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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
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Threadmarks Chapter 10
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Johnny_Z
Feb 15, 2025
#148
They say beauty demands sacrifice, but science requires far more. Progress is never achieved without loss, accidents, or casualties. Any scientist—and especially a magus—must accept that each experiment could end in catastrophe and prepare accordingly.
It all sounded logical, rational, and pragmatic, but none of it lifted Archibald's mood as he trudged along Diagon Alley. Nor did it dull the persistent ache that no potion or spell could fully alleviate. If he hadn't spent the past four days draining himself almost entirely for spiritual healing, he might have frozen or shattered something in fury with a mere glance—an uncontrolled magical surge bypassing mystic codes and incantations altogether.
Stopping before a shop window, Archibald caught sight of his reflection and took a few sips from a glass vial of rowan brew, the taste of which now made him nauseous. Thin, jagged scars ran across his forehead, right cheekbone, and chin, as though carved by a scalpel. Similar wounds, concealed beneath his clothes, stretched from his right shoulder nearly to his wrist. Bandaging was pointless; the injuries had been sealed with magic and potions after significant blood loss but showed no signs of proper healing.
And to think, it had all started with what should have been a simple, low-risk experiment.
Archibald had studied local alchemy—primarily focused on potions and elixirs—but only as a side endeavor, barely at the level of a school curriculum. His time was too limited to delve deeply. For his personal needs, his prior skills sufficed, adjusted for the local energy systems and environmental parameters. Metallurgical transformations he handled as he always had, and the mandrake potions he brewed for sale followed Clock Tower methodologies.
However, as an alchemist, he couldn't ignore novel techniques. Dedicating a bit of time to mastering basic recipes from a newly purchased textbook was a reasonable investment, particularly since they required minimal energy. Adapting to perform final magical transformations using his circuits rather than a mystic code or external mana, as wizards did, had taken effort. Ultimately, he succeeded after revisiting advanced theory from senior-level textbooks.
The wizarding approach to potion-making diverged significantly from the methodologies employed by the Mage's Association. Archibald was accustomed to working like a chemist or pharmacist—formulating active compounds, balancing solutions, minimizing side effects. Magical elements or spells could amplify effects, but the scientific foundation remained.
Here, however, potions were conceptual by design. Seemingly absurd and incompatible ingredients—often non-magical—were combined in precise proportions to embody elemental properties or abstract concepts. Directed magical intervention manifested these elements or concepts in the material world, creating the desired mystery. For example, a brew of clover, snake skin, and rabbit fur in rainwater, with proper technique, yielded a liquid infused with "luck." A person drinking it would temporarily increase their fortune by one or two ranks. Similarly, a potion combining wind-elemental ingredients might reduce an object's weight by several orders of magnitude.
This approach required precise ingredient selection and meticulous execution, particularly when replicating the effects of an existing spell. Within the Association, similar techniques were used for creating mystic codes or conceptual weaponry. However, those mysteries were more often "sealed" in minerals or metals rather than "dissolved" in potions.
Naturally, Archibald had to experiment with merging these methodologies. His bare-bones "laboratory," now equipped with a burner, a small cauldron, glassware, and other tools from a potion-maker's starter kit, was well-stocked. He devised a recipe using Clock Tower methods, cross-checked it with local techniques, and triple-verified his calculations. The goal was a potion of magic resistance, crafted using enhanced ingredients to achieve a higher-rank mystery.
The initial steps went smoothly. Archibald prepared and processed the components, conducted the necessary technical procedures—heating, precipitation, and so on—and was ready for the final transformation. That's when everything went wrong.
The transformation consumed a third of his energy reserve in an instant, as though feeding a bottomless pit. Realizing the looming disaster, Archibald reflexively pulled back from the cauldron, erecting an air barrier just as the concoction, now shifting in color and consistency, exploded. The shockwave hurled the burner aside, shattered glassware, and scattered tools across the room.
Though the barrier absorbed the blast, boiling liquid and glass shards still struck Archibald. The bronze cauldron, now half-melted, morphed and began moving by itself. It resembled a yellow-brown metallic flower with stubby legs or roots and a dozen long, flexible antennae. These tentacles lashed out, scratching walls, gouging the floor, and smashing surviving equipment. Several whipped toward Archibald, slashing his face and the arm he raised in defense.
The curse he flung back at the "monster" had no effect, not even making it flinch. Instead, it advanced slowly. With what little energy remained, Archibald manipulated the elemental forces. He transformed the blood and potion remnants into a red-and-blue mist, then condensed it around the creature's "roots" into a solid mass of ice, anchoring it to the floor.
The ice cracked almost immediately as the creature strained to break free, but the delay gave Archibald enough time to lower the barrier on the door, dash into the adjoining library, and grab one of his prepared "bombs" from the desk with his slashed hand. The blood-smeared aluminum chalice flew back into the laboratory, and Archibald slammed the door shut.
Quickly reactivating the barrier, he sealed whatever horror his failed experiment had unleashed inside.
Archibald took heavy breaths as he counted to twenty. He neither felt nor heard the explosion, but that was to be expected. Waiting another thirty seconds, with dizziness creeping in from blood loss, he attempted a spiritual healing technique. The results were lackluster—a slight reduction in pain, a few shallow cuts on his arm sealed, but the deeper wounds continued to bleed.
Struggling to unlock the door, he found the "homunculus" flattened and embedded into the wall, weakly twitching. The structural damage was too severe; most of its tendrils had been torn off, and the chaotic mystery animating the bronze husk clearly didn't include a recovery mechanism. Barely able to stay on his feet, Archibald shut the laboratory door and stumbled toward the exit. He practically collapsed into the living room, startling Miss Stone, who had been blissfully unaware of the chaos happening mere feet away due to the barriers.
At that point, secrecy no longer mattered. Barking orders to his now-composed assistant, Archibald focused on staying conscious. The items in Miss Stone's medical kit proved useless—painkillers, coagulants, and ordinary bandages failed to affect the wounds. He suspected the creature's attack, amplified by his depleted magical energy and the mystery's unknown properties, had reached the level of conceptual weaponry, rendering conventional remedies ineffective.
Following his instructions, Stone retrieved every potion stored in the library—mandrake tinctures, experimental brews, and off-the-shelf concoctions purchased for studying local formulas. At some point, MacDuggal arrived—Archibald was too preoccupied to recall when—and helped her administer various salves, potions, and compresses. Their combined efforts eventually staunched the bleeding. When the squib poured a third of a blood-replenishing potion down his throat, Archibald finally allowed himself to lose consciousness.
He woke the next day, roused by pain. For a full day, Archibald lay nearly immobile under Miss Stone's watchful care, pouring every scrap of magic he could muster into healing while drifting in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion. On the second day, he managed to draw a simple magical circle for healing and energy restoration on the library floor and sat within it, which stabilized his condition. The deepest wounds stopped reopening, the shallower cuts began to close, and the dizziness from blood loss eased.
Amidst this grim situation, there was at least one positive note—his magic circuits were unscathed. If they had been damaged, recovery would have taken months, if not years. His gaze occasionally wandered to the tungsten energy reservoir perched nearby. It held enough concentrated power to heal him in minutes, but using it would delay his critical experiment by at least another month. Enduring the pain seemed the better option.
Three days later, his potion supply was nearly exhausted. He lacked the materials and equipment to brew more, and arranging another deal with Fletcher or MacDuggal's contacts would take too long. Venturing to Diagon Alley became necessary—not only to restock but also to find more suitable remedies. For the first time, Archibald regretted the absence of a fireplace in their multi-story home for magical transport, even if its workings baffled him. Ultimately, he had to settle for a car ride under the watchful eye of one of MacDuggal's men.
To MacDuggal's credit, he didn't exploit Archibald's vulnerable state to renegotiate their contract or impose additional terms. Whether this restraint stemmed from compassion or calculated pragmatism—knowing that Archibald would recover and hold a grudge—it hardly mattered.
Upon arriving at the magical quarter, Archibald headed straight for the largest apothecary. Adults regarded him with detached indifference, while young wizards and witches James's age openly stared or quickly averted their eyes. For them, such injuries clearly weren't an everyday sight.
Hoping to distract himself from the pain, Archibald paused before a shop window to examine the marks on his face. Four days of healing had reduced the scars slightly, but left to his own devices, it would take a month to seal the wounds and another to erase the scarring entirely. He made a mental note to review his calculations and pinpoint the source of the mishap. If he could replicate a weapon with such devastating conceptual power, it could prove invaluable.
Turning away from the window, Archibald continued down the street, ignoring curious stares. Suddenly, he stopped, reconsidered, and entered a nearby shop—a bookstore. It might be worthwhile to look for an advanced guide on healing magic. Such a resource could point him toward potions and spells specifically for injuries caused by magical weaponry.
"Ah, a regular!" came a cheerful greeting from behind the counter. Robert, Cornelius's assistant, barely looked eighteen. Squinting at Archibald, he added in surprise, "James, did you get into a fight with a werewolf in an alley?"
"An experiment went slightly off course."
"Happens," Robert replied philosophically, shrugging. The fact that a wizard he knew was injured didn't seem to faze him much. "The boss is busy right now, but he'll be here soon. Take a look around while you wait. Maybe something will catch your eye."
"Thanks, I will," Archibald replied with a faint nod. He wandered over to the shelves, knowing it would be impossible to find anything without assistance. For now, he aimlessly scanned the spines of various books, hoping something might stand out.
"Is that the mark of an enchanted blade?" came a pensive yet curious voice. "It seems the noble traditions of dueling aren't entirely forgotten in Albion."
"What?" Archibald turned sharply, meeting the unfocused gaze of pale gray eyes that seemed to look through him rather than at him.
Standing nearby was a girl around James's age, with long, tangled blond hair. She wore an utterly bizarre ensemble: a gray-blue robe embroidered haphazardly with red and black runes, a Victorian-style shirt and waistcoat, worn modern jeans, and frivolous beach sandals. A wand was carelessly tucked into her belt.
The sheer eclecticism of her appearance left Archibald momentarily speechless.
"These wounds," the girl said bluntly, jabbing a finger uncomfortably close to his face, "were definitely inflicted by enchanted steel. But where else could a wizard receive such marks in this day and age, if not in an honorable duel?"
"First of all, it wasn't steel. It was bronze—"
"A ritual dagger cursed for sacrificial magic in the hands of a dark wizard?!" she interrupted, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned in closer. Her gaze locked onto James's face, and he found himself cornered against a bookshelf, nowhere left to retreat.
"Actually—"
"Actually, nonsense like that doesn't exist!" came another voice, cutting through the air with authority. Of course, it belonged to another child.
Both turned to face the newcomer—a slightly older witch, perhaps by a year or two. Unlike the first, she was dressed conventionally, wearing a black school robe over a blouse and house tie—despite it being summer holidays. Her most striking feature was the unruly mass of chestnut hair that gave her an air of chaos, contrasting with her otherwise serious demeanor. Her wand was secured in a holster on her hip, in line with school guidelines, and her no-nonsense tone suggested a penchant for asserting her version of the truth.
"Dark wizards don't exist?" the blonde wondered aloud, her gaze drifting elsewhere as if lost in thought.
"Cursed daggers and the injuries they supposedly cause don't exist," the newcomer declared, frowning at her with disapproval.
"Then what are these, if not marks from enchanted steel?" the younger witch challenged, her finger once again darting toward James's chin. He was too bewildered by her audacity and wild assumptions to immediately respond.
"Just regular cuts—likely from glass or claws. Nothing that can't be fixed," the older witch said confidently, drawing her wand with a practiced motion and pointing it at James's face.
If Archibald had been in better shape, he might have reacted preemptively, perhaps putting distance between himself and these children—but somehow he only had the time to think of half a dozen local spells that could swiftly decapitate him. But boxed in by the bookshelves and flanked by two impulsive girls, he lacked the strength or space to act. His instincts told him that this one wouldn't actually attack him, not in a crowded shop with witnesses everywhere. She seemed more likely to issue a formal duel challenge, complete with adherence to school rules and her professors' guidelines.
"Episkey," she intoned, sending a faint white mist toward his face. It achieved nothing. Archibald felt the weak healing spell fizzle out. He had already mended minor injuries days ago with potions and his own efforts, and the conceptual nature of his current wounds rendered such a weak spell ineffective.
Frowning, the girl waved her wand again. "Therapea. Nereum Vulnerare…"
"It won't work," Archibald said in unison with the blonde, both speaking the words at the same time. They exchanged glances, and the magus gestured for the younger witch to continue first, as a gentleman would—even if she was, in his opinion, thoroughly eccentric.
"Those spells are for regular injuries and illnesses," she explained, her tone patient but detached. "Didn't they teach you in school that antidotes differ for mundane and magical poisons? Why would wounds be any different? Burns from hot oil and from Gubraithian fire are not the same, and they require different spells to treat. To me they look like wounds made by a very powerful magic. You'd need something like Vulnera Sanentur or similarly powerful magic to heal them. I haven't learnt those spells, and I doubt you have either."
"I've never even heard of such magic," Archibald admitted, though the revelation intrigued him. The existence of such advanced spells was reason enough to prioritize purchasing a detailed healing guide.
"I think you're just making things up," the older witch muttered, lowering her wand but still scrutinizing him. "By the way, I don't recognize you. Did we meet at school?"
"Luna Lovegood," the blonde replied serenely, "I'm starting at Hogwarts this year."
"Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, second year," the older girl introduced herself.
Both turned their eyes to the magus. Resigned, Archibald shrugged and offered his own introduction, hoping to end the exchange quickly. "James Murphy. Muggle-born. Starting school next year. As for this—" he gestured to his face—"I attempted to brew a potion from a textbook but made a mistake in the recipe after infusing it with magical energy. The cauldron practically exploded, and its magically saturated fragments caused these wounds. They're not purely physical, which is why ordinary medicine and low-grade potions don't work."
"Pity. My version was much more interesting," Luna sighed wistfully. "But if you're not planning to keep them as striking scars, the standard school charms won't help. These days, they don't teach us anything useful like that. You'll need to see a healer or visit an apothecary. Tincture of ribwort, star anise elixir—those treat magical wounds and curses. They won't work instantly, but they should help. Still, I think you should keep them. They make you look very dashing, James."
"All injuries should be treated immediately," Hermione interrupted firmly, her tone leaving no room for debate. "And by professionals, not back-alley healers or with home remedies."
"Are you Muggle-born, Miss Granger?" Archibald asked, his tone overly polite.
"Yes, and I'm not ashamed of it," she replied briskly, clearly defensive, as though bracing for the usual prejudice. "Why?"
"It's just amusing to hear someone criticize back-alley healers and home remedies in a store with 'A Thousand and One Healing Remedies from May Dandelions' on the shelves and in the middle of Diagon-Alley. And another thing, Miss Granger—did no one teach you how to handle your wand?"
"Of course they did! We spent an entire year learning—on Charms, Transfiguration, practically every lesson! And I read all the textbooks cover-to-cover before term started."
"And in all that, no one taught you that pointing your wand at a stranger's face without warning is not only incredibly rude but also potentially dangerous?" Archibald asked with biting sarcasm. "Dangerous for you, primarily. Under different circumstances, I would've been well within my rights to retaliate."
"Excuse me?" Hermione bristled, stepping back as though expecting a physical strike or an attempt to snap her wand.
"The Dueling Code of Magical Britain, 1723, Section Three, 'Reasons for a Duel That Require No Explanation and Are Obvious to Any Wizard.' I don't recall the exact clause, but it's definitely in the first dozen," Lovegood said thoughtfully. Then she pulled out her mystic code from her belt and held it up, pointing it at Granger's face. "You do this, and voila, it's a duel challenge. Those were the days—so much romance. Gone now."
"But... I only wanted to help," Granger stammered, clearly thrown off by their reactions.
"Or," Archibald cut in dryly, "you could have turned my head to stone, burned me, frozen me, blinded me, erased my memory, or enslaved me to your will..." He rattled off a list of combat spells from the local textbooks. "And a hundred other possibilities. I had no way of knowing what you intended to cast. And even if I did, there's no guarantee you'd use the spell you announced."
He barely held back from voicing his disdain for naive first-generation wizards. It took every ounce of restraint not to lash out, especially since the very sight of Granger stirred an unpleasant reminder of how others might see him in this strange new world. The bitterness lingered, but he swallowed it down.
"Oh, it seems someone else has taken an interest in today's news," Lovegood remarked, her wand still casually aimed at a corner of the shop. There, a wizard was engrossed in a newspaper with lurid headlines like "Elderly Werewolf Infects Goat in Wells" or "Ministry Cover-Up: Brain-Eaters in Muggle Subways." She turned back to them, smiling. "It was nice talking to you."
"Thank you for the advice," Archibald said, managing to sound polite despite the headache this encounter was giving him. Dealing with Lovegood was proving to be a challenge he hadn't anticipated.
"It was nothing. Take care, and don't let the nargles get you."
"The what?" he asked, but she was already leaving. He turned to Granger, who looked equally baffled.
