizard of that magnitude. But as a test run, a trial for a larger ritual? That was plausible. His response was swift and decisive: "Track down every suspect or witness involved with dark magic or necromancy in the last thirty years." Azkaban, Tonks thought, must not have seen such a pilgrimage of investigators in decades…

"Nymphadora, no sleeping on the job! We leave in three minutes!" The sharp voice right by Tonks' ear yanked her from her thoughts.

"Trainee Tonks, ready to go, Auror O'Neil, sir!" she reflexively reported and tried to jump to her feet but got tangled in her robes and nearly hit the floor. Fortunately, the Auror caught her with a quick spell, setting her upright before motioning for her to follow him to the elevator, where the rest of the group was already packed in.

It was mid-May, and these inspections of shady shops and even shadier craftsmen in Knockturn Alley and similarly dubious locations around the country had become an almost daily routine. In the past month and a half, they had confiscated more contraband than in all of the previous year. If it weren't for space expansion charms, the evidence storage would have overflowed long ago. Yet despite all the effort, the main investigation's results remained the same—one giant, glaring zero.

No leads, no evidence, not even a decent suspect. Someone even proposed the bizarre theory that the culprit could have been a visitor from the continent—perhaps Apparating in from Portugal, conducting some dark ritual to avoid leaving traces at home, and then vanishing back. The Department of International Magical Co-operation had sent out a careful inquiry to nearby countries, asking if they'd noticed any malevolent entities or strange activity in their reports, but the responses were all negative.

Against this backdrop, incidents that would have occupied the department for a week in the past now barely registered. A couple of wizards disappeared from Knockturn Alley, but disappearances there were a routine—especially considering the "methods of competition" common in the area. All they found was one wand washed up on the Thames, which painted a grim picture of those wizards' fates.

On another occasion, a call came through to Scrimgeour himself (a rare event) from Muggle intelligence services. Moody had drilled it into the trainees during lectures that magical law enforcement's relationship with the Statute of Secrecy could be... unique. Muggle police were instructed that if they ever encountered something truly inexplicable—something that defied all logic and was utterly impossible—they were to report it to their superior. If that superior was convinced, they would report it further up the chain, until, finally, the top brass—someone practically on the level of the Prime Minister—would contact the Aurors for help.

The reverse was also true. When dealing with Muggle criminals who had somehow learned about the wizarding world, Aurors could request assistance from the police. However, such interactions were exceedingly rare—maybe once or twice a decade.

This time, with the entire department working non-stop, Scrimgeour had only managed to spare one senior trainee to investigate. The trainee dutifully went to London and returned with a report: someone had bombed a Muggle dealer or a thug (the distinction wasn't significant on either side of the Statute) in their home. However, there were no traces of gunpowder, dynamite, or any other explosive materials.

The trainee had thoroughly searched the ransacked office, checking every corner, but found no evidence of magic capable of causing such destruction. The damages didn't match spells like Expulso, Reducto, Bombarda, or any other known explosive charms. The general magical background in the area was slightly elevated, but that could easily be explained by strong emotions or the presence of wizards or squibs among the victim's associates.

Ultimately, the Muggles were left with nothing, returning to their scientists and experts for answers, while the trainee came back with amusing tales of how "quirky" Muggle investigators were and how their operations differed from "normal" procedures.

Captured vampires, foolish wizards casting spells in front of Muggles, or the notorious fraudster Fletcher selling a case of mandrakes at an exorbitant price to an "anonymous potioneer" now became a unimportant routine, handled by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when time allowed.

Reflecting on the chaos of the past two months, Tonks obediently followed all of O'Neil's orders—don't get in the way, confiscate the shop owner's wand to check for recent spells, inspect that suspicious chest for curses, scare off a boggart that popped out of the basement, and again, don't get in the way. It was a typical inspection with a predictably minimal haul: a vial containing traces of a particularly potent love potion from the Ministry's restricted list. Hardly a significant find.

They returned to the Auror Office empty-handed. Tonks had just settled down to finish the report Moody was still waiting for when the battered Auror himself stomped into the trainees' room, his staff thudding against the floor. He scanned the room, his mismatched eyes—one real, one magical—landing on Tonks as she slumped into her seat.

"Mr. Moody, the report will be ready in about ten minutes…"

"Forget the report, Dullahan stomp me sideways" Moody interrupted, dropping heavily into a nearby chair and propping his staff beside him. "Nymphadora, why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?"

"I have a… WHAT?!" Tonks was so startled she dropped her quill. Her hair turned bright red with yellow stripes, and wolf-like ears sprouted from the top of her head.

"A young man. A fiance. A boyfriend. Or whatever you kids call it these days." While you were out, an owl delivered this," he tossed a letter onto the table. It was a minor miracle that the famously paranoid Auror hadn't opened it himself to check for poisons, curses, or threats.

"I don't have a…" Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the letter and read the sender's name, written in plain ballpoint pen. "Redirected from the Leaky Cauldron. From "James Murphy"… Who's that?"

"Oh, you've got so many you can't keep track? Andromeda will be thrilled!"

"That's not what I…!" Tonks' hair bristled as her frustration nearly triggered a transformation into a gorgon. Perhaps her subconscious was hoping to turn her mentor to stone? But she quickly calmed herself, reverting to her usual appearance. "Wait, hold on! I remember now. That's the boy I brought to Diagon Alley—the Muggle-born orphan. I told you about him."

Seeing Moody's smug grin dim slightly, Tonks tore open the envelope and read the brief letter.

"I told him that if he ever had trouble, he could ask me for help. Let's see… He says he's been adopted, has a family now, is being homeschooled, and managed to get some books on magic. He's trying to learn about the wizarding world, and he likes Diagon Alley, but there's still a lot he doesn't understand. And since he doesn't know any other wizards, he'd like to meet and ask me some questions. Next week at the Leaky Cauldron… I'm guessing you're not going to let me…?"