"No idea," she admitted. Then, with a sheepish expression, she stowed her wand in its holster and apologized, "I'm sorry. I... I honestly didn't think about how that might have looked. And I didn't know about the code, either. I'll try not to do it again. I'm really sorry."
"I'm glad you've realized that," Archibald replied evenly. Reluctantly, he added, "Apology accepted. But you should pay more attention not just to wands but to the traditions and etiquette tied to them. Thoughtless behavior like that is precisely why people view those like... us as crude savages from the streets."
"Oh, right, you're also..." Granger began, trailing off as her gaze took in his "Muggle" clothes. Then, as if realizing the obvious, she quickly corrected herself. "I see. I'll try. And... thanks again. Sorry."
"Goodbye, Miss Granger," he said coolly. "I suppose I'll see you at school someday." With that, he nodded curtly, stepped around her, and headed toward the counter. But before he could make it far, he felt a tug on his arm.
"Wait!"
Archibald stopped, stunned. It took him a moment to process how she had managed to halt him so easily. Then it hit him—Granger was older by a couple of years, taller, and physically stronger. James's current body, weakened by years of malnutrition, illness, and regular abuse in the orphanage, wasn't up to the task of resisting. Damn it all, he thought bitterly. Why couldn't Murphy have been fifteen at the time of the soul merge?
"What now?" he demanded gruffly, though she seemed unfazed by his tone.
"Explain what you meant earlier. 'Didn't know if I was casting the spell I said.' What does that even mean? How could I possibly say one spell and cast another? I admit I acted thoughtlessly... and that I misunderstood the nature of magical injuries. But accusing me of being able to turn you to stone with a healing spell? That's absurd. And frankly, insulting."
"They didn't teach you this in school?" Archibald asked, irritation creeping into his voice. He didn't bother trying to pull his arm away; he doubted he'd succeed without reinforcement. "And you never came across it in those 'all the textbooks on wands' you claim to have read? It's fundamental magical theory."
"Well... maybe not 'all,'" she admitted, looking down awkwardly. "More like 'all the books for the first three years,' plus the recommended reading list. But it was never mentioned. We were taught that spells work exactly as they're spoken. You can't just switch the words around or something—it won't work."
"You can, and it's not particularly hard, even for a student," Archibald said flatly.
"But how?" she pressed, clearly unsatisfied. "None of the books even hinted at that."
"It's—" He sighed, realizing this conversation wouldn't end without an argument or some form of demonstration. And he couldn't afford to sour his reputation before even starting at the school, especially among first-generation wizards. He considered them potential allies, more open to new ideas than the entrenched aristocracy. Still, building connections with both factions was crucial to his long-term plans. For now, though, he could at least test Granger's aptitude. Annoying as she was, her curiosity and willingness to learn set her apart from the many talentless magi he'd encountered over the years. "I could show you," he said finally, "but you'd owe me a favor."
"Deal!" she exclaimed, releasing his arm and nodding enthusiastically. Her wild, bushy hair bounced as she moved. Archibald suppressed a groan. First-generation wizards... not a clue about the dangers of promising favors without understanding the terms. If this had been a geas or an oath instead of a verbal agreement, she'd be in serious trouble. Unaware of his thoughts, she continued, "But not here! I know a better place for practicing magic. Come on, don't lag behind!"
She tugged him along before he could object. He never did get around to buying that advanced healing textbook.
"I'm already regretting this," he muttered.
Granger led him to a building on Diagon Alley he'd always passed without a second glance. The sign read Harngott's Testing Grounds, which meant nothing to him. In the small foyer, Granger handed a goblin behind the counter several coins, saying, "Half an hour for two." She then ushered him into the main hall.
The space was a curious mix of a gymnasium, a dance studio, and a modern office. The high-ceiling room was divided into sections by nearly transparent magical barriers. Some partitions were empty; others held children between ten and fifteen years old, practicing spells alone or in small groups.
"Outside of school and protected areas, underage magic is banned until seventeen," Granger said, reciting the law as though it were sacred doctrine. "So, what are students supposed to do during summer holidays? How do they prepare for the next year or keep their skills sharp? Especially those in Muggle homes without magical space? Their options are visiting friends in wizarding communities, practicing on Diagon Alley—if they're careful—or waiting until their seventh year. Some clever goblin must have realized this and set up this hall. Rumor has it they're raking in galleons every summer."
"Clever," Archibald remarked, acknowledging the unknown entrepreneur behind this establishment. Apparently, he wasn't the only one puzzled by the ban on underage magic outside of warded areas. How was anyone supposed to learn if a quarter of the year was effectively wasted? The solution wasn't perfect—considering the noise, crowds, and regular expenses—but it was certainly better than nothing.
"Yeah, without this place, I'd have gone mad with boredom a week after returning to London," Granger admitted. "But that's not the point. Get your wand out, and let's head to that corner. You can show me what you meant."
"I'd love to, Miss Granger, but there's a problem. I don't have a wand yet. I won't turn eleven until autumn."
"Then how were you brewing potions?" she asked, incredulous. "Without a wand and proper magic, it's just poisonous mush made from inedible ingredients. I've checked."
"I used the unstable bursts of 'accidental' magic while they were still active."
"James..." Granger was so taken aback that she seemed to lose her train of thought. Then, finally, she exclaimed, "You're insane!"
"It worked well enough until now," he retorted, brushing her concern aside. "And the mistake wasn't in the process—it was in the recipe."
"Fine..." She took a deep breath, clearly holding back a lecture on rules and recklessness. "That's not important right now. What's more interesting is what we're going to do instead."
"I thought I'd borrow your wand. But if one of your friends or classmates is around, we could ask to borrow theirs."
"Not that I have many..." She trailed off, looking around the room with a hint of panic. Finally, her eyes settled on someone, and after a brief hesitation, she pointed toward one of the barriered sections. "Let's go over there."
As they walked, Archibald observed the other students. None of them were doing anything too advanced or dangerous—levitation, telekinesis, light spells, minor mental magic, simple transfigurations, and conjurations. What struck him, though, was the ease and speed with which the more skilled kids produced one mystic effect after another. Many of the spells were trivial and hardly worth the energy expended, but the mystic codes they wielded undeniably redefined the principles and limitations of magic.
"Seamus Finnigan. Dean Thomas," Granger greeted the two boys in a tone that was almost comically formal. One was a pale, freckled boy wearing robes in the same colors as hers, while the other was dark-skinned and dressed in Muggle sportswear.
"Hermione Granger," replied the robed boy, lowering his wand. "Hi. Who's your friend?"
"Well, uh... it's kind of complicated..." she began awkwardly.
"James Murphy," Archibald interjected smoothly, sensing her hesitation and her general difficulty with social interactions. "I suppose I'll be attending Hogwarts with you in the future. Miss Granger and I had a bit of a disagreement about magical theory, and she's persuaded me to demonstrate my perspective in practice. However, I don't yet have a wand of my own. That's why we... well, I'd like to ask one of you for a small favor. I'd be happy to repay the courtesy or assist you in the future if needed." He finished formally. Despite their youth, asking to borrow a mystic code—especially one's personal wand—was no small matter, even for a temporary demonstration. The act bordered on insolence in certain circles, but it was necessary, and he maintained his composure.
The boys exchanged glances, then the robed one asked cautiously, "Let me get this straight—you're saying you argued with Granger, you're absolutely certain you're right, and she's wrong?"
"Exactly," Archibald replied tersely, annoyed by the redundant question.
"And you need a wand to prove it to her?"
"Yes, yes, only for that. I promise to return it intact as soon as we're finished."
"And you're younger than us, seeing as you don't even have your own wand yet?"
"I'm ten, if that matters at all," he snapped, his patience wearing thin.
"Take mine," they both said simultaneously, eagerly holding out their wands.
Archibald glanced at Granger, whose face turned bright red, but refrained from commenting. Now was not the time to gloat. Instead, he selected the longer wand, which appeared to be made of willow, nodded politely, and stepped into the barriered training area. "Give me a few minutes to get accustomed to it."
"By the way, I'm Seamus, and that's Dean," the robed boy clarified. Granger was too flustered to make proper introductions, likely a result of her nerves—or perhaps ignorance of proper etiquette, which wouldn't be surprising for a first-generation witch.
"Pleasure to meet you. You already know my name."
Adjusting his grip on the wand, Archibald tried to recall the sensation of the test wands at Francois's workshop and prepared to work within this unfamiliar school of magic, minimizing the use of his own depleted reserves. He swung the wand once, then twice, assessing the flow of energy to his magic circuits. The wand seemed attuned to two or three elements, one of which was water—convenient. Finally, with a smooth motion, he gathered ambient mana, opened the circuits, and cast a basic wind spell. Satisfied after a few more tests of varying strength, he turned to the observing students and said, "I'm ready. Miss Granger, for the sake of fairness, choose a simple first-year spell—something easy to learn."
"This one's the simplest," she replied eagerly, clearly relishing the chance to display her knowledge. She rummaged through her robes, pulled out a pencil, and placed it on the ground. With a practiced flourish of her wand, she clearly enunciated, "Wingardium Leviosa."
The pencil rose four feet into the air and hovered. After a few moments, she waved her wand again, saying, "Finite," and caught the pencil as it fell. Placing it back on the ground, she repeated the motion and incantation slowly and deliberately, then demonstrated it a third time.
"There, that's from the very first practical Charms lesson," she concluded.
"Understood," Archibald said, studying the pencil. He mimed the motion silently a few times, visualizing the desired effect. Then, with precise control over the gathered mana, he cast, "Wingardium Leviosa." The pencil rose, though slightly lower than Granger's attempt. He followed up with, "Finite," and the pencil dropped to the ground.
The other students nodded approvingly, while Granger looked skeptical and dissatisfied. Ignoring her, Archibald prepared for the next phase. He raised the wand again, repeating the spell several times with increasing fluidity, each iteration tweaking the incantation: "Wingardium Leviosa. Finite. Wingardium Leviosa. Finite. Levgardium Winossa. Garvandiom Vilossa. Guildenstern-from-Mariposa. Grandmaster's-eating-Samosa." pauses between the spells became longer, it was necessary to keep in mind an extremely clear image of the effect and at the same time control the movement of the mystical code so as not to collect too much or too little mana, but each time the pencil obediently flew up.
After the third attempt, the magus had already gotten used to the spell, although it was still very difficult to keep its effects consistent. He'd still get confused from time to time while trying to come up with gibberish that sounded similar to the original aria but the process smoothed out with every subsequent try.
"Stupefy. Petrificus. Lumos," the pencil still obediently flew up higher and higher with each modified incantation, only now he had to take even longer pauses for concentration - the mentioned spells evoked in him completely different associations, from which he had to fence himself off and hold on to the image of levitation. "Finite. Something like that. Thank you for the favor."
Kayneth extended the mystic code toward Seamus, who stared at it in astonishment, before nearly shoving it into the boy's hand. Then his gaze shifted to Granger, who stood frozen in what appeared to be a mix of disbelief and indecision. She seemed torn between applauding such skill with a wand and tearing her hair out in frustration because she couldn't grasp what had just happened.
Cautiously, Hermione drew her wand, taking care not to point it at anyone. She gestured toward a pencil, cleared her throat, and intoned, "Wingardium Leviosa." She waited for the pencil to float upward, then ended the spell. Taking a deep breath, she repeated the motion with a deliberate flourish, saying, "Nivgardium Veliosa. Ni-v-gar-dium Ve-li-osa!"
Nothing happened.
She tried half a dozen more times, her frustration growing, before turning to James with suspicion. "Why can you do it, but I can't? You didn't just rearrange syllables or remove letters—you replaced entire words. Our professor specifically told us we have to pronounce spells precisely, without hesitation. If we mess up the emphasis, the feather won't float to the ceiling; it'll either burn or sink into the ground." She looked to her classmates for support, and they nodded in agreement, confirming that this was, indeed, what they'd been taught in class.
"He was correct, and I am not mistaken either," the magus replied with a shrug.
"But you can't just change the letters in spells!" she protested.
"You can. But not always," Kayneth replied, pausing as he considered a simpler way to explain. Realizing the peculiarities of magical Britain's traditions, he clarified, "Did any of you attend regular school before Hogwarts?"
"All of us," Thomas answered. "Seamus and I are half-bloods, and Granger's Muggle-born, so we lived mostly without magic until we turned eleven."
"Perfect. Then you all should know what geometry is, and the value of Pi," Kayneth continued, adopting the tone of a lecturer. He waited for their nods. "In early school lessons, Pi is often simplified to three with the teacher's permission—it doesn't affect basic calculations much. Similarly, in physics, gravitational acceleration is rounded to ten rather than nine-point-eight. The same principle applies in chemistry and other subjects: what you're taught in fifth grade won't work in tenth without adjustments. Magic operates in much the same way. Basic spells allow for substitutions. But in school, especially in the early years, such alterations aren't necessary."
"Then why do we need the incantations at all? And why do mistakes prevent spells from working?" Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued. She was grappling with the idea that her professors might not have been entirely truthful—or at least, hadn't told her the whole story.
"They fail because the caster can't vividly imagine the desired outcome. If they can't even remember a handful of simple syllables, how can they manage to conjure the required effect?" Kayneth replied with disdain. The very existence of such inept students was, to him, a tragedy—a glaring flaw in a system where practical magic textbooks for beginners offered the barest minimum of theory and focused heavily on repetitive drills to establish a foundational repertoire of spells. "Incantations are necessary because learning requires repetition. You learn, and you memorize. You memorize, and you develop skill. Do you know what a conditioned reflex is?"
"Yes," Hermione answered. "The bell, Pavlov's dog, food at the sound of the signal…"
"Exactly. Basic spells function in much the same way," Kayneth said, picking up the pencil and holding it as if it were a wand. He gestured with it and explained, "A wizard is given a task—for example, cutting an apple. The wizard makes the appropriate motion, listens to their teacher, or reads the description of the effect in a book, then vividly imagines what the spell should accomplish. They recite the provided formula, and the spell takes effect." He demonstrated the simple slicing motion from a book's cutting spell. "They do this again, and again, and again—tens of times, then hundreds, and thousands. Eventually, the action becomes instinctual: motion, word, effect. And when faced with a werewolf ambush in a dark alley, the wizard, even while terrified, will manage to raise their wand, shout the spell, and let their subconscious bridge the gap to produce the desired result." He flicked the pencil sharply, as though decapitating an unseen foe.
"You performed the levitation spell faster and more confidently than I did because you've practiced it repeatedly," he said, addressing Hermione. "I imagine you two could also manage it with less effort than I could," he added, nodding toward Thomas and Seamus. "For you, the memorized words automatically trigger the mental image, while I have to consciously hold the image in my mind."
Kayneth shifted into full lecture mode, elaborating on the foundational theory behind the use of the local mystic code. His interest lay in understanding the underlying principles of magical systems rather than rote mastery of individual mysteries. He relied heavily on advanced textbooks and reference materials intended for older students or those preparing for wizarding colleges—sources that were rare to find.
"A wizard gestures, shouts 'Protego!' and conjures a shield in the fraction of a second before an enemy spell hits. They're not consciously thinking about the mechanics; for them, the connection between the word, the motion, and the effect is already ingrained. They trust that 'Protego' equals shield. The incantation isn't meant for the teacher or the universe—it's for the caster themselves. That's why most common spells are in Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic, or Old English—dead languages. You won't accidentally say these words while ordering lunch and unintentionally petrify your waiter. The incantation is merely a command, a mental trigger, no more than that. If you master the ability to vividly and quickly imagine the magical effect, you can perform it without the standard incantation or even substitute it with another phrase. But doing so takes more time and effort—something you can't afford in a duel or combat.
"And that, Miss Granger, is why pointing your wand at someone and casually saying 'Episkey' could earn you a swift 'Stupefy,' a 'Relashio,' or a knife to the gut in retaliation. And even the courts might not side with you."
"I get it, I get it!" Granger interrupted him, waving a hand impatiently. "I already apologized. I'm more curious—how do you know all of this? You're a Muggle-born like me, not someone who's been poring over grimoires in some manor since birth."
"From the day I learned about magic and set foot on this street, I've been reading," Archibald replied evenly. "Books—lots of them, all kinds, constantly. For months now. I've talked to shopkeepers and store owners. Even one young miss—a future Auror—she was the first to tell me about magic and gave me a few tips afterward. I wanted to know everything about the magical world, now that I had this gift. Didn't you do the same?"
"Of course!" Granger seemed almost offended by the suggestion that she might have done anything less.
"Not really," Thomas admitted.
"Only the interesting bits," Finnegan shrugged.
"Well, I guess I fit into the general statistics," Archibald remarked, smirking slightly. Then he added, "And it seems our time here is up. That goblin heading this way looks like he's coming for us. It was nice meeting you all, but I need to get going before all the apothecaries close."
"Wait!" This time, Granger didn't grab his arm but called after him instead. "What about the favor?"
"I've got a year before school, and I need to start preparing now," Archibald said, turning slightly to address her. That she even remembered the promised favor earned her some credit in his eyes. Among magi, such obligations were remembered for years and often called in at the most inconvenient moments—with interest. "I'd like to know more about how things work at school and what I should expect. Textbooks are one thing, but each teacher has their own approach and their own priorities about what's important and what's not. That kind of information would be very useful. You're reachable through magical post, right? Excellent. Then until next time. Expect an owl, or however it's said here."
151
Johnny_Z
Feb 15, 2025
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Threadmarks Chapter 11
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Johnny_Z
Feb 21, 2025
#174
"I really hope you know what you're doing," remarked Albert, watching the magus work.
Archibald was just finishing the chalk outline of a circle on the dusty, tiled floor, occasionally glancing at a detailed diagram for reference. Before that, he had to clear the area of debris and accumulated grime. The two were currently inside a boarded-up abandoned cafe near an old gas station off the Portsmouth highway. For experiments like this, desolate and abandoned locations were a necessity. In this case, Archibald had specifically avoided conducting the test in his laboratory. First, a strong magical surge might bypass his wards and reveal his location. Second, the potential for destruction couldn't be ignored—either would compromise his secrecy completely.
"And why did we have to drive across two counties for this? Last time you and William did your rituals, you weren't this far from the suburbs."
"Updated information, Mr. MacDuggal," Archibald replied without looking up. He had learned the details from Tonks in a casual conversation about her Auror training; she had mentioned the vast area they patrolled. Perhaps it wasn't classified knowledge, or maybe she was subtly reminding him that magic use outside authorized zones was strictly prohibited, even in the countryside. "Auror jurisdiction extends another forty miles around London. We're fifty miles out, which means even if we're detected, the response won't be immediate."
"I'm still not convinced this is worth the risk. I understand testing a new product for sale or conducting a paid ritual for someone. But now you're risking exposure for… some weapon? Don't you have enough of those?"
"First of all, your last transaction with those transforming blades yielded quite a handsome profit—judging by the percentage you passed along to me," Archibald replied coldly. He valued luxury and understood the allure of wealth, but magic always came first. "Second, I'm doing this for our mutual safety, Mr. MacDuggal. To increase the odds of survival in a serious magical confrontation, not just against some low-level thugs. Unlike you, I place significant value on my personal safety."
"And that's why you're conducting a dangerous experiment in the middle of nowhere, with only a seventy percent chance of success by your own admission," Albert shot back. He gave up trying to clean a dusty, cobwebbed sofa and settled onto it with a grimace. "And don't even get me started on that last explosion. You said yourself—if one of those fragments had struck your neck, no amount of bandages or even surgery could've saved you."
"You're still thinking in mundane terms," Archibald said with a weary sigh. Dealing with someone who didn't share the magus perspective was always exhausting. Unfortunately, he had no other assistants at the moment, so he had to endure the complaints and spell out the obvious. "Knowledge and power are what make life safer in the magical world. They're the only things with real value. Money is just a means to acquire them, not an end in itself. Risk is acceptable when it's calculated and serves a greater purpose. Without risk, we'd still be sitting in caves."
"Good thing I'm not a creationist, or that last line would've offended me," Albert said dryly, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. He had no patience for the lofty ideals of magi; they seemed alien to any practical logic.
"A creationist?" Archibald paused and looked up from the circle, genuinely puzzled.
"You know, the ones who believe the Earth was created in its current form, along with humans and everything else, about six thousand years ago. They're multiplying like flies these days—soon they'll be pushing to teach it in schools as an 'alternative perspective.'"
"What utter nonsense!" Archibald scoffed, returning to his work. "Six thousand years ago? Sure, the Age of Gods was still in full swing, and there might've been a village of goat herders where Uruk would later rise. Gilgamesh was still fifteen centuries away. But even then, not even the gods had the power to create an entire planet."
"You actually believe in gods?" Albert asked, startled by the direction the conversation had taken.
"Believe? No. I know they existed. But they've been gone for millennia. Do you 'believe' in Admiral Nelson? He lived, achieved great things, and then he died. It's a matter of historical knowledge, not faith."
"Er… right…" Albert trailed off, unsure how to respond.
"By the way, I'm finished," Archibald said abruptly, ignoring the merchant's stunned reaction. He tucked the chalk and blueprint into his pocket, gave the simple magic circle one last inspection, and nodded in satisfaction. "Your turn, Mr. MacDuggal. Did you bring everything?"
"Ah, yeah, got it all," Albert said, moving to the battered counter and retrieving two unusual pistols from a bag. "This one's a taser—fires electrodes with a charge strong enough to incapacitate. The other's a dart gun with tranquilizers. I've prepared doses ranging from mild enough for a child to something that could drop a horse. Unfortunately, you can't adjust the taser's output. Oh, and this too," he added, handing Archibald a pair of steel handcuffs.
"Excellent. Let's hope all of this is enough for a worst-case scenario. What about your guards?" Archibald gestured toward the door, referring to the hulking brutes waiting outside near the car. They looked like they had cave men somewhere in their ancestry, with skulls thick enough to stop a bullet without helmets.
"They've both got pistols. They're mainly there for unwelcome visitors. I specifically told them not to shoot you, even if something goes wrong."
"Let's hope they remember that," Archibald said disdainfully, pulling out a small case from his pocket. Inside were a silver medallion engraved with runes and a complex magical circle on its lid, as well as a tungsten energy storage core. He carefully placed the core into the medallion's slot, secured it, and hung it around his neck with a sturdy steel chain. Stepping into the circle, he hesitated for a moment.
"Are you sure about this?" Albert asked, noticing his hesitation. He had taken a seat at a dusty table, laying the pistols within easy reach. "With all this preparation, what spirit are you even trying to summon? Jack the Ripper? Blackbeard?"
"No, though those are interesting suggestions," Kayneth replied quickly, seemingly glad for the brief delay before starting. "You went to school, didn't you, Mr. MacDuggal? Surely you've heard of Alexander the Great?"
"Of course. I won't lie—I was never a top student—but who hasn't heard of him?" Albert admitted, caught slightly off guard by the question.
"Good. What about Cú Chulainn?"
"Yeah, I've heard of him too. You can't share a drink with an Irishman without him bringing up his great-great-great… whatever ancestor who shook hands with him, fought alongside him, or got drunk with him."
"Excellent. And do you know who Diarmuid is?"
"Who? I know Dionysus—always liked the stories about him. Sounds like he was a great god to hang out with."
"Why am I not surprised?" Kayneth remarked rhetorically, shaking his head. Inwardly, he cursed his former student yet again and silently wished the arrogant failure would cross paths with a Dead Apostle under the full moon. If it weren't for that incompetent fool, Archibald wouldn't have ended up "bargain summoning" a hero barely known outside Dublin's city limits. "Diarmuid Ua Duibhne—also known as Diarmid O'Dyna—was the foster son of Aengus Óg, a warrior of the Fianna and vassal to Fionn mac Cumhaill. A swordsman and spearman so skilled, legends were written about him. A contemptible traitor who betrayed his lord and stole his bride right from their wedding. He died for it, like a dog, somewhere in the forest."
"Now that you mention it, I think my granddad told me a story like that when I was a kid. Though he called him something else," Albert mused.
"In Scotland, they call him Dermid. But that's not important. What matters is that I had the... misfortune of meeting his shade once. Not just meeting—we were practically inseparable for about a week. I even experienced his memories as dreams. The man once stood against three and a half thousand warriors with nothing but a spear and sword and survived. As a figure from the Age of Heroes, he's immensely dangerous as a summoned spirit."
"Then what's the problem? Afraid he'll turn on us the moment he shows up?" Albert asked. He didn't sound entirely convinced by the story but refrained from voicing outright doubt.
"No, that's not it."
The problem is that I utterly loathe the bastard, Kayneth thought bitterly. To my core. His theatrics, his obsession with turning battle into some kind of game, and his pathetic attempts at chivalry cost me victory. His indecisiveness and adherence to foolish notions of honor cost me my life. He betrayed me just as he did Fionn—trying to steal my fiancee—and I will never forgive him for that. Yet for all my disgust, I need his strength. And I can't summon anyone else now. I'll attempt to call him, but considering he despises me as much as I do him, controlling him will be a serious challenge.
"We didn't part on the best of terms," Kayneth finally said, carefully choosing his words. "He might hold a grudge. That's why I've taken so many precautions."
"And?" Albert prompted.
"Did you remember the video camera? This time I'll need to review the footage. Also, try to time the summoning."
Albert gestured to a table where he had already set up a recording camera. Once Kayneth saw that everything was ready, he took a deep breath and snapped the handcuffs onto his wrists behind his back. He cleared his mind, letting go of all distractions and sinking into a near-trance state to facilitate the spell. He couldn't tell how long he remained that way, but eventually, his lips moved almost of their own accord, uttering the command for the mystic code.
"Verite ad me, bellator."
The medallion around his neck flared with bright white light, heating instantly as the energy stored in the tungsten core began to flow through its circuits and magical structures. The circle drawn on the floor glowed faintly, easing the process by temporarily dampening external forces.
Just a few months ago—though it felt like years—Kayneth had participated in the Holy Grail War, an ancient ritual where seven magi summoned the spirits of legendary figures as powerful familiars to fight one another. The summoning required a "catalyst"—an item tied to the hero in life, such as a fragment of their weapon, armor, or clothing. Without a catalyst, any random spirit might answer the call. Though it took two tries, Archibald had managed to summon Diarmuid's Shadow—a hero of modest fame (and fame directly impacted a spirit's strength) but he managed to somewhat compensate for that by summoning him on Irish soil.
In the days leading up to the war, Kayneth had studied the magical contract binding Master and Servant, an astral connection that allowed them to sense each other's location and status, communicate telepathically, and share memories. Not only had he examined this bond, but he had also managed to alter it—something no one else had ever achieved. He retained control over the servant while outsourcing the energy required to sustain him to another magus: Sola, his fiancee. This innovation let Kayneth preserve his full magical reserves for battle, unlike other masters who fought at reduced capacity to fuel their Servants.
That contract had been nearly unbreakable—even when Kayneth lost all his magic circuits, and Sola inherited command spells, the bond persisted until both Diarmuid and Kayneth were dead. Now, Kayneth intended to use the remnants of that bond as a makeshift catalyst while applying insights from his earlier experiments to refine the ritual.
These thoughts flickered through his mind in an instant. Then the surge of magical energy stabilized, and he opened his eyes. He was still in the same dingy, cluttered cafe, the faintly glowing circle etched on the floor beneath him. Dust swirled in the air, disturbed by the wind generated during the summoning. Yet everything felt different.
He could see the tiniest cracks in the ceiling and walls, hear the hum of traffic on the Portsmouth highway, catch the distant voices of the guards outside. He could even sense the subtle drafts from the shattered windows. It was like controlling another person's body—familiar yet alien.
Flexing his hands, Kayneth tested the cuffs binding his wrists. With effort, he forced the chain to snap cleanly in the middle.
The shadow that once fought under his command wouldn't have even strained a muscle for such feats. Of course, Grail Servants weren't the true souls of heroes, merely weakened replicas forced into the rigid framework of a combat familiar bound to a specific class. They were merely shadows, simulations.
What Kayneth had summoned now was a shadow of that shadow—a minuscule fragment of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne's spirit lingering on the astral plane. Moreover, since James Murphy didn't have nearly enough energy to grant the spirit a physical form even with the use of magic accumulators, the summoning was directed inward. He temporarily allowed the spirit to inhabit his own body, borrowing a portion of its power in return.
To Kayneth's immense relief, the hero's personality—something he greatly feared—barely registered. It lingered only on the farthest edges of his consciousness.
"There's no need for that. I'm in control," he said calmly, watching Albert's slow (to his heightened perception) movement toward the taser on the table. "Now I need to test its capabilities."
The magus stepped out of the circle, then leapt into the air, soaring two meters high. He twisted mid-flight and landed lightly on his feet without a sound. Another jump followed, two steps up the wall that sent dust and grime scattering, a flip near the ceiling, and he landed on the fingertips of one hand. Springing back to his feet, he spun and delivered a sharp punch to the wooden counter, leaving a deep dent. His hand, however, remained unscathed, and there was no pain.
Turning back to Albert, he was about to ask him to fire one of the tranquilizer darts to test his reaction speed when the strain suddenly hit him. His body wavered, his arms and legs went numb, and his once-full magical reserves drained rapidly. The sensation spread through his magic circuits, radiating pain as they struggled to sustain the spirit's presence.
"Revertemur…" he whispered hoarsely, canceling the spell. He caught sight of the rapidly approaching tile floor before darkness claimed him.
The steady hum of an engine, the gently swaying ceiling, the flickering trees outside the window against a blue sky, the scent of leather upholstery and tobacco—it was more than enough for Kayneth to realize he was in Albert's car the moment he regained consciousness. He was strapped into the back seat by a seatbelt, with MacDuggal sitting beside him. Albert's muscle-bound guards occupied the front.
"Where are we?" the magus asked weakly. He felt utterly drained, both magically and physically. His head swam as though he'd suffered a severe blood loss, and even turning to face Albert was a struggle.
"We made it to Portsmouth, circled the suburbs a bit, and now we're heading back to London along a different route. You've been unconscious for almost two hours," the squib replied in a low voice. "No signs of pursuit or attention. Either we weren't detected at all, or they didn't make it in time."
"Good. That makes the experiment… a success," Kayneth murmured.
"A success?! All that trouble for twenty seconds?" Albert shot back.
"Twenty seconds?"
"That's roughly how long it was from when you broke the handcuffs to when you hit the floor."
"It felt much longer," Kayneth remarked, glancing feebly at his hands.
"I took off the cuffs," Albert said, noticing the movement. "Explaining to a cop why I have an unconscious child in my car is hard enough. If you were also cuffed, well…"
"It doesn't matter. In any case, the result is positive."
"Are you planning to crack your skull on the floor every time you pull this trick? Or is that one of your 'special methods' too?"
"I just need to lower the power. I took in too much, and even an E-rank enhancement is beyond my current capacity," the magus replied. Seeing Albert's confusion, he weakly waved his hand and added, "Don't worry about it. Professional terminology. What matters is that the effect worked. All that's left is fine-tuning. I'm hopeful that I now have a reliable trump card for any future... complications."
"I'd rather avoid those altogether."
"So would I. But I've never been an optimist."
The two fell into silence, each lost in thought. For Kayneth, the foremost concern was the adjustments he'd need to make to the ritual and the mystic code to stabilize it. With some effort, he removed the now-cooled medallion from his neck, awkwardly flipped open the cover, and touched the accumulator inside. The tungsten fragment was dead—completely drained of energy before his internal reserves were also exhausted. But the core itself had survived without melting or losing its internal structure, meaning it could be reused without crafting a new one.
The medallion, however, was a different story. The metal was too damaged internally to withstand another summoning and would need replacement. Closing it with a snap, he traced the lines of the magic circle etched on the cover, mentally reviewing his calculations.
The Holy Grail War's summoning ritual had introduced a ranking system to classify the relative strength of Servants and their weapons for the masters' convenience. The scale, simple but effective, ranged from E to A, with pluses and minuses, akin to modern academic grading. Though developed nearly two centuries ago, it was still a rough approximation, given the limited data from the few times the ritual had been conducted.
An E-rank stat represented an ability—strength, endurance, agility—ten times greater than that of an average modern human. Each rank multiplied the baseline by ten. Thus, A-rank agility indicated speed and reflexes fifty times greater than a human's. Diarmuid, under Kayneth's control, had possessed B-rank strength (roughly forty times human capacity) and A agility, capable of breaking the sound barrier on foot and delivering spear strikes at over twice Mach speed with, with potential bursts exceeding the human limit by a hundredfold
Even at his most ambitious, Kayneth hadn't aimed for such stats. Not even with his native circuits and family crest, let alone his current state. His goal had been far more modest: enhancing his physical abilities to an E-rank equivalent—ten times human capacity in speed, strength, and durability.
But even that modest goal was out of reach with his current resources. To maintain such a level of contact with the spirit for even one minute would require another six months of charging the accumulator at the same rate. The solution was obvious: he'd have to scale back. Accept less power. Even so, the technique could still give him a critical edge against local wizards, their reflexes, and their reactions.
But something was still missing...
"Mr. MacDuggal, do you remember our conversation about exotic weaponry?" Kayneth asked suddenly.
"What?" Albert replied, pulled out of his thoughts. "Yeah, I remember. So, that's what you needed for this 'insurance' of yours?"
"Precisely. I'll need a spear. It's not urgent, not before next month, but I'll be expecting it to be crafted to the highest standard."
"Anything you want, as long as you're paying," the merchant agreed easily. "Is there a specific design, or will any spear do?"
"When we're back at the workshop, I'll show you a replica. You can examine it, record measurements, and so on." After a moment's thought, Kayneth added reluctantly, "We'll also need to adjust it for my height and reach."
"That all?"
"For now, yes. Later, there might be more orders. Besides, in a couple of years, it'll need resizing when I grow taller."