"You're free," Moody snapped his fingers, and the calendar on the wall rustled its pages before settling on the appropriate date. "May 23rd. You'll have the day off."

"And the investigation?" Tonks asked skeptically, carefully folding the letter and tucking it back into the envelope.

"To Mordred with the investigation, may Rhongomyniad crack its spine," Moody replied bluntly, waving his hand dismissively. "I'll explain it simply, like to an adult. Fudge is tired of it. You know our dear Minister and his stance—'Everything's fine in London, all's well in Britain. Dark wizards? Surely not. We don't have such horrors here, do we?' And as for the dozen or so we lock up every year? 'Rumors and journalistic nonsense, that's all!'

"So, he's decided to shut the whole thing down and send us back to patrolling train stations and arresting goblins without permits. Rufus is holding out for now, clinging to the idea that potential glory as the vanquisher of a dark wizard is better than simply following orders. But that'll last only as long as he believes it. Even he's starting to cave—within a few days, they'll start pulling people off the case and loading them up with routine tasks. By summer, this entire mess will be shoved into some damned archive." Moody cast a disgusted look at the dusty stacks of folders. "At best, it'll be filed as a 'failed attempt to resurrect Voldemort.' More likely, it'll be written off as a 'random incident of unknown nature.' Disgusting.

"But neither Fudge nor Rufus seems to realize that while this case will get archived, the scum who caused it won't disappear. And they might try again. And again. That's why—"

"Constant vigilance, sir!" Tonks shouted, cutting him off before he could bellow it in the confines of the small office. Her ears had suffered enough ringing for one lifetime.

"Ah, you've learned well in less than a year. I'm proud. There's hope for the youth yet, not just a bunch of slackers. So, wrap up your current tasks—finish that ghoul-bitten report—and prepare to return to patrol duty. Oh, and write back to that boy. Let him know you'll meet him. Did you at least explain how wizarding post works?"

"Oh… Morgana! I told him where to buy owls but didn't explain why he'd need one. I thought it was obvious..."

"Figures. Write to him at the Cauldron, or wherever he's expecting your reply. Or just show up at the time he suggested and explain it all then."

"Couldn't someone else go?" Tonks drummed her fingers nervously on the desk, her nails transforming into curved cat-like claws. "What if I forget something again? We weren't exactly trained for this. Wouldn't it be better to call someone from Hogwarts? Professor McGonagall, maybe?"

"In May? Right before final exams? If I suggest that to Minerva, she'll shred the letter with her claws, then neatly tuck the pieces back into the envelope and send it back without a word. And if I were to ask Snape… let's just say you don't know half the words he'd use to respond.

"Look, an Auror's head isn't just for deflecting spells. I'm old, and in ten years, you'll be the one teaching new recruits the difference between Imperius and Confundus and why one lands you in Azkaban while the other doesn't. You may as well start preparing now."

"If you say so..."

"I don't just say it—I know it. From what you've said, you seemed to get along with the lad. And we need every wizard we can get right now. If this filth really is coming back..."

Tonks understood. She understood better than most her age. She had been born three years after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named transitioned from speeches to murder and terror. When he died and the war officially ended, she was eight years old.

During the war itself, she had been too young to grasp its horrors, but she remembered vividly the aftermath—the tallying of losses, and as her father grimly put it, "the punishment of the innocent and the rewarding of the uninvolved." Over the course of that sluggish and lethargic decade-long civil war, about a thousand witches and wizards had died, not counting mercenaries from the continent or overseas. Another thousand were cursed, maimed, or driven mad—people who lost everything and were left burning with a desire for vengeance at any cost.

Some managed to rebuild their lives, but many didn't. The death toll, in proportion to Britain's small magical population, far exceeded the losses the Muggle UK suffered during World War I or II.

As for the Muggle casualties? No one bothered to count. Memories were Obliviated en masse, and angry calls from the Prime Minister's office were met with curt responses of, "It's none of your business; we'll handle it." If Voldemort hadn't fallen in 1981, and his followers hadn't been swiftly dealt with afterward, the Ministry might well have faced a war on two fronts—against the Death Eaters on one side and enraged Muggles on the other.

Nearly two thousand magical lives lost or shattered weren't just numbers. Each was someone's husband, parent, uncle or a friend… Or a wife, an aunt, a daughter - no fewer women participated in that massacre, both among the Death Eaters and among Order's "phoenixes" and the Aurors.

Tonks had lost a cousin to the war; another relative and an aunt were imprisoned in Azkaban. Yet another aunt had married a man who'd allegedly "bought his way out" and walked free.

Even after Voldemort's defeat, the magical world had endured five more years of turmoil—revenge killings, arrests for past crimes, fugitives eluding capture. The community had shrunk by several hundred more.

As a child, Tonks had often wondered whether Aurors would one day come knocking on their door, arresting her family "on suspicion of dark magic and ties to terrorists," or if the remaining Death Eaters would show up to slaughter them for refusing to side with their leader. Fortunately, neither happened.

When she went to Hogwarts, those fears receded, but her family's complicated ties to Voldemort's inner circle haunted her. Her lineage, part of a family that hadn't supported the rebellion but was deeply intertwined with its leaders, was a frequent target of insults—both at school and in the Ministry. But insults, at least, weren't Avada Kedavra.

If history repeated itself... Britain's magical community might need to be repopulated from scratch.

"I can see from your face that you understand," Moody said gravely. He couldn't read minds, but his years of experience meant he rarely needed to. "You grasp the depth of the crap... the trap we might be walking into. Every wizard matters now. And when you speak to that boy, make sure you set his head straight. Let him know, gently, that joining those psychopaths is never an option."

"He's Muggle-born. To them, he is a 'mudblood,' even worse than me."

"Are you going to tell me that this self-styled Fuhrer didn't have Muggle-borns and half-bloods among his lackeys?"