"Fine by me, as long as the money flows."
Kayneth said nothing in response, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. His strength was completely drained, even the effort of turning toward Albert or raising his hand felt insurmountable. It had only been a few days since the wounds from his previous experiment had healed. He made a mental note to thank that young witch—her recommendations for potions had been genuinely helpful. On his next trip to the magical quarter, he'd have to stock up again. Magical injuries and curses were professional hazards, after all, occurring with unsettling regularity.
His thoughts drifted from injuries back to weaponry. His Servant's spear in the Grail War possessed a conceptual attack that inflicted wounds that wouldn't heal, but with only a surface-level connection to the spirit, reproducing that mystery—even in a diluted form—was impossible. All he could hope to replicate was the weapon's craftsmanship and balance.
Additionally, the real Diarmuid Ua Duibhne had been famed (among the few who even knew his name) for wielding four distinct weapons of rare power, each with a name: two swords and two spears. However, Servants summoned in the Grail War were limited to a specific combat role. For example, King Arthur was proficient with a spear in life, but as a Saber-class Servant, that skill was set aside in favor of swordsmanship. In Kayneth's case, the inverse had occurred—he summoned Diarmuid as a Lancer because the Saber role had already been claimed by the cursed master of the Einzberns.
The spirit summoned today retained those same class limitations. Kayneth could feel it—using a replica of Moralltach, Diarmuid's primary sword gifted by his foster father, the god Aengus, would be far less effective than wielding a copy of his spear. Perhaps one day, as his rituals advanced and his energy reserves grew, he could bypass such limitations. But that day was far off.
"By the way, August is around the corner," Albert remarked as they reached the workshop, now sealed off from the outside world with wards. His guards waited in the car below. "I've got a few 'patients' in the works. Should I assume they'll need to be moved out of the city for the operation?"
"Yes, the risk has to be minimized. Ideally, we'd meet outside of England altogether. Somewhere in Wales, perhaps—away from major cities. I'll need a few hours to examine them, plus all the data from their doctors. Then three days to prepare, and about half an hour for the actual… procedure."
"You're telling me you can read ultrasound and MRI data?" MacDuggal asked skeptically.
"Of course," Kayneth replied with a shrug, adding dismissively, "Though the technology is primitive compared to our methods, it's useful for verification."
"Hey, James, how old are you really?"
"Does it matter?" Kayneth responded indifferently. He harbored no illusions about his acting skills—he could fool children or a naive trainee like Tonks, especially when playing a specific role, but even Fletcher had seen through him. Albert, who was privy to most of his projects, certainly wouldn't buy into any pretense.
"Not really," Albert said with a shrug. "But if it's marketable—"
"Forget it," Kayneth cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "It's impossible. I couldn't replicate it even for myself, nor would I. It was a unique case. End of discussion."
"Fair enough, unique is unique," the squib replied, surprisingly agreeable. "Let's focus on your spear for now."
"For now, yes," Kayneth replied, summoning the image of Gáe Buidhe—the Yellow Spear of Diarmuid—etched vividly into his mind from both the Servant's memories and his own visions. He pictured every detail: its weight, the feel of it in hand, the sensation of striking an enemy. Raising his hand, he cast a spell, conjuring a temporary replica from magical energy.
"Gradation Air."
Late that night, after setting aside a book on magical creatures, Kayneth stretched and practically slumped into his chair. Even with his experience in such rituals, summoning a spirit into his own body was profoundly exhausting, especially when it involved a being as powerful as a hero's soul—however small a fragment it might have been.
The chair didn't help, either. He'd outright refused to use a child-sized one, but the adult chair delivered was far from ideal. He practically sank into it, and his feet barely touched the floor. Humiliating.
Pushing such dreary thoughts aside, he glanced at the tungsten accumulator now back on its stand. Tomorrow, he'd need to start recharging it again. And the day after that. And many more days to come.
But for now, he had a new weapon—a safeguard that could save his life in a crisis. That brought a sense of certainty and confidence to his plans. For the immediate future, today's events changed little. The mystic code would be ready by the end of the month, opening the door to more experiments. Next on his agenda was meeting the magus girl from the first generation in two days.
Kayneth wasn't so sure he wanted to go. He'd reviewed his options repeatedly over the past few days, and the picture was far from clear.
In about thirteen months, he—or rather, James—would receive the letter inviting him to Britain's Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There was no alternative institution to choose from, though with widespread teleportation mysteries, traveling from Manchester to a school on the French coast once every six months shouldn't have been an issue if their curriculum was more appealing.
The letter, according to Hogwarts: A History and other sources, wasn't a geas or magical contract that compelled a wizard to attend. The selection process relied on two ancient artifacts over a thousand years old, their workings largely a mystery to modern wizards. It was widely believed they never erred.
However, after receiving the letter, a wizard could decline enrollment. They could pursue magical education independently, due to financial constraints, or even reject the magical world altogether. While rare, the last option was mentioned in one book, along with an ominous note that such refusals resulted in close surveillance by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if all attempts at persuasion failed. The reason for this wasn't specified.
The last option was never seriously considered by Kayneth. And the potential problems with finances were already resolved. That left him with two realistic paths, each with its own advantages and drawbacks.
Self-study offered unparalleled freedom. It allowed him to choose his subjects without interference (as long as it didn't attract the Aurors' attention), balance theory and practice as he pleased, and select his learning materials. Moreover, it wouldn't prevent him from pursuing personal research or other projects. He wouldn't be confined to books either; magical newspapers frequently advertised private tutoring services, available for the summer, an entire year, or even longer. These services often covered subjects not fully explored in the standard Hogwarts curriculum, like runic magic.
Additionally, an unstructured schedule would make it easier to maintain connections in both the magical and mundane black markets, ensuring a stable and even growing income. However, self-study came with a significant drawback: it required a robust foundation of knowledge and resources—a luxury the Archibald family had in his former world but which he lacked here.
On the other hand, Hogwarts was more than just a chaotic gathering of hyperactive student wizards, each carrying a wand capable of turning someone to ash with a single word. According to Hogwarts: A History, the school boasted a vast library, various laboratories, extensive supplies of potions, rare reagents, mystic codes, greenhouses with unique magical plants, and an expansive forest teeming with mythical creatures and beings like centaurs. There were also many reputable professors and the prestige of attending Britain's most renowned magical school—a claim he cautiously accepted, given his lack of foreign sources for comparison.
However, the downsides were significant. Nine months of constant supervision, living in close quarters with noisy children, and being surrounded by universal mystic codes capable of destruction at the slightest whim were far from ideal. Adding to this was the school's isolation, preventing students from leaving legally, and the necessity of sharing a dormitory. Even during his time at the Clock Tower as a student, Kayneth had lived separately, supported by his family's wealth. He would now have to endure eight years without the option of moving into better, more spacious accommodations due to a lack of funds that would dry out during the school year and time. The implications for his comfort and freedom were bleak.
Beyond these considerations, the social aspect loomed large. Simply walking through the magical quarter, one couldn't avoid overhearing snippets of conversation. Nearly all of them revolved around Hogwarts—who studied there, with whom, in what year, and in which house. The school held a far more central role in magical Britain than the Clock Tower did for magi in the Mage's Association. To decline attendance would mean forfeiting a vast network of connections, acquaintances, and potential future allies. These ties could prove invaluable. Moreover, skipping Hogwarts would make taking the OWLs and NEWTs far more complicated—exams without which finding a job in the Ministry or private sector would be impossible. While it was technically possible to take these exams independently, doing so would create additional challenges.
Kayneth sighed, casting a tired glance at the cluttered table in front of him. One side was piled with finished products for sale and the results of his personal projects, while the other held unfinished items awaiting refinement. Among them were gloves, another dagger, the beginnings of a summoning amulet, a few bracelets, rings, and even two small piles of ordinary coins.
The coins, in particular, filled him with quiet pride—a clever solution to the problem of circumventing inspections. Using a catalyst, typically blood, the scattered coins could fuse into a single blank that would reshape into a slim stiletto. While the nickel-copper-steel alloy blade wouldn't pierce chainmail or enchanted fabrics, it was more than sufficient against mundane clothing and flesh.
Still, the scene revealed a pressing issue: he was already struggling with a lack of hands. For now, he relied on MacDuggal and his resources to test his prototypes, but that was far from ideal. Albert was only human, charged for his assistance, had plenty of his own affairs to manage, and likely humored Kayneth only because he recognized the value of such an asset. What Kayneth needed were his own assistants—but where could he find them in his current position?
Legally, he wasn't even considered a wizard until the age of eleven, when he would acquire his own wand. Without a recognized pedigree or patronage, attracting apprentices or helpers was a pipe dream. While he could hire assistants for a fee, the cost would be prohibitive, and skilled experts wouldn't take such a job. Mediocre talent, meanwhile, was useless to him. The creation of homunculi or chimeras, especially intelligent ones, as assistants required resources, equipment, and time—things he lacked. The only viable option left was the slow, arduous route of building relationships and eventually gaining followers among his peers, establishing authority over time.
Unable to reach a definitive decision, Kayneth resolved to gather more information about Hogwarts. Firsthand accounts, even from a first-generation witch like Granger, would help him better anticipate what to expect. He needed to know what would seem surprising and what wouldn't, where to show interest, and where to feign indifference.
Kayneth wasn't as disconnected from the mundane world as the pureblood wizards here. At the very least, he wouldn't mistake a television remote for a telephone. His primary interests lay in applied sciences—medicine, chemistry, and biology. Secondary priorities included non-magical innovations that could make life more comfortable, such as household electronics, fast transportation, and modern communication methods. However, he had no insight into what fascinated modern children from less affluent families, what they watched on TV, what they read (if they read at all), how they dressed, or what they discussed. Nor did he particularly want to know. Nonetheless, a firsthand perspective from a typical "Muggle-born," as the locals called them, could help him refine the credibility of his cover story.
Settling on this course of action, he nodded to himself, turned off the desk lamp, and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly in his chair. The day's exertions—especially the brief contact with the spirit—had drained him entirely.
For once, his dreams were not of his death but of battles between powerful summons, ancient blades glowing with magic, and Diarmuid Ua Duibhne pierced by a crimson spear, cursing him, his killer, over and over.
TN: Apologies for the inconsistent updates and my absence. Had to take care of a personal matter.
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Johnny_Z
Feb 21, 2025
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Threadmarks Chapter 12 New
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Johnny_Z
Mar 3, 2025
#185
TN: I owe you quite a few chapters, don't I? Well, double updates incoming!
"Miss Granger."
"What? Oh, you're here already," Hermione looked up from her eighth-grade physics textbook and saw James standing before her. He was dressed exactly as he had been during their first meeting on Diagon Alley. The cool, quiet lobby of the public library was otherwise empty.
"Yes. Looks like I didn't get the address wrong after all," he replied, his tone carrying a faint note of doubt.
"I work here during the summer. Well, part time. My aunt is the manager so she lets me." she explained, closing her textbook and standing up. She motioned for him to follow her. Her attire was as plain and unremarkable as ever—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, with no robes or wizarding garbs in sight. "Decent books on... our field don't come cheap, and I've already gone through everything for the first few years. I can't keep asking my parents for money. At least this way I get to buy them on my own and help out from time to time."
She led the way further inside, adding, "Besides, it's important to keep up with regular subjects during the holidays. And since it's the off-season here, hardly anyone comes in. I manage one of the sections by myself, and it's only part-time. Plus, it's close to home."
"And you plan to discuss your school here?" James asked skeptically.
"Sunday mornings? There's no one here except the staff. No one will bother us," she said matter-of-factly as she guided him into the academic section and locked the door behind them. "We have at least two hours, probably more, before anyone shows up. Take a seat—I'll get the materials."
"Materials?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow.
"I wasn't going to show up empty-handed, was I?"
As Hermione walked off toward the librarian's desk, Kayneth took a moment to observe his surroundings. Shelves lined with textbooks, manuals, encyclopedias, and dictionaries; the faint smell of dust and paper; wooden furniture with study lamps—it was a perfectly ordinary library, yet he felt a pang of nostalgia. The selection in Diagon Alley's shops always felt so limited and shallow. He couldn't imagine finding an entire section, let alone multiple shelves, devoted exclusively to something like runic magic.
Settling into one of the low chairs designed for children, he noted that while it was comfortable, the size somehow irritated him. He couldn't help but feel faintly impressed by Hermione's methodical approach. Their agreement hadn't included strict obligations—she could've spent thirty minutes summarizing her thoughts on Hogwarts, and the deal would've been complete. Yet here she was, prepared with notes and materials. Perhaps she was determined to repay her debt thoroughly—or maybe she simply enjoyed teaching others.
"Right, let's begin," Hermione announced, returning with a large, square bag that looked like it weighed half as much as she did. She began unloading books, scrolls, and notebooks onto the table. In front of her, she laid out a stack of stapled pages, likely notes or a draft. James noticed there wasn't a trace of magic on the bag—she had carried the full weight herself, without enchantments.
"I decided to focus on the first year. That should be enough for now. Eight textbooks for eight subjects. Well, technically seven—there's no manual for flying lessons, which I think is a mistake. The theory book is supposed to cover all subjects."
"Alright, the books and notebooks make sense. What about the scrolls? Magical contracts for enrollment?" he asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.
"No, there aren't any contracts involved. These are just a few of my essays returned with teacher feedback and grades. I thought they'd serve as examples. Unfortunately, the school requires us to use parchment and quills for graded assignments and exams. And before you ask, the notebooks are my personal notes from non-class time."
"That's odd," Kayneth remarked. Writing with a quill didn't particularly bother him—he'd done it before, albeit rarely—but it felt unnecessary. "I've heard electronics don't work at Hogwarts, but ballpoint pens have been around since the 1950s. Why not use those?"
"The most terrifying thing in magical Britain," Hermione said darkly as she flipped through a notebook, "tradition. 'It's customary' to write with quills. 'It's customary' to wear robes and use lanterns. 'We're not Muggles,'—" she mimicked someone with exaggerated disdain.
"That can't be the only reason. There has to be more behind it," Kayneth countered. He had spent time pondering the peculiarities of wizarding traditions, but the answer always boiled down to "backwardness." "But let's get to the main point—the school. Skip the tourist brochure bits. I've read Hogwarts: A History; I know who founded it, when, and how many towers the castle has. What I'm interested in is how things work now."
"Fine," Hermione agreed reluctantly, flipping past a couple of pages in her notes. It was clear she had planned to spend the first fifteen minutes playing tour guide: 'To your right, in the courtyard by the elm, there was a famous magical duel in 1734 that captivated all of Europe…'
"Let's start from the beginning," she continued. "Invitations to first-year students—or transfers—are sent out on July 31st, along with a list of textbooks and supplies. For students like us, the first letter is usually delivered in person by the head of one of the houses, who explains to the student and their parents that magic is real. Shopping happens on Diagon Alley throughout August, though you already know about that. Travel to the school happens from King's Cross Station on September 1st..."
Kayneth listened attentively, taking notes in his notebook. On a separate sheet, he jotted down questions to ask later. Hermione lacked professional teaching experience, but for an amateur, she was doing reasonably well. She had a clear outline and managed to stick to it without veering off course. It wasn't perfect, but for a middle schooler, it was good enough—even if relying on such a source left him uneasy.
As Hermione moved on to describe year-end tests, exams, the process of advancing to the next grade, and the tallying of House points—including summer homework—she paused, took a breath, and, mimicking the tone of one of her professors, asked:
"So, are there any questions?"
"Yes, a few," Kayneth replied, pulling a sheet of questions closer to him. "First—the station and the train. Why go to such lengths, exposing the secrecy of magic to constant risk and wasting nearly an entire day traveling, when there are at least three… options for instantaneous transportation? That would be much faster and safer."
"Apparition, Floo Network, and Portkeys, right?" Hermione said thoughtfully. "I've wondered the same thing, but I found a couple of books on the subject in the Hogwarts library. The explanation is as follows: before the 18th century, every student traveled to Hogwarts on their own—flying, riding magical creatures or horses, or even walking. It was dangerous. Some didn't survive the journey, including those who ran into Muggles. After the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, such 'mass migrations' every year became impossible.
"But Apparition is forbidden in and around Hogwarts. Apparently, the school has incredibly powerful magical protections against everything under the sun, and, as one book put it, anyone trying to bypass them would 'be smeared across the landscape.' Besides, Apparating hundreds of students two or three at a time would be exhausting and time-consuming. Floo travel is also restricted. As far as I understand, the fireplaces can be activated or deactivated for transportation, but since the Floo Network is shared, anyone who knows the address could potentially enter. In the past, the school was attacked many times through them during conflicts with Muggles and rival wizard factions, so they sealed that route.
"As for Portkeys, they require effort to create, usually operate on a strict schedule, and the teleportation can cause unpleasant side effects like nausea and disorientation. For about half the students, it would knock them out of their lessons for a week. Initially, the solution was to use magical caravans—essentially trains of carriages accompanied by adult wizards for protection against Muggles. Then, about 150 years ago, someone decided to borrow the Muggle invention of the steam engine and enchant it."
"And also the station and the railway," Kayneth added. "It all makes a certain amount of sense, at least within the framework of this magical community. But it's still incredibly risky. And the sheer amount of magical energy expended on trivialities here… well, I've come to terms with it, but it's no less absurd. Consider the layers of obfuscation: concealment spells on a busy train station, folded space hiding an entire railway platform, and hundreds of miles of track running parallel to Muggle lines, cloaked so it's invisible to airplanes and nearby trains. There's secret maintenance for all of it, requiring significant magical resources and years of work to establish, not to mention the annual upkeep."
"Yes, it was a massive project," Hermione agreed with a touch of pride. "But it ensures the safety of both the school and the students. Traveling together might be slow, but it minimizes the risk of exposure. Plus, the train makes a few stops along the way to pick up students from Wales and Scotland—not everyone lives near London. The Irish even have their own train and branch line, though it's not as fancy as ours. Complicated, yes, but reliable."
"But there's a much simpler solution. Far simpler," Kayneth countered. Seeing her puzzled look, he explained, "Ordinary transport. Take a train, plane, or even a bus to Glasgow, for instance. From there, it's not far—maybe a hundred miles. The magical train could operate in the remote areas beyond, over hills and marshlands where there's little risk of being discovered."
"I'd like to see that," Hermione said with a sudden laugh, clearly picturing something amusing.
"Did I say something funny?" Kayneth asked cautiously. He wasn't inclined to let a first-generation novice laugh at him without cause.
"Oh no, James, it's not you," she said, waving dismissively. "I just imagined Malfoy boarding an airplane… or Goyle staring out of a bus window at London traffic. There's no way the purebloods would ever agree to that—not even under the threat of the Cruciatus Curse. Neither the kids nor their parents. Not a chance."
"Is it really that bad?"
"It's much worse," Hermione sighed heavily. "Old pureblood families live in their own little magical kingdoms, rarely interacting with Muggles for years. They have their own society, education, transportation, shops, courts, laws, and problems. It's not that they couldn't learn to drive a car or take the subway—they simply don't need to. And since many of them hold key positions in the Ministry and the school's Board of Governors, we have the system we do." She picked up a scroll of parchment and waved it for emphasis.
"No exceptions?" Kayneth asked, intrigued. He himself didn't know how to drive, though he had chauffeurs for that. Among the magi of the Clock Tower, few, if any, held driver's licenses. However, many enjoyed taking the wheel, usually disregarding traffic laws and signals.
"There are exceptions, thankfully. For example, Ron's father, from what I've heard, is quite the eccentric among purebloods. He works at the Ministry but spends his free time enchanting Muggle objects. He even has a flying car. And he's generally very fond of Muggles—you could call him a fan," she said, abruptly cutting herself off before adding hastily, "But I didn't tell you that. Not about the car or anything else."
"Of course not. I didn't hear a thing. I don't even know his name. Speaking of names—Malfoy. I assume he's the current heir of the Malfoy family? Are you acquainted?"
"I'd rather never see that prat again!" she exclaimed indignantly before softening her tone. "He's just unbearable. We started Hogwarts the same year, but, naturally, he's in Slytherin, the house for purebloods, supposedly. We don't get along with them in general, but Draco is a nightmare even by their standards. 'Mudbloods this,' 'Muggles that,' 'primitive filth'—" She mimicked him sarcastically. "Ugh, just thinking about him makes me mad. And they say his father was a follower of You-Know-Who."
"Who?" the magus asked, confused. Then it clicked. "Oh, the self-styled Lord. Makes sense if they're from an old family. And this Ron—if he's pureblood, does that mean his parents were supporters of… him?"
"God forbid!" Hermione exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously. "Ron may be a bit of a dimwit, but the Weasleys have always stood with Dumbledore and against all that prejudice. Not all purebloods sided with You-Know-Who. Neville—he's in my year too—his parents fought against him as well, just like many other purebloods."
"Then why did the war drag on for so long if even the old families weren't fully on his side? Eleven years is a long time," Kayneth observed.
"I don't know. History classes don't cover it. Just rumors, whispers—nobody really talks about him openly, not even his name. But if you want my opinion… It sounds like the most influential families among his supporters were stalling any resistance in the Ministry and Aurors, and they blocked efforts to seek outside help. The fight against him wasn't an organized force—it was more like a militia. And it wasn't just aristocrats on his side. Plenty of half-bloods and weaker purebloods joined him, hoping to rise in power as his lieutenants when he took over. There didn't seem to be many Muggle-born among his followers, but I wouldn't swear to it. The war wasn't just about blood purity—it was about power. At least, that's what some books and people suggest."
"Interesting," Kayneth replied neutrally. It sounded more plausible—a typical struggle for influence and resources dressed up as a battle for bloodline superiority. At some point, the infighting had escalated into open conflict. Still, for a more complete picture, he thought it might be useful to hear the aristocrats' perspective, though gaining access to them would be no small task. "But that's all in the past. Let's get back to the school and its interaction with the wider world. You mentioned that upper-year students have a subject called 'Muggle Studies,' essentially a study of the ordinary world. And it's not exactly popular, is it? So it's an elective?"
"There are a few mandatory introductory lessons, I think, but after that, it's optional."
"And what about 'regular' subjects—physics, biology, chemistry, history?"
"They're only taught insofar as they overlap with magical subjects. Chemistry shows up in Potions, botany in Herbology, Astronomy and astrology go hand in hand, and so on. But they're not taught as standalone subjects. There's no literature or geography either. I study those on my own," Hermione said, gesturing toward the shelves of textbooks and reference books. "The school curriculum is almost entirely magic-focused."
"And from what I've gathered, the quality of teaching varies greatly. Some subjects are almost all practical with little theory, while others are the opposite," Kayneth noted, glancing at his list of questions and notes. "For instance, Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by Professor Quirrell. From what you've said, it sounds like you didn't do much beyond copying poorly delivered lectures or transcribing textbook chapters about dangerous creatures like giants, werewolves, and… vampires," he said, still finding it hard to reconcile this world's concept of vampires with the Dead Apostles he knew. Their weaknesses seemed almost laughable in comparison, though humanity here should count itself lucky for that divergence.
"That's correct," Hermione agreed, carefully choosing her words. "I suppose he was an advocate of extreme caution, preferring students to master the theory thoroughly before attempting any practical work. But you don't need to worry about him. Unfortunately—well, maybe fortunately—Professor Quirrell won't be teaching next year due to an… accident shortly after exams. That position is notoriously cursed; no one seems to last long in it. I won't even know which textbook we'll be using until July, which is frustrating. Each teacher has their own approach, and the school has considerable autonomy in this regard. There's no standard curriculum from the Ministry."
"Well, perhaps it's for the best if someone replaces him. From what you've told me, he didn't leave the best impression, and the subject seems critically important. As for safety…" Kayneth trailed off, giving her a sharp look. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but according to you, there's a hostile tree in the school grounds that attacks anyone who gets too close. Quidditch matches regularly result in broken bones, concussions, and players falling from great heights. In Potions, cauldrons can explode or transform into something dangerous, while potions themselves—due to errors or 'pranks'—can become poisons or acids. In Charms, objects can explode, even ones that should be inert. In Care of Magical Creatures, a magical beast might attack a student. In Herbology, predatory plants could do the same. Nearby, there's a forest teeming with extremely dangerous magical creatures and plants capable of killing—and possibly eating—a grown wizard. Then there are the shifting castle geometry, warped spaces, restrictive barriers, ghosts, poltergeists, three-headed dogs, trolls in the corridors, and the endless pranks between houses involving curses, mental magic, untested potions, and poorly cast Transfiguration spells. Given all that, a professor's reluctance to include practical lessons seems rather insignificant, doesn't it?"
"Well, yes, but—" Hermione started, uncertain. She'd mentioned or alluded to all those dangers herself, but she'd never thought of her school from that perspective before.
"Honestly, I expected less," Kayneth remarked with a nod of approval.
"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, staring at him in disbelief.
"Fewer threats. But I'm glad the school administration takes its responsibilities seriously and maintains an appropriate standard," he said matter-of-factly.
"An appropriate… standard… of threats?" she repeated slowly, almost breaking the phrase into syllables, as though struggling to comprehend.
"Precisely. Surely, you won't deny that magic is inherently dangerous, especially with wands that make it accessible even to eleven-year-olds. It doesn't take much imagination to devise a hundred and fifty ways to maim or kill someone with a wand using just the material from first- through third-year textbooks, without relying on additional magical tools or weapons," Kayneth observed. Hermione didn't argue—she just shivered slightly. She clearly had enough knowledge and imagination to follow his point. "That's why it's essential for students to constantly feel the presence of danger and learn to adapt. They need to develop discipline: following instructions, adhering to recipes, and obeying directions, because mistakes or improvisation could be fatal. Without that discipline, any wizard could easily kill themselves—and likely take a dozen others with them. That said, the school seems to have approached the matter far more thoroughly than I anticipated," he added with a nod of respect.
"I don't think it's quite like that…" Hermione replied, though her confidence seemed to waver. "In my opinion, Defense Against the Dark Arts should teach exactly those kinds of principles. Anyway, let's move on. Any more questions?"
"Yes. From what I've gathered, in Charms and Transfiguration, most of the time is spent on practice, as opposed to Defense, where theory dominates. But the theory in these subjects seems to be left for independent reading."
"Not exactly. Specific tasks and spells are explained in detail. For instance, if we're turning a feather into a pencil or a bird into a goblet, we're given clear instructions: the gestures to use, the visualization required, what words to say, and in what order."
"But that's just a set of instructions," the magus countered. "It tells you 'what to do' and 'how to do it,' but not 'why it works.'"
"I got tired of asking 'why' by Christmas," Hermione admitted with a defeated sigh, bitterness creeping into her voice. "Because it's magic. Because that's how it works. Because that's what's written in the book. Because a stupid Mudblood like me could never understand... and so on. I eventually gave up trying to explain 'why.' If magic is inherently unscientific, what's the point?"
"Utter nonsense!" Kayneth snapped, his tone one of a geneticist hearing someone claim mice spontaneously generate from straw. Realizing the disparity in their ages and knowledge, he added reluctantly, "Apologies. That was harsh. But how else can you describe the notion that magic is 'unscientific'? Miracles might be anti-scientific; they outright defy natural laws. Magic, however, is an incredibly precise discipline, allowing for no ambiguity or error."
"James, forgive me," Hermione began in an almost condescending tone, as if addressing a preschooler, "but are you seriously saying that you can scientifically explain how a parrot turns into a goblet?"
"Of course," Kayneth replied simply, choosing to overlook her skepticism. It wasn't surprising for someone with barely a year of exposure to magic to misunderstand its intricacies. Even fourth- or fifth-generation magi often failed to grasp the finer details of mystical processes. "It's actually quite straightforward."
"I'm listening," Hermione said, sitting across from him with her arms crossed, radiating skepticism.
"Let's start with this: on the first year, are you taught the concept of 'conceptual magic' and how it functions?" Kayneth asked, ignoring her attitude, though with increasing difficulty.
"Sorry, what?"
"I'll take that as a 'no,'" he said, a hint of condescension in his voice. "But I assume you don't need me to explain what a 'concept' is?"
"No need. A concept is an idea or a representation independent of its realization. For example, the concept of an airplane as a heavier-than-air machine capable of flight existed in antiquity and during the Renaissance, but it wasn't fully realized until about a century ago. Or take the concept of a force field—the sci-fi idea of an invisible barrier or dome that stops bullets and projectiles, keeping out people or machines while being intangible. Science is only now approaching something like that, whereas wizards have already realized it in the form of protective spells."
"Not bad," Kayneth conceded. That was a workable foundation. "Now, let's take a simple second-year spell, Alohomora, and its advanced variants. What does it do?"
"It unlocks locks," Hermione answered almost indignantly. The simplicity of the question clearly annoyed her.
"Correct. But how does it do that? Here's a lock—a complex object with an internal mechanism and a keyhole," Kayneth said, pointing at a nearby door for emphasis. "From the perspective of physics or chemistry, it's just a chunk of metal. How do you define it as 'locked' or 'unlocked' when those concepts are meaningless to physical laws? This is where the conceptual level of reality comes into play. The object has inherent concepts that describe its properties and state. A spell can modify one or more of those concepts—usually temporarily. With magic, you impose a new concept—in this case, 'openness'—to replace one of the object's inherent concepts. Does that make sense?"
"Scientifically, it sounds utterly absurd," Hermione admitted, though with less skepticism now. "But I'll concede that it has internal logic. Why only one of its concepts, though, and not all at once?"
"Because you only need to modify one property—in this case, its current state—not its internal structure or location. If you applied the concept of 'openness' to the wrong property, you might not unlock the lock but instead turn it into an 'open space'—essentially, a void."
"Alright, I'll temporarily accept this explanation. But how does this relate to turning a parrot into a goblet?"
"Simple. The mechanism is identical. Using a spell, you generate a concept—in this case, 'goblet.' That's relatively easy because it's a clear and familiar image. Then, with magical energy and your wand, you impose this concept onto the parrot, overwriting its inherent concept of 'parrot.' If you alter only its external appearance, the transformation and subsequent return to its original form will be painless. But if you overwrite not just the appearance but its essence and other properties, reverting it would likely kill the bird, as it would have ceased being a living creature for some time. Of course, such transformations are more complex and require significantly more effort. Additionally, the more energy invested, the longer the imposed change lasts before the world corrects it and restores the original state."
"What do you mean by 'the world corrects it'?" Hermione asked, genuinely intrigued.
"It's inaccurate to say magic is anti-scientific—it follows strict rules," Kayneth lectured. "However, it's undeniably unnatural to the physical world. Every magical effect consumes energy, with the cost increasing based on its scale, duration, and level of influence. For transformations, the cost also depends on the disparity between the two objects—both physically and conceptually. Turning a rapier into a saber is much easier than turning a brick into a birch tree. Transforming ice into coal of the same size is particularly difficult because they embody opposing concepts and elemental properties. Magical energy forces the world to accept a change, but only as long as there's sufficient energy to sustain it. Large-scale transformations are often impossible due to energy constraints. Even Dumbledore would likely struggle to turn the Eiffel Tower into a living Christmas tree—or it would drain him completely.
"Of course, this applies only to direct effects, not their consequences. A magically created blade can cut cloth, and the fabric won't repair itself afterward. A magically softened boulder can be sculpted into a statue, which will harden again but remain a statue. You can transform a feather into a pencil, but when the magic fades, it will revert to a feather."
"And what about Reparo?" Hermione asked. "A repaired cup doesn't shatter back into pieces after five minutes."
"Reparo works differently. It doesn't act directly on the object—it performs a localized, object-oriented reversal of cause and effect…" Seeing her expression shift from understanding to abstracted confusion, the magus sighed and simplified: "You're not embedding magic into the object. You're offering your magic to the world, and the world itself 'undoes' the damage, restoring the object. It's a complex mechanism, internally, but wands make it manageable as long as you supply enough energy and hold a clear image of the result in your mind. Magic has numerous ways to alter reality; it's wrong to assume it's all about working with an object's concepts."
"Strangely enough, that doesn't contradict what I've seen this year or read in books, though with some adjustments," Hermione admitted. "It even explains how things work under the surface. But what do you mean by a 'level of influence'? I can understand 'longer-lasting' or 'broader in scale,' but what's this?"
"It refers to how much it contradicts physical laws—how 'impossible' it is. Leviosa negates gravity, suspending an object in place. Impedimenta stops it mid-air, even if it was moving or flying rather than falling. The second case disregards kinetic energy, acceleration, and inertia, not just gravity. Therefore, it's more complex, requires more energy, and is a higher-level spell."
"Why didn't the professors explain this?" Hermione asked indignantly, her voice rising as if personally affronted. "Surely they know!"
"Of course, they know. Your Transfiguration professor certainly does if she can transform into a cat without losing her human consciousness. But that's advanced magical theory, the kind taught at academies or to professors themselves. What I'm describing is a highly simplified version, stripped of numerous details and formulas," Kayneth clarified, gesturing dismissively. Naturally, he had to omit most of the complexities and reduce the explanations to a beginner's level. "Most wizards, I imagine, don't need to know these details. To use a spell, you only need a compatible wand, practiced skill, and a vivid imagination. I, for instance, don't know the internal workings of a telephone or the difference between rotary and push-button models, but that doesn't stop me from making a call. You don't need to understand the mechanics of conceptual influence to cast Alohomora and change a 'locked' state into an 'unlocked' one. But, as with anything, if you want to know more than the basics, you have to study independently."
"Strange to hear that coming from someone planning to attend school," Hermione remarked. "You know, James, you could learn on your own or with tutors instead of joining the rest of us."