"There were some..." Tonks admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly. So don't make their mistake—don't divide people into good or bad by their blood. It's all red all the same. It's up to each person to decide who they'll fight for."

Moody groaned as he grabbed his staff and hauled himself to his feet. "But I'm not your father, here to lecture you. You're grown enough to understand what's what. Just... felt like grumbling a bit. Thinking about all the filth from back then. Anyway, you can leave on time today instead of staying past midnight. You've got studying to do—exams are coming up soon."

The Metamorphmagus stared in surprise at the door as it swung shut behind the old Auror. Shaking her head, she reached for her quill to finish the report... and swore when she saw nothing but shredded parchment on the desk.

She must have absentmindedly turned her fingers into claws while lost in thought and shredded the document without noticing.

With a resigned sigh, Tonks grabbed her wand and muttered, "Reparo. Merlin, take it…"

The pieces reassembled themselves—but she had overdone the spell. The parchment had "repaired" itself so thoroughly that the last two paragraphs were gone entirely.

"Great," she groaned, tapping her wand against her temple. "Now I have to remember what the bloody hell I wrote."

138

Johnny_Z

Feb 7, 2025

View discussion

Threadmarks Chapter 9

View content

Johnny_Z

Feb 11, 2025

#131

"I don't like places like this," Kayneth remarked, surveying the abandoned factory building. The plant had been shut down since the seventies, and it showed. Concrete walls were stained with mold and patches of moss, layered over with crude graffiti and illiterate slogans of vulgar anarchy. The roof had caved in several places, leaving shattered windows that let in just enough sunlight to illuminate the grimy interior. Trash and scraps of cloth littered the floor, scattered here and there in forlorn piles. Kayneth wouldn't have been surprised if a skeleton of some long-dead vagrant were buried beneath one of them, frozen to death decades ago. The oppressive atmosphere made his neck itch uncomfortably.

"I'd rather be at a restaurant or on a beach right now, too," MacDuggal admitted, his tone wry. The June heat had prompted him to ditch his usual cloak, leaving him in a simple gray business suit that didn't draw much attention. "But, unlike you, I'm actually making a living from these kinds of jobs. Honestly, it's a good spot—still within the city limits but far enough from the nearest houses that even gunshots won't be heard. Isn't this exactly what you asked for?"

"Fair enough. I was just thinking aloud. As long as no gang of drunk teenagers shows up and ruins everything, I suppose this will do," Kayneth replied, oblivious to how odd such a statement sounded coming from someone in a child's body. He gestured to a battered metal drum lying amidst the debris. "This one should suffice—no better or worse than the others."

Kayneth reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wide zirconium bracelet inscribed with runes and Latin phrases. He placed it gently atop the battered drum, wary of the rusting metal collapsing into a cloud of dust at the slightest touch. Then he stepped back carefully, keeping an eye on the uneven floor littered with twisted rebar and shattered glass.

"All set. Your turn now. If this is so necessary," he added skeptically, watching MacDuggal as the man laid down a long case and a small bag near the wall.

"You'll thank me later if something goes wrong and you need to figure out what happened," MacDuggal replied, pulling out a video camera. After switching it on and verifying it worked, he mounted it on the rickety shelf of a rusting storage rack bolted to the wall. He adjusted its angle to focus on the drum and bracelet before turning back to his gear.

He popped the latches on the case and withdrew a hunting rifle with a polished wooden stock. With deliberate care, he loaded a few cartridges, inspected the scope, and nodded to himself. Moving to the opposite end of the factory, he took aim.

"Ready!" he called.

"Count to five and fire. Aim as close to the bracelet as you can," Kayneth instructed, ducking behind a grimy, crumbling column. From his hiding spot, he had a clear view of the target while staying out of the shooter's line of fire.

The crack of the rifle shot echoed through the factory, followed immediately by a powerful gust of wind emanating from the drum. Dust, scraps of paper, tattered rags, and bits of debris swirled into the air before slowly settling back down. Over the din of rustling wind and rattling glass shards, a faint impact noise followed.

Swatting away falling debris and silently commending his foresight to wear gloves, Kayneth approached the wobbling drum. He leaned over to pick up a bullet that had rolled onto the concrete floor. Holding it up for MacDuggal to see, he shouted, "Nearly intact! It passed through the barrier but hit the wall on its last legs—didn't even embed itself. Not bad, but we can do better. Let's go again."

Kayneth retrieved the bracelet from the drum, now charred slightly in the center. He replaced it with another, nearly identical, but featuring a slightly different arrangement of runes and inscriptions. Returning to his hiding spot, he called, "Fire again—same target."

The sequence repeated. This time, the gust of wind was stronger, sending plastic bottles and glass shards skittering across the floor. A few precariously hanging window fragments gave way, shattering noisily onto the concrete. The second bullet came to rest unscathed on a cushion of moss near the drum. Examining it briefly, Kayneth replaced the now-warped bracelet with a third.

He'd prepared six prototypes for the test, each pair with varying barrier strengths. The weakest had failed almost immediately, while the medium-strength version seemed just right. The two remaining stronger models could likely be sold or used as demonstration pieces for potential clients. For now, though, he had to finish testing.

"Shift the target seven feet to the side," he instructed. "Then three feet in the other direction. Let's test the radius."

The first shot hit the wall without resistance, the bullet embedding itself cleanly. The second shot triggered another gust, this time deflecting the bullet sideways. It ricocheted off a beam and disappeared through a hole in the roof.

When the dust settled, Kayneth stepped out from behind the column. "The second one works. The range is decent too," he concluded. Ideally, further testing under varied conditions—terrain, weapons, and weather—would provide more reliable data. But he lacked the magical energy for such extensive trials, especially for a product rather than personal research.

"It's more expensive than I'd planned, but a bullet that hits the face even at the end of its flight and without any power or threat to life can ruin the image of our product. So, the cost will be higher. Let's say thirty-five thousand for a new bracelet, twenty for recharging one that is already used—provided it's undamaged."