"I know. But I'm a first-generation wizard living in ordinary London. For the next seven years, I'm not allowed to perform magic at home. The accidental magic will subside in a year or two, and then there'll be no practice—no spells, not even potion-making. Renting a place in a magic-sealed area or traveling daily to a training hall is prohibitively expensive. School offers resources and teachers all in one place. Besides, I could ask you the same question."
"What?"
"From what you've told me—about tests, grades, and exams—you're one of the top students in your year, across all four houses, even outperforming heirs of pureblood families. That either means the aristocracy has declined, or you're clever enough to surpass them. You could study independently too."
"I wasn't trying to boast…" Hermione stammered, realizing how James had interpreted her earlier explanation. Her face flushed. "I didn't mean to come across that way."
"Why be embarrassed? If you're smarter than others, you should use it to your advantage."
"It's not like I…" She cut herself off, then regrouped. "Never mind. To be honest, I never considered studying alone. There's too much in school that's fascinating to pass up. Besides, there are good people there too—not everyone cares who my parents are."
"And your plans for the future? You're moving into your second year now, but the first significant exams are in fifth year. By then, you should have a sense of what branch of magic to focus on, what specialization to pursue. With no family legacy or predefined path, you can choose freely, based on your talents and interests."
"You know, I haven't thought about it much. They teach us what we need to know as wizards. There's time to figure out a career later."
"It seems to me they only teach the basics," Kayneth said, tapping a finger on her magical theory textbook. "Fundamentals—preparing generalists in a few disciplines. The wand allows for that flexibility. But there are many schools of magic underdeveloped, banned, or unused in Britain. Even among the existing disciplines, the emphasis is on training 'average wizards'—jacks of all trades, masters of none. After that, I imagine options are limited: Ministry work, Auror training, Healer preparation, independent study, or just living in the magical world with the skills you've learned. Before Hogwarts, you spent four or five years in a regular school. Surely you had plans for college or university?"
"Of course I did. Finish school, get a degree, maybe even a Ph.D., and work in a lab. You know…" Hermione hesitated, her tone becoming sheepish. Kayneth barely restrained a smirk at hearing such a preface from a twelve-year-old. "When I was younger, it was a bit embarrassing, but I always dreamed reality might secretly be science fiction. That there were aliens hidden among us, like in the comics, or that we could visit other planets. Instead, it turns out reality is fantasy—thankfully without orcs. But we had our own Dark Lord, even if he lacked a tower. It's amazing how much truth turned out to resemble myths, rumors, and cartoons."
"Sorry, what?" Kayneth's initial indulgence gave way to alarm as the last statement struck him. "What do you mean, myths?"
"When I was a child, I read countless fairy tales until I got tired of them by the time I was five," Hermione began. "They almost always featured a witch with a broom, a pointed hat, and a black cloak, brewing potions in a cauldron, accompanied by a bat, a black cat, or an owl. Then there were the fairies with magic wands, muttering nonsense to turn pumpkins into carriages or people into living clocks or chairs. I don't recall anything about magic trains, but those were probably invented much later, after the Statute of Secrecy was established, when stories about witches and wizards became less widespread."
"An interesting thought," Kayneth remarked. "A fascinating idea, Miss Granger. One worth pondering."
"Oh, it's nothing special," Hermione waved it off. "Just a modern interpretation of classic tales, most likely originating in folklore long before the separation of wizards and Muggles, later recorded by people like Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, Andersen, and others. Perfectly logical."
"Too logical, perhaps," the magus mused. "So much so that it's suspicious. Still, it's more of a mental exercise—finding coincidences and their causes. But let's return to the topic at hand. You had plans for higher education and a scientific career, but you gave them up upon discovering magic. Yet if you have no clear plans for life in the magical world after school, what stops you from taking ordinary exams as an external student and enrolling in university? Perhaps in chemistry or biology—fields that would complement the study of magic."
"But…" Hermione faltered, clearly never having considered this possibility. "But that's impossible!"
"Why? You could brew toads in a cauldron by blindly following recipes, or you could invent new potions with an understanding of valence and molar mass."
"But they wouldn't let me," Hermione replied hesitantly.
"Who wouldn't? As far as I know, at seventeen, you'll be considered an adult witch with full rights. That same year, you'll take your school exams, and after that, you won't owe anyone anything. You could experiment with poltergeists at home or write a dissertation at Oxford. As long as you don't violate the Statute of Secrecy or turn your professors to stone, what's stopping you? I've already looked into this myself, studying magical and non-magical laws. I believe your abilities would make that path just as viable for you. Though, admittedly, magic might prove too fascinating to distract yourself with mundane degrees."
From the astonished look on Hermione's face, it was clear that the idea had genuinely never occurred to her. She'd become deeply entrenched in the magical world, accepting its insularity, self-sufficiency, and dismissal of Muggle progress as uninteresting—even if she outwardly criticized such attitudes. Add to that the weight of tradition—the pervasive "that's not how it's done." Perhaps in three years, she would've come to this realization on her own, but for now, he could plant the idea and broaden her perspective a little. And gauge her reaction.
"Completing ordinary school remotely while studying magic sounds difficult," Hermione admitted.
"Challenging, but doable with effort. At least, that's how it seems to me. But it's your decision—I'm merely speculating about possibilities," Kayneth said, seemingly offhand, satisfied that the idea of applying scientific methods to magic would at least be considered and not dismissed outright. Steering the conversation toward its conclusion, he added, "Well, as for the school itself, I believe I've covered all my questions for now. Your lecture was quite detailed for such a minor obligation."
"It feels like you told me more than I told you," Hermione said, flustered. She was accustomed to praise from teachers, but hearing it from a peer was unusual. Her classmates were more likely to call her a know-it-all. "The idea of concepts within spells explains so much at once."
"It's just theory from textbooks. And theory is lifeless without practice. Unfortunately, I lag behind any first-year student in that regard. I'd love to learn more about using wands and preparation techniques, but I've already taken enough of your time today. Maybe next time?"
Kayneth had multiple plans for this meeting depending on the outcomes and information gathered. He'd long realized the importance of integrating himself into the local magical community as soon as possible. But he couldn't simply stroll through the magical quarter introducing himself to random people. Such behavior was, firstly, undignified, and secondly, inefficient. Connections were essential—someone had to introduce him to other wizards as was customary. Unfortunately, he had few such connections.
Fletcher could only grant access to the underworld, where associating with him in respectable society would be unthinkable. Tonks, while a promising contact, had too large a gap in age and status. While maintaining that relationship was prudent, she wasn't likely to introduce him to others, believing that school would handle all his needs. And though her family connections—Black, Malfoy, Lestrange—were impressive, her mother's marriage to a first-generation wizard had severed those ties.
Now, however, he had an opportunity to integrate into the community through the Muggle-born group if Hermione introduced him to her social circle, however small it might be. True, this approach largely excluded access to old pureblood families, but he had already decided not to bow to them, begging for a place at their table. If he established even minimal connections among peers, he could always switch allegiances should a more advantageous option arise. Even among the pureblood elite, there might be eccentric individuals willing to deal with a "Mudblood" if they offered something valuable—however slim those chances seemed.
While Luna Lovegood remained a potential contact, Kayneth found her personality too erratic to rely on for something important. Hermione, by contrast, was easier to predict and engage. She lacked knowledge of the magical world's structure and logic, something he could partially provide. Maintaining this connection was crucial, and he already had plans forming around her.
"Gladly. I rarely get a chance to discuss magic with anyone," Hermione replied, as expected. "My parents don't have the time to delve deeply into it—they have their own work—and I can't exactly show them everything in practice. Outside Hogwarts, I don't have friends I can trust with such an important secret. And among my classmates, few take the time to really understand it all. Most are more interested in when the next Quidditch match is and who's playing against whom."
"I simply can't comprehend how magic can be wasted on something so completely impractical."
"Exactly! But it's tradition. Personally, I think if the school held inter-house quizzes on individual subjects instead, with house points as rewards, it would be so much more beneficial."
"I'm glad we see eye to eye on this. I was starting to think this madness had infected everyone."
"No, no, I'm an exception," Hermione assured him. She gathered her books, notebooks, and scrolls back into the same unwieldy bag, tucked it away behind the librarian's desk, and then unlocked the door to the corridor, still silent and deserted. "Come on, I'll walk you to the exit. And then, I suppose, we'll keep in touch."
"It'd be simpler to call," the magus replied, following her. "Or do you also have some aversion to phones and an odd fondness for birds?"
"Not at all. I'm just used to it. Most of my school acquaintances live in magi—" she stopped mid-sentence and glanced around cautiously, even though the corridor was still empty. She corrected herself anyway: "In closed communities or just prefer their own postal system over the regular one. Except for Harry—he insisted on owl post, but he still hasn't replied even once. Anyway, that's not important. We'll figure it out. Well, goodbye for now, Murphy."
"Goodbye, Miss Granger. I'll be waiting for your call."
Last edited: Mar 3, 2025
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Johnny_Z
Mar 3, 2025
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Johnny_Z
Mar 3, 2025
#186
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his "laboratory," Kayneth methodically worked through a sequence of spells with his newly acquired wand.
"Aguamenti… Glacius… Leviosa… Diffindo… Evanesco…"
With a measured focus, he conjured a small amount of water in a bowl from a recently purchased alchemical set, froze it into solid ice, levitated the frozen block, sliced it into smaller pieces, and finally made the fragments vanish without a trace. The process was slow and deliberate, but it required only a minimal expenditure of his magical energy.
Letting out a sigh, Archibald set the mystic code aside and opened his own magic circuits, bracing against the familiar pain. Stretching his palm over the bowl, he murmured:
"Gradation Air."
Once again, he created water, froze it, levitated it, and then made it vanish. Materialization posed little difficulty—manipulating his elemental affinity for ice was coming to him naturally. Telekinesis, however, proved trickier; compensating for all the external forces acting on an object "manually" was far more challenging. When it came to slicing, the task became downright arduous.
Among magi of the Association, the preferred method for cutting was to form a tangible blade with magic—air, sand, ice, water, metal, or even light. Rarely did they resort to curses or conceptual attacks designed to sever the target directly. By contrast, dematerializing an object to reclaim some of the energy expended in creating it was a relatively simple task.
The core of his issue was glaringly clear. Kayneth was an adult magus with an established style and a set of honed mysteries deeply ingrained in his consciousness and reflexes. While he was open to exploring new forms and methods of magic as a researcher, learning to execute them instinctively was another matter entirely.
Everything about this process was alien to him—the gestures, the mindset, the energy manipulation. Archibald wasn't a "one-trick pony" magus, as some were. He was a master of three distinct disciplines, with a broad enough knowledge base to competently teach others, but the way magic was channeled and utilized in this world clashed with his existing repertoire. Simply integrating local techniques wasn't feasible.
"Aguamenti," he repeated.
A clear image of the desired outcome formed in his mind. He followed with a precise gesture, the mystic code drawing ambient mana to the spell. A short incantation stabilized the process, allowing the magic circuits to interact seamlessly and complete the mystery. Once more, water filled the bowl.
Fundamentally, the spell was akin to "Gradation Air," materializing magical energy into a tangible, familiar form. The difference lay in its limitations—it could produce only water. Drinking it was pointless; the liquid would either dissipate or pass through the body without effect. However, it could be frozen into ice, fashioned into a weapon, or used to douse flames and break obstacles.
For over a week, Kayneth had been experimenting with the local mystic code, which was ubiquitous in this world. The results were... mixed. As a mana concentrator and amplifier, the wand was exceptional, rivaling relics from the Age of Gods. With it, Kayneth could execute mysteries effectively, but the process was painfully slow. Each spell demanded prolonged concentration, leaving him vulnerable in any potential duel or combat scenario.
If he wanted to pass as a local wizard and establish himself in the magical community, he would need to rebuild his reflexes from scratch. This meant selecting a core set of spells to master first, a daunting task given the vast repertoire even within the British school of magic. Creating his own spells was another possibility, but first, he needed to adapt.
However, part of him resisted. The idea of conforming to the local methods felt like surrender, as if he were erasing what little remained of his former self. Kayneth had already lost nearly everything—his fiancee had died in his arms, his noble family was likely in ruins, and their crest, crafted over centuries, was obliterated. His magical power was reduced to a fraction of its former strength. His wealth, status, influence, and even his face and name were gone.
All that remained were his knowledge, skills, and the remnants of pride as Lord El-Melloi, the ninth head of the Archibald family, a scholar and instructor of the Clock Tower. That sliver of pride, which he had once cast aside, now anchored him. It was the only thing stopping him from ending it all—from throwing himself off a bridge or freezing his blood with a short aria.
The refusal to yield to circumstances a second time, however faint, kept him moving forward. Even as a "Muggle-born," a "mudblood," despised and powerless in this society, he persisted.
Had he been born into even a modestly respected family, his path would have been less arduous. Presenting himself as the heir to a minor lineage would have made navigating the social hierarchy far easier. But no such opportunity existed. The global magical community was too small for an unknown seventh-generation pureblood to emerge from nowhere. Any fabricated lineage would quickly be exposed by the Confederation of Wizards.
And so, he had to maintain his facade as an eager novice, quietly amassing knowledge and strength for his eventual ascent. Anything less was unacceptable.
He picked up the wand again and stared at it with grim determination. If he was to play the part of a wizard, he would become one of the most talked-about wizards on this island—at the very least. Anything less was beneath him.
"Aguamenti… Glacius… Mobiliarbus Aqua… Engorgio… Waddiwasi… Evanesco…"
Late into the night, Kayneth's work was interrupted by the arrival of MacDuggal. The squib stepped into the library, a large, empty sports bag slung over one shoulder. Kayneth hadn't activated the barrier on the door, allowing MacDuggal to enter unimpeded. Without looking up, the magus gestured toward a "demonstration" table, where a collection of trinkets and small metallic objects were already prepared for him.
MacDuggal obediently began filling his bag, but instead of leaving immediately, he dropped onto a low stool near the desk and spoke with deliberate weight:
"Don't mean to interrupt, James, but we've got a problem. There's trouble brewing, and it could land right on our doorstep."
Kayneth, seated amidst five open books, reluctantly paused his calculations and looked up. "What sort of trouble?"
"Nothing solid yet, just whispers. But from reliable sources. Word is, someone knifed a big shot's son at an exclusive club—one of those fancy places with top-tier security, cameras everywhere, bouncers who'll pat you down like prison guards. The kind of place where you can't sneak in so much as a hairpin. What's got people talking is the weapon. The wound was likely made with one of your blades—the ones I sold. Only problem is, it ended up in the hands of some bumbling idiot who couldn't even finish the job properly. Unless that was the plan all along, and it's the work of some lunatic," MacDuggal shrugged.
"None of that matters. The real issue is the aftermath. People are looking for answers, and the trail's leading back here. Right now, it's just the club's 'management' sniffing around—they're embarrassed it happened on their turf, so they're scrambling to save face. But if that kid's father decides this was a personal attack on him, things could escalate fast. That's when we'll have real problems."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. MacDuggal," Kayneth began with feigned politeness, his irritation clear, "but isn't handling clients, orders, and misunderstandings entirely your domain? And since when is a weapons dealer responsible for how a buyer uses the merchandise? This isn't law enforcement we're dealing with."
"In theory, you're right," MacDuggal admitted, leaning back. "And just so you know, we're not out here naked with a bag of goods. I pay my dues to the people who matter—a tidy 'tax' for the privilege of doing business, even with the esoteric stuff. And we've got protection—one of the stronger 'umbrellas' in London. They take care of competitors and the police if they dig too deep."
"Then why am I listening to this?" Kayneth asked sharply, his patience thinning. "Why waste my time with something outside my interests, especially when it's already being handled by the people you're paying for that very purpose?"
"I said 'in theory,'" MacDuggal repeated patiently, as though explaining to a child. He'd learned over the past few months that James' understanding of certain things could be… detached. "Everyone would want to say that agreements between bosses are ironclad, unbreakable. But in reality? The powerful break rules whenever they want if they think they can get away with it.
"No one knows exactly what went down or how serious it was, which means no one knows what the fallout could be. Worst case? They'll come at us, ignore all the rules, maybe try to pressure us. In other words, they'll lean on us hard, maybe even threaten us, ignoring any agreements. If they see it as the lesser evil to protect their reputation, they'll do it. I'm small-time—my operation isn't big enough to warrant a sit-down between the bosses. They'd rather squash me, pay my 'umbrella' an apology, and move on. They're not starting a gang war or shaking up alliances over someone at my level. They'll resolve it between themselves, but by then, I'll already be out of the picture."
"What exactly do you want from me?" Kayneth asked, his head beginning to ache from the constant barrage of underworld slang. "More weapons? Defensive items? You already have a bracelet with an air shield, and I doubt you even take it off when you sleep."
"No. We wouldn't stand a chance in a real fight—not even with all your fancy tricks," MacDuggal replied bluntly, ignoring the glare Kayneth shot him. "I've already informed the right people, and hopefully, they'll settle things at their level. But we still need to be prepared for something underhanded. They might send a couple of thugs with nothing to lose—to silence us quietly."
"So what do you want me to do?" Kayneth asked again, more tired than angry now.
"Just be cautious. James, whether you're really who you claim to be or not, you're an ideal target for kidnapping. If they're tailing me, they might not even know your role in all this. Hell, they could think you're just my mistress and her kid stashed in a flat," MacDuggal said dryly. "Kidnapping you would be a great way to pressure me."
"Even better than you realize," Kayneth muttered darkly, memories of hostage situations flashing through his mind.
"Glad to see you're catching on," MacDuggal said, not entirely missing Kayneth's tone. "If you can't limit your trips to Whittington, at least take someone with you. Like the driver I had pick you up after that explosion—he can keep an eye on you until this blows over. We'll see where things stand once the higher-ups finish their talks."
"It's unnecessary. I can take care of myself," Kayneth said firmly, rejecting the offer of a guard. "Especially when it's not a matter of life or death. Haven't I already shown that I'm more than capable of protecting myself?"
"Situations can vary. Besides, you're not allowed to use magic in front of witnesses," MacDuggal countered.
"And your thug is allowed to pull out a gun in the middle of London? This isn't Somalia," Kayneth replied with a sharp edge.
"As I said, situations can vary," MacDuggal repeated patiently. "At least think about it."
"If I have the time, but I doubt I'll come to a different conclusion," Kayneth dismissed the warning with a wave of his hand.
"Fine… If you're so confident in your abilities. But I'm assigning someone to guard this apartment regardless. Even if you can lock yourself in here, Miss Stone remains unprotected, and she knows things. Don't argue."
"If it makes you feel better, what can I do? Just keep them out of my affairs, and I don't care otherwise."
"Good. The guard will start tonight. If you need an escort, just call, and I'll send someone immediately."
"Fine, fine. If I need one, I'll let you know," Kayneth replied, exasperated.
"Good to hear. Well, with that settled, I'll take my leave."
"Wait," Kayneth said, stopping him. His tone turned serious. "Answer one question first. I need more data for my analysis."
"Yeah? What's it about?" MacDuggal asked, intrigued.
"What's the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word 'wizard,' Mr. MacDuggal?"
"You're kidding, right?" MacDuggal stared, incredulous. After all the serious discussion about threats and danger, this was the follow-up question? Maybe he'd misjudged James' maturity after all.
"This is an important question. Take it seriously. I've already asked Miss Stone and a few others through her, but I need a larger sample."
"…Why?" MacDuggal asked, still bewildered. But then he recalled how James never engaged in idle chatter with his 'stepmother,' sticking strictly to business. If he'd discussed this with her, it must be relevant to some arcane aspect of his research. "Fine, whatever. A wizard, huh? Okay… An old guy in a robe and pointed hat, usually with a long beard. He's got a staff or a wand. Alternatively, maybe a broody gothic type in his twenties, dressed in all black, but that's more of a 'sorcerer' or 'warlock.' Both can do all kinds of magical stuff—summon fire, make things disappear or appear out of nowhere. Turn people into frogs or tree stumps, curse them, or heal diseases. They show up out of nowhere, babble some cryptic nonsense, and then vanish again. Usually, they carry a magic book or scroll. And they live alone in a tower."
"Interesting. And what about 'witch'?"
"A hag. Old, ugly, covered in warts, maybe with a hunchback. Or the opposite—a stunning young woman, usually a redhead or a brunette," MacDuggal replied without much hesitation. "Wears a black cloak or dress, sometimes a pointed hat, flies around on a broomstick. Brews nasty stuff in a cauldron—mushrooms, fingernails, whatever. Keeps a talking black cat or an owl. Can curse people too, but their magic is weaker than a wizard's. They live in forests or swamps, places no one in their right mind would go."
"Fascinating. So far, this aligns pretty consistently. Thank you, Mr. MacDuggal. You've been helpful. I won't keep you any longer."
"Sure, no problem," MacDuggal replied with a shrug. As he left, he thought again about how peculiar the magus was. On his way out, he asked Miss Stone if James had actually talked to her about something like this. Meanwhile, Kayneth, oblivious to the exchange, had already plunged back into his thoughts.
Since his conversation with Granger, he had become genuinely interested in how wizards and witches were perceived in the mundane world. It seemed trivial at first glance, but it might hold the key to an answer that had eluded him.
In the Clock Tower, two mechanisms for amplifying magical power were often discussed: secrecy and openness. A spell or ritual could grow stronger the fewer people knew about it—hence why the most potent mysteries were family secrets, confined within a single bloodline. Conversely, certain disciplines like alchemy or exorcism became more powerful the more practitioners studied and refined them.
For non-magical people, the activities of the Association remained a mystery. Any incidents or breakthroughs were swiftly erased by enforcers or executors of the Church, relegated to rumors or urban legends. But here, it seemed wizards had chosen a different path. They either shaped their lives and image to match popular folklore or manipulated cultural depictions to align with their reality.
It wasn't hard to imagine the Ministry of Magic being incapable of such subtlety, but wizards in the U.S., where much of the world's films, TV shows, and books were produced, might have actively curated their portrayal in mass culture.
The goal, as always, would be the same: enhancing their power. The beliefs and perceptions of ordinary people might carry less metaphysical weight than those of magi, but there were far more of them. This principle was similar to how Heroic Spirits summoned for the Holy Grail War grew stronger based on their renown in history and myth. The more famous and embedded a figure was in the collective consciousness of the current generation, the greater their abilities.
If the local wizards—deliberately or not—harnessed this mechanism to strengthen certain mysteries, it could theoretically explain much. The proliferation of flight, the astonishingly low "cost" of teleportation, the hundreds, if not thousands, of familiar-like owls capable of near-instantaneous travel, and other phenomena suddenly seemed less fantastical.
Perhaps even the enchanted fireplaces were connected, though no one he'd questioned had mentioned them yet. Maybe their function tied back to some larger ritual structure…
To validate these conclusions, Kayneth knew he would need to conduct a series of experiments. First, he would attempt to recreate commonly used magical mysteries without their external trappings and then compare their effectiveness, calculating the theoretical influence of human belief as a coefficient. But that was a project for the future. For now, the basic hypothesis was sufficient for planning the application of "popular" mysteries like instant teleportation and flight, as well as exploring their integration with other spells and rituals. These experiments would also yield the necessary practical material to refine his theoretical framework.
Perhaps in the future, he might involve other wizards in this research, assuming he could pique their interest in the idea. Magi born to non-magical families might be more receptive—it would be far easier to persuade them to brew potions in aluminum pots over a Bunsen burner, under electric lights, dressed in lab coats, and recording the process on camera, than to explain to an aristocrat what a video camera even was or how the aforementioned burner didn't run on elderwood twigs.
Speaking of magi born to non-magical families—today was July 16th. That meant in two days, on Saturday, he had his third scheduled meeting with Granger to discuss the magical world and magical theory. So far, this arrangement had proven productive. In exchange for explaining various mechanisms of magic, Hermione eagerly shared information about British wizarding society—its concerns, its trending topics, albeit from her personal perspective and limited by her interests. She also provided advice on practical uses for wands in spells, classroom settings, and even for entertainment, along with insights into the daily life of magical school students. Granted, her perspective was significantly biased against pureblood families, but her reasons for such views were not without merit.
The next step in his plan was approaching. Hermione had mentioned that at the start of August, after receiving her mandatory letter, she planned to invite friends and go shopping for school supplies along with many other students. This was a moment Kayneth couldn't afford to miss. He fully intended to accompany her, even if it meant swallowing his pride and "inviting himself along." The chance to observe the current generation of wizards up close was far too tempting to pass up.
Closing the notebook he'd been using to study the theory of "cultural influence" on the amplification of magic, Kayneth considered what might capture Granger's curiosity next time. 'Perhaps I could introduce the concept of partial materialization,' he mused, his gaze falling on a dagger hilt lying among his work tools—its guard intact but its blade missing. Then again, during their last discussion, she had surprised him by asking if a conceptual spell could be used on an object with the same concept to enhance rather than overwrite it. He hadn't expected her to draw such a conclusion but had confirmed that it was indeed possible. Perhaps their next session could focus on the mystery of Reinforcement, and they could explore how to adapt it for use with wands.
If someone had told him six months ago that the heir of the Archibald family would be experimenting with spells alongside a first-generation magus, he would have laughed in their face. Yet here he was. If he wanted to achieve anything from his current, precarious position, he would have to accept such realities.
"Mr. Granger. Mrs. Granger. A pleasure to meet you."
"So, you're the new friend Hermione's been talking about? James, right? She's not forcing you to listen to all her thoughts on her latest books, is she?" her father asked in a mock-serious tone, shaking the boy's hand.
"Your daughter was kind enough to help me prepare for school, Mr. Granger. A remarkably generous gesture on her part," Kayneth replied smoothly.
This polite exchange played out near the entrance to the magical quarter, where Kayneth waited for Hermione, who had chosen to shop for her school supplies with her family. It wasn't as though she needed them to come along—she frequently visited Diagon Alley alone and paid for her books herself. Her parents couldn't offer much practical advice here. Perhaps it was their way of showing interest in their daughter's life? Kayneth couldn't say. Growing up in an old magical family, he had little idea what it was like to live among people utterly ignorant of magic. Wizards and non-magical people led such different lives, facing vastly different challenges.
"Alright, enough with the teasing! Let's go!" Hermione said, blushing as she grabbed her parents' hands and practically dragged them toward the door, making sure they didn't veer off under the influence of the barrier. Kayneth followed them at a leisurely pace, saying nothing.
"I can never get used to this," Mrs. Granger remarked, not for the first time. "Your legs want to go one way, but you're supposed to walk straight ahead. Such an odd sensation!" She handed a bundle to her daughter. "Here's your robe, sweetheart. I don't see why you need to wear these in this heat."
"It's tradition," Hermione replied glumly, quickly pulling the black fabric over her sweater and adjusting it so her house crest was prominently displayed. Then she turned to James. "And you're going dressed like that?"
"I don't see why not," Kayneth replied, looking over his outfit. Back in July, preparing for a "public appearance" and growing tired of the stares his "non-magical" jacket drew in the magical quarter, he had ordered a custom-made coat from a boutique in Diagon Alley. It was a copy of his favorite cloak—thin, with wide sleeves and long tails, in dark blue (adjusted for his current size, of course). In his opinion, it was stylish enough not to draw attention in either mundane London or its magical counterpart. If anyone failed to appreciate the understated elegance of a well-tailored garment, that was their problem, not his. "I doubt I'll stand out in the crowd."
"Hermione, maybe you should consider a dress styled like a robe? It would look lovely with your uniform," her mother suggested.
"Mum, don't start." Hermione groaned. "Besides, something like that would cost a fortune."
"Better to spend that money on books…"
"What was that, Dad?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
Their first stop was the bank. Hermione wasn't accustomed to carrying large sums of wizarding gold and exchanged her pounds for galleons each time she visited. Kayneth stayed slightly behind, letting Hermione explain everything to her parents. What held his attention was the sheer chaos in the normally bustling quarter. Children and teenagers of all ages—except the very young—filled the streets, accompanied by their parents, older siblings, or guardians. Narrow streets and small shops, never designed to handle such crowds, only added to the congestion. Kayneth shuddered at the thought of what this place must be like in late August, when procrastinators rushed to complete their shopping at the last minute.
Besides exchanging currency, the bank was also the designated meeting point for everyone else.
"It looks like we're the first ones here. I don't see anyone else yet," Hermione remarked, glancing around. She quickly dashed up the small steps to the bank's entrance, trying to get a better view over the crowd.
Kayneth sighed, watching her. At the moment, even a twelve-year-old girl was half a head taller than he was. Adjusting to a height below six feet had been almost as difficult as adapting to weaker magic circuits and the loss of a family crest. He had somewhat acclimated to the changes, but it was still a struggle to look up at everyone around him. Fortunately, he'd grow out of it with time, though enduring several years like this would still be a trial.
"Harry! Over here!" Hermione suddenly called out, waving excitedly and disappearing into the crowd.
Taking her place on the steps, Kayneth noted that the elevated position indeed offered a decent view. He watched as Hermione ran toward a messy-haired boy wearing glasses, who stood next to a towering figure over seven feet tall, with a thick beard that nearly obscured his eyes. The man's appearance matched her description of a school employee descended from both humans and giants. In a different time and place, Kayneth would have eagerly studied such a hybrid in detail. The combination of immense strength, resilience, high magical resistance, and even rudimentary human intelligence offered fascinating possibilities.
In his original world, giants, ogres, and other jotunn hadn't survived the Age of Heroes, apart from a few rare relics. Hybrids like this simply didn't exist there. With such a base, one could craft anything from chimeras to high-quality undead, especially if enhanced further with magic and rituals. The potential for creating a familiar with human-like size, excellent magical resistance, high combat abilities, and decent trainability was tempting to say the least.
Kayneth's thoughts were interrupted when a group of wizards joined Hermione. Most of them had bright red hair, and their clothing, while clean, was old and patched—surprisingly so, given the existence of household spells for repair and upkeep. Meanwhile, the half-giant departed, cutting through the crowd with ease. Hermione led the group toward the bank, where a round of introductions began. Her parents, apparently meeting her school friends and their families for the first time, were being introduced to everyone.
"These are my parents, Thomas and Michelle Granger. And this is Arthur and Molly Weasley," Hermione began, introducing the adults first before moving on. "This is Percival, Fred, and George—or is it George and Fred?—Ronald, Ginevra Weasley, and Harry Potter." She pointed to the lone dark-haired boy among the group of redheads. Then, as if remembering belatedly, she added, "Oh, and that's James Murphy, my acquaintance."
"I prefer the term 'apprentice,' Miss Granger," Kayneth corrected politely, descending the steps toward them. "There's no need to shy away from calling it what it is. After all, the work of a teacher, though challenging, is noble."
"Oh, young lady, you're taking on students after just one year of school?" Arthur Weasley quipped, pretending to be astonished as he noticed Hermione turning red. "It seems Professor McGonagall needn't worry about finding a worthy successor."
"Seriously, Hermione, I knew from your letter that you were busy with your studies, but I didn't think you'd gone so far as to start teaching others. That's over the top, even for you," Ron chimed in, sounding entirely sincere.
"I'm only helping him prepare for our school!" Hermione exclaimed, her cheeks glowing. She pointed at Kayneth with an almost accusatory finger. "He's a Muggle-born like me and knows practically nothing about our world or how it works. And don't tell me that Ministry pamphlet counts as a proper introduction to the magical world… Oh, sorry, Mr. Weasley."
"It's quite alright," Arthur dismissed her concern with a wave. "I've always said we need to be more welcoming and open toward Muggle-born wizards. It's not the Dark Ages anymore. But unfortunately, the Ministry is full of people who love flaunting their names and lineage—like the Malfoys…"
"Speaking of, I just saw Lucius Malfoy and Draco in a shop in Knockturn Alley," Harry interjected.
"Did you?" Arthur immediately grew serious. "What were they buying?"
"Actually, it looked like they were selling something…"
Listening intently to the conversation about the fraught relationships between the Ministry and pureblood families, Kayneth quietly stepped away to avoid drawing attention. Half his objective was already complete. By August, he had concluded that he'd been fortunate to encounter Hermione Granger. By first-year standards—and especially as a first-generation magus—she was remarkably gifted. More importantly, she possessed a relentless curiosity about magic. There might be students even more talented among the hundreds of those entering Hogwarts, but expecting to find such a candidate would be tempting fate—something Kayneth had learned not to do. Hermione knew an impressive amount for her age and was eager to share it with anyone who showed interest. If he maintained contact with her, then in a year, when it came time for him to enter the school, no one would question how this so-called Muggle-born had acquired so much knowledge. Advanced magical theory might still raise eyebrows, but at least the basics would have a plausible foundation—he could always cite books, just as Hermione did.
Meanwhile, the group split up. The Weasleys, along with Harry, descended to the lower levels of the bank to access their vaults, while the Grangers stayed upstairs to exchange their pounds for wizarding gold at the goblin counters. Kayneth mused on how goblins—mythical creatures thriving in the heart of 20th-century London—had become so ordinary to him that they no longer provoked the same awe as when he first arrived. Although he wouldn't pass up the chance to dissect a few goblins for academic purposes, the opportunity wasn't likely to present itself. He could only hope that advanced years at Hogwarts included a detailed study of magical creatures, perhaps with anatomical specimens for hands-on work. But that, he admitted, might be asking too much.
As soon as the wizards returned from the bank's lower levels, the group began splitting up. The red-haired twins darted off toward the shops, Mr. Weasley pulled the Grangers toward the nearest pub to chat about "Muggle matters," and the others found their own activities. Mrs. Weasley, determined to bring some order to the chaos, stepped in to organize the group.
"In an hour, everyone meets at the bookshop to buy school supplies," she instructed firmly. "And no wandering into Knockturn Alley—this applies to all of you."
"James?" Hermione, about to head off with Ron and Harry to browse the shops, paused and gestured for him to join them.