"Steep, isn't it?" MacDuggal observed, packing up his rifle and unused rounds. He switched off the camera, stored it in his bag, and slung both over his shoulder. "All that for one stopped bullet. Clients might not see the value."

"One bullet—or several in quick succession. That's your problem, my dear business partner," Kayneth replied with dry sarcasm. "How you market the product is up to you. Besides, from what I recall of human anatomy, a single bullet to the head or chest is usually enough to end someone's existence or leave them permanently crippled. Your clients fear assassination attempts by 'dear friends' or 'beloved relatives' far more than a squad of soldiers firing en masse, don't they? A sniper's bullet ranks high on their list of concerns, somewhere between a car bomb and cyanide in their morning coffee."

"Fair enough. But how do you know that?" MacDuggal asked, glancing back as they picked their way toward the car, careful to avoid the treacherous terrain.

"My mentor was part of high society—wizard or not," Kayneth explained. "He attended parties, moved in those circles, and overheard plenty of conversations about what wealthy Muggles worry about. He'd share some of it as examples for me. These aren't the days of honorable duels anymore; some degenerate might bring a rifle instead of a wand. What are you supposed to do then?"

Archibald didn't exactly lie—he just replaced himself with a fictional mentor, Kayneth mused as they walked. It wasn't far from the truth. Much to his dismay, he had indeed overheard such conversations in his time, but back then, they hadn't left much of an impression. As a professor at the Clock Tower, the troubles of ordinary people had mattered little to him. He would never have imagined in his worst nightmares that the ancient and venerable Einzbern family would stoop so low as to hire a barely-competent mercenary spellcaster (not even a magus), barging into a noble Holy Grail War with barbaric mines and guns. At the time, Kayneth had been convinced his defenses were impervious to such primitive weaponry. That delusion had cost him dearly, and he had no intention of repeating that mistake. Especially now, with MacDuggal as a living example that even in magical Britain, running into someone armed with a gun was entirely possible.

"How does it even work? A force field?" MacDuggal asked, gesturing to the barrier's remnants.

"Wind magic. One spell monitors airflow within a limited radius. When an object moving too fast approaches, a secondary spell creates what is essentially a wall of compressed air, rushing to meet it. You're familiar with how a crosswind can deflect bullets, right? Properly manipulated, it can even stop them. But such a system consumes a significant amount of magical energy—energy I could use far more effectively elsewhere. I'm expending my time, knowledge, and magic on these designs, and I expect to be compensated fairly for it."

"Yeah, but still—"

"Still, what? Do you have a system in mundane science that offers the same level of protection without encasing someone in armor head-to-toe? For any price? This isn't just a defense against a single bullet; it's a chance at survival. It deflects the first sudden attack, giving you time to seek cover before the next one comes."

"Alright, alright, I get it," MacDuggal relented, whether genuinely convinced of its potential or simply realizing he wouldn't win a price negotiation. "I'd better jot these arguments down for the sales pitch."

"Feel free to take notes. I can repeat it all if necessary," Kayneth replied.

MacDuggal didn't ask for a repeat. Perhaps he thought he'd remember it all well enough. The drive back to the workshop was silent, allowing Kayneth to contemplate the energy expenditure required for his latest creations. The bracelets were, after all, nothing more than simplified versions of the automated defense mechanisms he'd once incorporated into his mystic code. Instead of a shield of enchanted mercury, these used an air barrier.

And therein lay the main challenge. In his original body, Archibald had an affinity for two elemental properties—water and air—a rare combination. Proper training had allowed him to master the flow of energy, wind, and even liquids like blood or molten metal. But the rituals he had performed over the past month made it clear that James Murphy's body had a full elemental alignment only with water. While this was better than being bound to earth or fire, as he had feared, wind-based spells would now cost him more energy and effort. This limitation extended to the enchantments on the protective bracelets.

"By the way, I wanted to ask you something," MacDuggal broke the silence, pulling Kayneth from his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Remember that trick you showed me with the fork in the restaurant?"

"It wasn't a 'trick.' It was a standard structural transformation," Kayneth corrected him in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," MacDuggal waved it off, clearly unfazed. Kayneth merely shook his head—what else could he expect from a businessman with no regard for scientific precision? "What I'm asking is—could you enchant the fork beforehand so a regular person, not a wizard, could trigger the transformation by, say, speaking a command?"

"I could. Embed the energy in advance and set an activation key. That's essentially how the bullets I make operate."

"Got it. I've been thinking—security these days is insane. You can't even smuggle a pocketknife or a sharpened coin past some of these checkpoints. But what if you had a bracelet, a belt buckle, or something innocuous? Slip it past the scanners without issue, and once you're inside the club or mansion, say the trigger word, spit three times, and voila—you've got a knuckle duster, a dagger, or a garrote wire in your hand."

"An interesting idea. Simple enough that I hadn't bothered to think of it. Hypnotizing a guard to ignore the scanner would be easier for me, but for a mundane client? It's viable. Compile a list of desired items, and I'll estimate the materials and energy required. Would it sell?"

"James, you wouldn't believe the lengths people go to just to smuggle something sharp past security," MacDuggal said with a sly grin. "But to answer your question—yes, it would sell. Very well, in fact."

"Good. That suits me fine. I'll need the money soon anyway."

"Fletcher finally ready to negotiate for real instead of all this back-and-forth?"

"Yes. The meeting is set for tomorrow."

"Need backup?"

"Just an escort to the rendezvous. Someone to ensure I make it there without incident. If Fletcher and I come to terms, we'll likely head to a wizarding settlement—no place for Muggles."

"Take a mobile phone with you, just in case you need to call for help."

"I will, though it may not work in certain areas," Kayneth acknowledged. He remained skeptical of the device MacDuggal had provided, given the uneasy relationship between modern electronics and local magic, but he could see its potential utility. "And one more thing. Procuring a pistol or rifle isn't an issue for you, is it, Mr. MacDuggal? What about a bladed weapon."

"A knife's even easier to get than a gun."

"I'm talking about more exotic weapons. A sword, a halberd, a morning star. Functional, of course—not cheap props for a film."

"Can be easily arranged," MacDuggal shrugged, not at all surprised by the request. "It's not like it is illegal to buy functional replicas. You'll just have to sharpen it yourself. Or did you have something specific in mind?"

"Yes, but not yet," Archibald replied. "Give me a couple of weeks. By then, I should have a clearer idea on what exactly I need. The weapon will have to follow my design precisely."

"Whenever you're ready, then. But custom order would cost you a pretty penny and take time."

"As long as it gets done."

"Heh. Fair enough. Strange requests like yours is what keeps me in the business. If people didn't want unusual things, I wouldn't be trading them. I'd still be stuck at Heathrow, scraping by on a laughable customs officer salary. But that's a long story."

The meeting was set early in the morning, in a nearly empty park not far from the magical quarter. Archibald arrived, prepared for anything. He carried the same mystic codes he had brought to their previous deal, plus a couple of new ones. His vigilance never wavered—there was always the chance of reinforcements Apparating in to back up a wizard. He had considered asking Albert for a gun but ultimately decided not to stoop so low, even with his current limited magical reserves.

Fletcher was already waiting for him, lounging on a bench with a nonchalant air, as if to signal he was no threat. His attire was just as tasteless as last time; even the chain (likely just gold-plated) was still there. Still, he had taken precautions—Archibald could sense the faint presence of a weak ward around the alley, one designed to deflect the attention of ordinary people.

"Morning, Jimmy. You managed to wake up early, I see," Fletcher greeted him with faux warmth.

"I assume you're finally ready to get down to business, or are we going to keep circling each other?" Archibald cut through the pleasantries. "We've been negotiating for almost a month now, and I've yet to see any results."

"You don't trust me, and I don't trust you," Fletcher replied calmly. "Deals like this require mutual trust. And I've got more reason to be cautious than you do."

"Do you?" Archibald's tone was skeptical. "One of those wizards gave a pretty clear hint as to whose side you're on, Mr. Fletcher. And we both know what that person thinks of certain branches of magic. Turning me over to the Aurors would be a great way for you to curry favor, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe," Fletcher said, still relaxed but with a faint tension beneath the surface. Archibald could sense he was ready to grab a mystic code or Apparate at the first sign of danger, bravado notwithstanding. "I knew both of those wizards personally. We weren't friends, but… well. Now I'm guessing not even their bones will be found."

"So?" Archibald pressed, though his mind was already working out attack scenarios. If the local wizards were this quick to react, it would be best to strike from multiple directions simultaneously to overload any defense. Wind manipulation to disorient, followed by a coordinated strike with two mystic codes—it should be enough.

"So, this isn't how things are done here," Fletcher continued, spreading his hands as though the topic bored him. "If you wanted to craft a backstory, you should've done a better job or come better prepared. If I figured you out, others could too."

"And who exactly do you think I am?" Archibald asked, his tone even. He was genuinely curious to hear Fletcher's theory.

"If you're still playing, I'll indulge you," Fletcher replied with a shrug. "The idea of you being some eager Muggle-born kid hungry for knowledge doesn't add up, not with a few glaring details. For one, you're doing business with Weasley—"

"Who?" Archibald interrupted, confused.

"Albert. He's distantly related to the pureblood families, though their reputation isn't great. His great-grandfather, a Squib, left the family to live among Muggles, and now the great-grandson's come full circle. But that's not the point," Fletcher waved the digression away. "He's selling magical toys to Muggles—fine. But a nine-year-old kid couldn't make those. And then, you and Albert run into two very dangerous wanted men, with enough crimes to fill the Aurors' cabinets. Against them, it's just you—a supposedly untrained kid—and a Squib with a gun. And within a week, the only thing left of those two is a wand fished out of the river.

"I told you, I knew them," Fletcher continued. "Mortimer was weak, sure, but Abelard? He had a reputation. Plenty of folks in Knockturn Alley were afraid of him. Yet you wiped them both out so thoroughly that not even bodies were found. That's not how things are done here, even in Knockturn. Killing someone over a handful of Galleons? Not done. But a fugitive wizard from the Continent, someone who doesn't know our rules, needing a place to hide, money, and perhaps connections? That fits."

"If you're so certain of that, why am I still free?" Archibald asked, genuinely curious. His backstory wasn't airtight—he knew that much. But the notion that murder was so frowned upon here hadn't even crossed his mind.

"Because I need money," Fletcher answered bluntly, without a hint of shame. "And you're willing to pay."

"Then why aren't we doing business already?"

"Because you could just kill me once I'm no longer useful. For now, I've got something you need, and that's my only leverage."

"What do you want from me?" Archibald sighed, closing his eyes. Negotiating with people like Fletcher wasn't new to him, but back in his prime, he'd had the leverage of being an Archibald and a lord of the Clock Tower. That kind of authority had been more than enough to dictate the terms of any deal. "Guarantees?"

"Exactly. A Unbreakable Vow would do nicely," Fletcher said, extending his left hand.

"Not worried about taking on such a burden on your soul?" Archibald asked, his tone darkening as he stood his ground. He already knew about this ritual from his reading: a magical contract akin to the Clock Tower's geas. The difference was that here, it was verbal, required a minimum of one witness, and could be amended at the last moment if the third party wasn't truly neutral. Like a geas, breaking it would result in severe consequences—loss of magic at best, death at worst. "The vow binds both parties."

"I'm worried, but I've got no choice," Fletcher admitted, lowering his hand. "I don't want to make promises either, but I can't trust you without them."

"And now we're at an impasse," Archibald summarized. He sighed, glancing around as if hoping to find an answer in the park around them. But no brilliant solutions came to mind. Both needed this deal, yet neither trusted the other enough to risk binding themselves with magic. Archibald had no influence, no reputation, no formal authority here. All he had were his skills and… "Money?"

"What?"

"I think I've found a solution." Archibald pulled a coin pouch from his pocket. "As an advance on future purchases and a sign of mutual trust, I'll give you, say, a thousand gold pieces. No receipts, no witnesses, no vows—just here and now, hand to hand. Then you'll take me to the craftsman we discussed, also without contracts, oaths, or tricks. After that, we can discuss further business."

"Fifteen hundred," Fletcher countered, his greed visibly wrestling with caution—a battle destined to be lost from the start. He pulled out his wallet, a modern but cheap and gaudy leather piece, and opened it to activate a spatial distortion charm. "Fifteen hundred Galleons, and we have a deal."

"Done." Archibald glanced around to confirm they were alone, then whispered a password, tipped his pouch over Fletcher's wallet, and said firmly, "Fifteen hundred Galleons."

With a soft clink, a stream of heavy coins began flowing from one pouch to the other—a peculiar analog of a bank transfer. The sight quickly grew monotonous as the golden torrent continued.

"Why haven't you brits introduced a higher denomination than one Galleon?" Archibald asked, not bothering to deny Fletcher's assumption that he was an outsider unfamiliar with local norms. After all, it wasn't entirely untrue. "Five pounds isn't much by modern standards."

"Tradition," Fletcher replied with a grimace. "That's how the goblins have done it since time immemorial—the standard of three metals: Knut, Sickle, Galleon. Back in Merlin's day, they say a Galleon was worth seven thousand times more than now. One gold coin could sustain you for years. But then... inflation happens to us too, not just Muggles. And the annual fluctuations in the value of gold, silver, and copper—don't even get me started."

"Let's stick to the matter at hand," Archibald interrupted as the last of the coins transferred. He tucked his pouch back into his pocket. "I think it's time we went to see the craftsman, isn't it?"

"Indeed." Fletcher also put away his wallet, sighing as he stood up and scanned the park to ensure they were still alone. Then he extended his hand. "Come on, I'll Apparate us there."

"You want me to let you control the method of transportation? And you expect me to agree to this?"

"'Mutual trust,' remember? It would do wonders for our relationship. I trusted you. Now I expect the same in return."

Grinding his teeth, Archibald tightened his grip on the hilt of the dagger hidden in his pocket but extended his hand nonetheless. A flash, the sensation of flight and swift motion, and the next moment, they were standing in a dense forest before an old two-story log house. The moss-covered walls bore the greenish tint of age, and there were no visible paths or trails leading to it. The house seemed as though it had simply appeared on this clearing two centuries ago.

Archibald felt several wards placed on and around the house—protective, monitoring, and distraction charms for ordinary people, along with something more specialized from the local magical repertoire.

"See, all good," Fletcher remarked dryly. "Come on, they're expecting us inside. You're lucky the Aurors have calmed down with their raids; otherwise, they might've caught us right here. After your little ritual stunt, they shook poor Francois down daily for weeks. His shack's probably never been cleaner in the last forty years."

"What ritual?"

"Oh, right, of course," Fletcher said sarcastically. "It wasn't some outsider interested in necromancy and a wand without tracking charms. Could've been anyone..."

Inside, the corridor was dimly lit and smelled of dust, the wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. Fletcher paused to open a massive old wardrobe, retrieving a baggy, dirt-gray cloak. He handed it to Archibald, saying, "Put this on and pull the hood down low."

"What do I need this rag for?" Archibald asked, disdain evident in his voice as he looked at the shabby garment.

"It's illegal to sell wands to children under eleven—too dangerous. And to anyone under seventeen, they can only be sold with tracking charms monitored by the Ministry. Francois knows the law as well as anyone and won't deal with a child. But if a short adult wizard with a thin voice shows up? A half-goblin, perhaps? No laws against selling to them. And even under Veritaserum, the craftsman can truthfully say he didn't break any rules. Catch my drift, Jimmy?"

Grimacing, Archibald took the dusty cloak and donned it without a word. He followed Fletcher, scrutinizing the surroundings from beneath the low hood.

The house's interior was typical for the local magical world—no wires, nothing more modern than the 19th century. The dim room, likely serving as a shop, was lit by several candles in an ancient candelabrum and a faintly glowing orb of light near the ceiling—probably a fixed version of the Lumos charm.

Behind a darkened wooden counter that looked old enough to have seen Columbus's voyages stood the craftsman. The wizard's appearance screamed "hermit": tangled, unkempt hair and a long beard, his thin, almost emaciated body wrapped in something resembling a monk's robe rather than a wizard's cloak. Archibald wouldn't have been surprised if the man turned out to be barefoot.

"My old acquaintance, Francois Deserte," Fletcher introduced. "A wandmaker and creator of other magical items. Some considered his methods... unconventional, so he left sunny France and moved here. Two-thirds of the market is in Ollivander's hands anyway, so instead of dealing with competitors, he just ignores them."

"And what's so 'unconventional' about his methods?" Archibald asked with genuine curiosity. The place didn't scream "progressive researcher," but appearances could be deceiving.

"Do you know how wands are usually paired with wizards?" Francois asked, scrutinizing Archibald. His voice was raspy and loud, with a noticeable accent.

"I've seen it from a distance and read about it in books," Archibald replied. "If I'm not mistaken, the craftsman just tests what they have on hand, 'guided by intuition, experience, and a keen sense,' or something like that. And they continue until they find the match because, as they say, 'the wand chooses the wizard.'"

"Exactly," Francois began to explain, his tone deliberate, as if he relished talking about his craft. "Ollivanders, like our masters in Paris, have been in this business for centuries. The process has been refined—stockpiles of materials, charms, and combinations. Some rare wands have likely been waiting for their match for three centuries.

"Technically, any adult wizard can cast spells with any functional wand. The question is compatibility—how easily a wizard can work with a particular wand. That's entirely individual. Established craftsmen can afford to sift through dozens, even hundreds, of ready-made wands to find the best match.

"But if you're new to the trade, you don't have thousands of premade wands at your disposal. You'd either apprentice with an established craftsman or abandon the profession. Or," Francois gestured toward a corner of the room where two racks of wands stood—one with a dozen, the other with several dozen, "you find another way.

"My method? The client tests them all, I take notes, then I identify the most suitable components and craft a new wand tailored specifically for them."

"Sounds reasonable," Archibald agreed. After all, a mystic code should always be custom-made for the specific magus, tailored to their repertoire of spells, mastered schools, combat style, and personal traits. It's not something you buy off the rack like cheap suits with half a dozen universal sizes for every occasion—it's crafted bespoke. "Shall I begin?"

"Not so fast. Protego Duo," the wizard muttered, drawing a wand from the sleeve of his tattered robe. A grayish, nearly transparent barrier shimmered into existence, cordoning off the corner with the racks from the rest of the room. Archibald immediately tensed, calculating how he might dismantle it if this turned out to be a trap.

"Protego," Fletcher added from his seat on an ancient chair by the opposite wall, erecting a shield of his own—just in case.

"Now you can start. The rack rotates; begin with the first wand. Just take it in hand, give it a wave toward the wall, then move on to the next, all the way through to number twelve," Francois instructed.

Relaxing slightly when no attack came, Archibald stepped forward and began testing. He picked up the first short wand and gave it a wave. Each movement required him to suppress his instincts and remind himself that the usual approach didn't apply here. Unlike the mystic codes he was accustomed to—where his own magical energy flowed through the tool to achieve an effect—these wands required only a mental image of the desired impact and a gesture to gather external mana. The wand would then open his magic circuits and draw the necessary energy itself.

An experienced wizard could adjust the power of a spell or the amount of energy it consumed, but the method was entirely alien to Archibald's years of practice. For this trial, he settled on a basic gust of wind, a fundamental element in mastering air-based magic and the foundation of more advanced spells.

"Nothing," he noted, lowering the wand. He'd felt the signal to activate his circuits, but it was too faint to trigger the necessary response. He could have forced it, manually channeling the required energy, but that wasn't the goal here—and doing so might damage the wand, which wasn't designed for such experiments. Without the initiating charge, the gathered mana simply dispersed back into the air after a half-second.

"Try the next one. Even if something works, keep going—you need to test them all."

The process repeated several times. The fourth wand produced a weak breeze, and the ninth yielded a similar result. The sixth, however, practically vibrated in his grip, conjuring a small whirlwind that rocked the shelves—the activation process had passed through almost instantaneously.

Returning the twelfth wand, which had no response, to the rack, Archibald turned to François.

"Finite," the craftsman said, dispelling the barrier with a wave of his wand. He began sketching something on a piece of parchment, occasionally pausing to calculate. Finally, he looked up and spoke.

"A fairly simple case. Strong affinity with water, equally weak affinity with air and aether. No response to fire, earth, or the rarer elements. For the core, we'll need something that harmonizes with water: undine hair, a kirin's horn, or powdered kraken beak would work best."

"And we spent all this time just to figure that out?" Archibald asked irritably. "You could've just asked me what my base elements were."

"Among the wizards I've met—Merlin as my witness—you'd be lucky if one in twelve could name their primary elements," Francois replied, eyeing him up and down. Not that there was much to see under the dusty cloak. "And of those, maybe one in three would get them all correct. Most don't bother to think about it. If they're not making wands or replacing them every few years, they just use the one they got at eleven and keep it until it breaks—or they do."

"Fine. At least you verified the information. No harm in that," Archibald said, letting the matter drop. Instead, he gestured toward the other rack. "What's in the second set?"

"Elements alone aren't enough. They're the foundation, but magic is more than that. Every one of us has a unique connection to magic, and that connection influences how spells behave. A poorly matched wand can clash with it. Rare, but it happens."

"Interesting…" Archibald mused. Judging by the description, Francois was referring to what magi called the Origin. From what he'd read, local magical theory hadn't developed that concept as far. They'd uncovered its existence but seemed to treat it as relevant only when crafting wands. The broader implications of the Origin—that it exists in all people, magical or not, subtly influencing behavior—seemed beyond their grasp. Not that it mattered right now. Archibald gestured to the rack. "Even forty samples wouldn't be enough to measure that accurately."

"Not nearly," Francois agreed, nodding with a trace of respect. "For a deeper analysis, you'd need Ollivander or someone like him, with thousands of wands and endless combinations of elements and traits. I can only determine a rough result to avoid conflicts."

"Let's not waste time on guesswork, then. I already know—my attribute relates to time. I haven't narrowed it down further yet."

"Interesting… In that case, try wand thirty-six. Then twenty-five, sixteen, thirty-one, and thirty-three… Ah, I see. The response is tied to 'age' and 'dawn.' I'd say your attribute is 'youth,' or something very close to it."

"Intriguing. Thank you, master," Archibald said, offering a polite nod. The result resonated with him. More importantly, the craftsman had saved him considerable effort and time he would otherwise have spent meditating to identify his Origin. He hadn't expected such progress from local magic, to be honest.

The revelation tempered his disappointment that his Origin had no practical application for awakening or advancing personal mysteries. In his past life, Archibald's Origin had also been useless for magical research or development. He was accustomed to such limitations. Identifying one's Origin was a long but straightforward process—mostly meditation and self-hypnosis.

However, useful Origins, ones that could be weaponized or enhance magic, were exceedingly rare. Even then, they required entirely new mysteries to be developed from scratch. For a pyromancer family to produce an heir with the Origin of "fire" was more the stuff of dreams than reality. Usually, they were abstract concepts. It seemed he'd drawn the short straw for a second time.

"The attribute is useless for magic but knowing it would probably be helpful to you for crafting the wand," he concluded.

"Convenient, working with someone competent," Francois remarked. "I suppose I'll use a wood suited to your affinity, like myrtle, viburnum, or sakura."

"Sakura won't do," he declared firmly, waving his hand dismissively. "Myrtle's fine. Let's skip the Far Eastern motifs, shall we?"

"The wizard knows best," Francois shrugged easily. "You'll be the one carrying it, after all. Now, let's talk about the contemptible subject of payment. Are you familiar with the pricing in Diagon Alley?"

"I am. Ten to twenty Galleons for a standard wand from the best craftsman—which, for such a dangerous tool, is absurdly cheap. Custom work runs up to fifty, and there's no limit for ornate designs and decorations—like a golden lion's head pommel with ruby eyes. Utterly garish. Other shops charge about half as much."

"More or less. For selection, enchanting, and assembly, I charge thirty Galleons. You'll know exactly what's inside and how it interacts with your magic. Decorations, lacquerwork, engraving, and such—up to an additional twenty, depending on complexity. Skipping the Ministry's trace charms, which, under my license"—Francois gestured to a framed parchment scroll on the wall—"I'm obligated to include, adds another three hundred. Naturally, if you try summoning fiendfire in the middle of London or enchanting an entire bank with the Imperius Curse, the Aurors will find you regardless. But for minor magic, you'll have freedom akin to any adult wizard. Turnaround time: two to three weeks. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly," Archibald agreed. "No polish on the finish, though—make the lower third rough for a better grip. As long as it doesn't harm its magical properties, of course. So, three hundred and forty in total. Half now, half upon completion." He poured the required coins onto the counter and glanced toward Fletcher, who was lounging in the corner. "And for your brokerage?"

"Fifty," the smuggler replied.

"Fifty." Archibald counted out the gold. He suspected the man had inflated the price at the last second but couldn't be bothered to argue. It wasn't a significant sum, even given his less-than-stable finances. No point quibbling over every coin, especially considering how much Fletcher had already squeezed from him in "advances." "I assume you'll let me know when the wand is ready. One more thing, Monsieur Deserte?"

"Yes?"

"Do you craft items with expanded internal space?"

"Rarely, but I can take commissions. Looking for something specific you can't find in the Alley?"

"I'm not certain yet. But I might need something eventually, so it's good to know you're an option."

"At the very least, we can discuss it. Depends on the complexity of the request—this isn't my specialty, so I don't take just anything."

"Fair enough. I believe that concludes our business. It's been a pleasure."

Shedding the wretched cloak in the wardrobe, Archibald stepped outside and inhaled deeply, the fresh air tinged with the unpleasant scent of swamp. Fletcher followed, waiting until the magus gave an agreeing nod before placing a hand on his shoulder and Apparating them back to the park. The area was still deserted.

"A solid start, I'd say. What about the books I asked for?" Archibald inquired, scanning the surroundings. Everything was proceeding satisfactorily so far—Fletcher hadn't pulled any tricks, nor had he teleported him straight to the Ministry, though such a betrayal had seemed a distinct possibility.

"Now that we're being specific, I need details. The field's completely outlawed, but it's vast. Do you want descriptions of particular rituals or creatures? Certain spells?"

"My interest is purely academic. If any school textbooks on the subject have been published over the last three or four centuries, those would be ideal. General information: what, how, who's notable, the main branches and subdivisions. With that foundation, I can focus on the topics that catch my attention."

"Even that will cost a fortune. A 'textbook' like that is a one-way ticket to Azkaban—there's no talking your way out of it. Two thousand Galleons just to send out feelers. If I find anything, it's another ten, minimum."

"I doubt you or your associates have many clients interested in such material. Let's temper your greed—eight for everything."

"Ten. Not a Knut less. If we're caught, we'll be feeding Dementors for life. That kind of risk deserves compensation."

"Feeding who?" Archibald asked, frowning. He vaguely remembered the term from a bestiary under the section on ghosts, but it had referred him to another book "Dark Creatures and Spawn."

"Ah, I see there's a lot you still don't know. Look them up when you get the chance—Dementors. I'm guessing you don't have them where you're from. Learn what we're risking and what Azkaban really is. Did you think it's like Muggle prisons? Bars, fat guards with batons, four inmates per cell?"

"I didn't," Archibald admitted. He'd seen the Tower's prison floors and had some understanding of how dangerous magi were contained. Apparently, the local Ministry's imagination worked well enough to make the word 'Azkaban' as fearsome as 'Voldemort.' "But I'll look into it. Either way, you needed money, yes? Who else will offer such sums for those books, if not me? I haven't refused to pay for valuable goods—that's the foundation of mutually beneficial business, isn't it?"

Receiving no answer to his rhetorical question and deciding the conversation was over, Archibald strolled leisurely toward the park's exit. Though his back was turned to one of the most unscrupulous men in London, he didn't let his guard down for an instant. The new metal pendant hanging alongside his cross held a magical shield spell, capable of blocking or at least dampening a surprise attack of low to medium power—a stunning or binding curse, for instance. It would buy him enough time to fight back with his other mystic codes.

Fletcher didn't seem like the type to stoop to outright robbery, not if it put his own life at risk. But Archibald had no doubt he'd eagerly sell him out to the Aurors the moment the potential profit outweighed the danger. Sooner or later, that would have to be dealt with.

Unfortunately, even in his best years, studying magic had rarely been possible without dealing with people like Fletcher—those who could acquire anything for anyone, with no regard for academic value, morality, or the number of lives sacrificed in the process. Some things never change, no matter the world.

121

Johnny_Z

Feb 11, 2025

View discussion

1 of 2

Next

Last

Threadmarks

Informational

View content

You must log in or register to reply here.

Share

Creative Writing

Remove this ad space

Style chooser

Contact us

Terms and rules

Privacy policy

Help

RSS