"I wouldn't want to intrude on a reunion of friends, so I'll let you go on your own," Kayneth replied. He turned to Mr. Weasley instead. "Mr. Weasley, if it's not an inconvenience, may I accompany you?"
"Not at all! The more Muggles, the merrier. With my job, I rarely get a proper conversation with even one, let alone three. Come along, let's not linger."
In the dimly lit pub, illuminated only by candles and a few weak magical spells, Kayneth was seated at an old wooden table. Before him was placed a glass of soda, while Mr. Weasley fetched an oddly colored beer for himself and the Grangers, firmly refusing their attempts to pay. Manners came first, even in the face of modest means. Arthur immediately launched into a barrage of questions, starting with what Muggle bars were like, what drinks they served, and then jumping to Muggle sports and politics—topics that seemed common subjects for bar conversations, as well as causes of the occasional chair-throwing brawl.
Kayneth mostly stayed quiet. Playing the part of a young boy unfamiliar with bars, football, or parliamentary debates came easily. Mr. Granger ended up fielding the bulk of Arthur's enthusiastic curiosity. Kayneth couldn't help but feel irritated by the segregation enforced by the Statute of Secrecy and the magical community's disdain for technological progress. But Arthur's wide-eyed interest in the Muggle world—his almost childlike delight in hearing about the Conservative Party's victory over Labour in April—softened that irritation. It was so genuine that Kayneth briefly considered what might happen if Arthur learned that Muggles had also invented mustard gas and carpet bombing. Would his fascination survive the revelation?
"…You know," Arthur said wistfully, "I often dream of taking all the unused vacation days I've accumulated over the last decade, then arranging for someone to find me unconscious on a beach somewhere. They'd take me to a hospital as a John Doe with amnesia, and I'd have six glorious months of asking endless questions. I'd learn how everything works in the Muggle world—why they do some things one way and not another. But where would I find the time? I can't even take a week off, let alone months."
"If you're serious about such a 'vacation,' I could help," Mr. Granger offered earnestly. "I know plenty of doctors. The treatment a hospital gives a random vagrant versus a distant relative of a colleague with memory loss is worlds apart."
"Mr. Weasley, if I may," Kayneth interjected, seizing a lull in the conversation to steer it toward something more intriguing, "you work at the Ministry, don't you? May I ask what your role is? Are you, perhaps, an Auror?"
"Ministry, yes. Auror, no," Arthur replied with a dismissive wave. "We're on the same floor, sure, but my job's far less glamorous. I head the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office."
"Oh, fascinating," said Kayneth, the magus who profited from such misuse, feigning genuine interest. "So you're the head of the entire office?"
"Well, it sounds impressive," Arthur admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "But it's just me and one other person. I've been asking Amelia for additional staff for years, but it's a low-priority department. We're not chasing Dark artifacts or hunting rabid werewolves. No, it's all about cleaning up after some joker enchants a staircase in the Underground to act like a slide with a 'Glisseo' charm. Two dozen Muggles break their arms and legs, but hey, they didn't die. A few days in the hospital, a bit of Skelegro and they're back on their feet. No harm done, right?"
"Muggles don't have Skellegro, unfortunately," Mrs. Granger pointed out dryly.
"True, true. But my superiors don't care about those details. Or take that case of the student who enchanted his walking stick to act as an umbrella. Great idea, right? Except someone nicked it at the train station. We spent two days running around London trying to track it down before any Muggles saw it in action. Otherwise, Obliviators would've had to work overtime erasing memories."
"How does it even work?" Kayneth inquired, growing more interested. The more he learned about the Ministry's inefficiencies, the more reassured he felt about the safety of his and MacDuggal's ventures. "If you're part of the 'Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office,' does that mean there's such a thing as approved use? Say I wanted to enchant a fountain pen so it never runs out of ink—would that be legal?"
"There's a guidebook, Compendium of Permitted Enchantments and Charms, about this thick," Arthur spread his fingers to illustrate its size. "It covers all sorts of things dating back to Arthurian times, if not Roman chariots. Anything listed there, wizards can enchant however they like. But of course, they can't pass it on to or display it to Muggles—unless it's to a trusted Muggle like you folks. For anything not in the compendium, you'd need to file for approval or lobby to have the item added. Otherwise, it's a fine and confiscation."
"Hermione mentioned that wizards have both a train and a bus service," Kayneth noted.
"Correct. Both are Ministry-run, so they gave themselves permission to enchant them. It's far harder for individual wizards to get approval. But you're interested in enchanting, young man?" Arthur asked kindly.
"For now, only in theory," Kayneth replied. "I can't even buy a wand yet. But I'd like to give it a try when I start school."
"Write if you need advice. I've seen enough charms in my line of work to fill a couple of guidebooks. I won't pretend to be modest—I know my way around them," said Arthur.
"I'd be most grateful, sir," Kayneth replied sincerely.
"By the way, aren't we running late?" Mr. Granger asked suddenly, checking his watch.
When they arrived at the bookshop, they were indeed late. A massive crowd had gathered in front of the building, something Kayneth had never seen before. Apparently, a popular author from the magical world was making an appearance today, and their fans were swarming the store in a near frenzy. The bright red hair of the Weasley children could already be spotted inside through the windows, meaning the rest of their group had arrived earlier.
The four latecomers made their way to the door, only to cross paths with a tall, blond wizard emerging from the crowd. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black robe adorned with silver accents and carrying a cane topped with an ornate silver handle, he exuded an air of superiority. Despite the dense throng, he moved gracefully, as if gliding through, his gaze sweeping over everyone with a palpable sense of disdain. Behind him followed a younger boy, who bore a striking resemblance to the man—likely his son or nephew. The boy's similarly expensive robe didn't help him navigate the crowd with the same poise as his elder.
"Lucius…" Arthur Weasley's voice dripped with hostility as he faced the blond man head-on.
"Arthur," Lucius Malfoy replied coolly, giving him a disdainful glance. "I see you're keeping busy, no time to get out and about? I hear there's quite the commotion at the Ministry again—these raids on homes and shops. Do they even pay you overtime for that? Judging by what I've seen," he added with a pointed look toward the shabby appearances of the Weasley family visible inside the shop, "I'd guess not. Hardly worth tarnishing a wizard's name for."
"We have very different ideas about what tarnishes a wizard's name," Arthur responded coldly.
"Of course," Lucius said with a faint sneer, his gaze shifting to the Grangers with the same condescension.
"Mr. Malfoy, what an honor to meet you," Kayneth interjected smoothly. This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up—a chance to speak with a member of one of the old magical families face-to-face.
"An honor?" Lucius repeated, raising an eyebrow with mild amusement.
"'An honor?'" Arthur echoed in disbelief, clearly less impressed by Kayneth's declaration.
"Of course," Kayneth continued, his tone as earnest as he could muster. "To see the head of a family with nine centuries of history, whose members have made remarkable contributions to various fields of magic—how often does such an encounter happen?"
"I don't believe we've been introduced, young man," Lucius said, tilting his head slightly, his expression tinged with curiosity. The boy's plain attire made it difficult to place him—was he part of the Muggle contingent, or not?
"James Murphy, sir. A wizard in the first generation, so it's unlikely you've heard of me. But I've read much about your family. Your ancestors' achievements in potioneering and alchemy are particularly impressive."
"For a Muggle-born, you show a hint of knowledge and manners. But unfortunately, your choice of company ruins it," Lucius said, his gaze sweeping dismissively over Arthur's worn and faded robe. "What's the purpose of this? Realized you've chosen the wrong side and decided to beg for protection from someone more… appropriate?"
"Would you even consider it? Offering patronage to a first-generation wizard, not even third or fifth?" Kayneth inquired with feigned naivety.
"Of course not," Lucius scoffed. "I'd refuse a third-generation wizard just as easily, or even one from the fifth. I'm merely curious what's running through your mind. Still, at least one of your kind understands their place and recognizes the importance of bloodline. That's refreshing. Perhaps Britain isn't entirely lost yet. Keep aligning yourself with the right priorities, and one day, perhaps someone important might not find it beneath them to speak with you. But that day is far from now. Come, Draco—we've wasted enough time here. See you at the Ministry, Arthur," he added icily, walking away without so much as a nod. The Muggles nearby were treated as if they didn't exist.
"Another Mudblood. Where do they all come from?" Draco muttered loudly enough to be heard as he passed. His disdainful tone made it clear he barely considered Kayneth worthy of acknowledgment. It seemed the only thing keeping him from physically bumping into Kayneth or stepping on his foot was the unwillingness to dirty himself.
"My apologies for that," Arthur said to the Grangers after the Malfoys departed. "Unfortunately, the magical world isn't perfect, and some relics of the past still linger. But we're fighting against it, as you've probably noticed. And James…" Arthur turned to Kayneth with a mix of concern and frustration, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What were you thinking? Were you seriously trying to align yourself with the former followers of You-Know-Who?"
"Of course not," Kayneth replied calmly. "He wouldn't have taken me anyway—I'm far beneath his notice. I just wanted to understand what kind of man he is. It might be useful in the future. I've never spoken to a pureblood like that before. Not like you, but… a real pureblood."
"And? Did you learn anything?"
"Yes. It was very enlightening," Kayneth admitted honestly. He hadn't been merely fooling around; he'd played the part of a first-generation magus as the old families would expect—deferential, humble, and eager to align with authority. Malfoy's reaction had been roughly what Kayneth himself might have given not so long ago: not outright hostility, but condescension. 'Come back when you've proven yourself worthy, child.' It was a mindset Kayneth could work with. Either Malfoy was also playing a role, or the goals of his side in the past civil war were far more complex than mere indiscriminate slaughter.
"All in all, it's best to avoid crossing paths with old families unless absolutely necessary."
"I'm glad you figured that out so quickly," Arthur said with visible relief. Straightening, he glanced at the crowded entrance to the bookshop. "Well, enough about that. More pressing question: how are we going to get inside?"
"I'd prefer to wait out here," Kayneth said. "I doubt any of us are desperate for the author's autograph, and they can manage to buy a few schoolbooks on their own, can't they?"
117
Johnny_Z
Mar 3, 2025
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Johnny_Z
Mar 7, 2025
#219
"Goodbye, James."
"See you on the first of September, Miss Granger. As an apprentice, how could I not see off my mentor on such an important day?"
"Oh, come on, that's unnecessary. People will laugh at me again."
"Well, that's their loss. Fools who fail to recognize the importance of the bond between master and apprentice won't get far in our craft."
"You know, you take this way too seriously…"
"We'll meet again next week, Miss Granger."
Leaving Hermione to wrestle with her sense of responsibility—which wouldn't let her outright refuse this "honor" and avoid what she considered an awkward situation—Kayneth slowly walked down the quiet corridor of the library toward the exit. It was already August 23rd, marking the last of his "lessons" with the first-generation witch, at least until December. The information he'd gathered about the school and the magical world in general was sufficient for now, and Hermione had largely served her purpose in his plans. However, she remained a valuable source of current information about wizarding society.
Earlier that day, he'd casually inquired about the latest news and rumors in magical Britain. To his quiet satisfaction, there was no mention of Wells or heightened security measures like those in the spring. Additionally, the response to his letter to Tonks, which he'd sent covering a range of topics, had arrived within the usual timeframe. This indicated no new panic or Ministry alerts involving heightened Auror patrols or cadet deployments.
In other words, the recent operation he and Albert had conducted to summon a spirit for the healing of another wealthy yet hopeless patient had gone unnoticed—or at least the investigation hadn't progressed beyond Cardiff (assuming the Aurors even had a branch there).
More than a week had passed without the kind of frenzied and poorly explained Ministry response that had accompanied their earlier work. Operating in the countryside, far from urban centers, had proven to be a wise choice. This time, Albert had handled the logistics and preparations at a steady pace, leaving Kayneth to focus solely on the medical and magical aspects. After analyzing a patient's anonymized file, conducting his own diagnostic rituals, and adjusting the summoning to match local "pricing" for sacrifices, the process had gone smoothly, with no incidents or rushing. He'd left his fees unchanged and was confident Albert would deliver the promised sum in a month and a half. Judging by the skimming MacDuggal likely did, Kayneth suspected Albert's cut was significantly higher. Perhaps next time, it was worth charging more himself…
A soft cough interrupted his thoughts as he approached the exit.
Kayneth turned, irritated at being disturbed—and froze in near shock. The hallway wasn't as empty as he'd assumed. Sitting against the wall in one of the visitor chairs was an Asian man dressed in black, pointing a revolver directly at him. For a split second, Kayneth felt a pang of sheer panic—it almost seemed like him.
But the rush of fear quickly dissipated when Kayneth realized this man was shorter, clean-shaven, and wearing a standard dark business suit rather than a dramatic coat. The gun in his hand, however, was very real. Meeting Kayneth's gaze, the man nodded slightly, gestured with his free hand for silence, and pointed toward the door.
As if on cue, another man entered—this one of Pakistani descent, also in a dark suit. Unlike the first, he didn't draw a weapon but positioned himself in front of the exit, one hand casually resting in his jacket pocket.
The irrational fear subsided, leaving only a calculated sense of danger. These weren't Aurors or police; no, these were the gangsters MacDuggal had warned him about. That meant they didn't need to be spared. Unfortunately, their timing was perfect. Caught off guard, Kayneth hadn't anticipated an open confrontation in a public place and had no contingency plans prepared.
Hypnotizing both men simultaneously wasn't feasible without engaging them in conversation or keeping both in sight at all times. Killing them outright wasn't particularly difficult, even in his current weakened state, especially since he'd started carrying several mystic codes on trips into London after Albert's warning. Among them were a bracelet that could block bullets and his illegally obtained wand—a potent weapon on its own.
But eliminating them quietly and without leaving evidence was another matter entirely. Gunshots would draw attention, and bloodshed would raise countless questions. Even if Hermione somehow managed to erase the memories of every staff member, visitor, and passerby—a near impossibility—she'd undoubtedly ask why gangsters were after a boy and, more importantly, how that boy had killed two armed adults without a wand.
The Asian man, seeing Kayneth's hesitation, slowly pulled a grenade from his jacket, slipping his thumb into the pin. He made an exaggerated motion toward the open door farther down the hallway.
Kayneth froze again, momentarily caught off guard. A grenade? He hadn't expected common gangsters to wander the streets of London with such weapons, unconcerned about the police. The threat was clear: the man had overheard the tail end of Kayneth's conversation with Hermione. If the grenade went off, it would be aimed at the hall where the girl remained.
The blast might not kill her outright—the library's size and the distance to the librarian's desk could minimize the damage—but the explosion would still cause chaos. The noise and ensuing questions would be impossible to avoid. Hermione herself could be injured, even if she survived…she is still useful.
Calling Hermione for help was out of the question. Though armed with a wand, she was unlikely to kill two men; she wouldn't have the skill or resolve. And if these gangsters were willing to detonate a grenade in central London, they wouldn't hesitate to shoot her to tie up loose ends.
Looking the Asian man directly in the eye, Kayneth nodded, clasped his hands behind his back, and began walking toward the exit. The "Pakistani" opened the door, then grabbed his shoulder firmly and guided him toward a van parked at the curb. The second man followed close behind, preventing any attempt to slow his steps. Within thirty seconds, they'd shoved him into the van, climbed in after him, and the vehicle started moving.
Before Kayneth could take in his surroundings, his mouth was taped shut, a black sack was thrown over his head, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was then pressed onto the hard floor and subjected to a rough search.
"Don't move," one of the men advised as he pulled Kayneth's wand from its concealed holster beneath his sleeve and a small knife from the inner pocket of his coat. "We're taking you to the boss. He'll get answers out of both of you."
He then turned to his partner. "Did you see the way that rich kid bossed us around before this? 'Don't let him speak, watch his hands'—seriously, what a drama queen. And this one? Just an ordinary brat, cocky for his age. Didn't even realize the grenade was fake."
"As if he's the first," the other replied.
"Yeah, it always works on these rookies. Bet he nearly wet himself thinking we'd blow up his girlfriend."
Kayneth ignored their chatter, lying motionless on the van floor. First, speaking wasn't an option with his mouth taped shut. Second, fury burned in his chest from the humiliation, and he'd already cursed his decision to cooperate a dozen times over. In such a state, any words he managed would likely be invocations of combat spells or mystic code activations. Lastly, the rational part of his mind reminded him that if they were taking him to meet their boss instead of dumping him in the countryside or the sea, it likely involved the crime lord whose son had been injured by their "products." That meant Albert would likely be present too if the gang had taken their warnings seriously. It might be possible to resolve the situation all at once—one way or another.
For now, Kayneth refrained from taking action, focusing instead on running through potential scenarios in his mind and reviewing the arsenal of spells and tactics at his disposal if the main plan fell through. He also made a point to memorize every detail about his captors' appearances. He intended to revisit this meeting with them under very different circumstances in the future.
The journey didn't take long—less than half an hour. Judging by the steady noise of the streets, they were likely still in the city center. Kayneth was hauled out of the van, dragged through silent corridors, and even yanked down a flight of stairs by the scruff of his neck. Eventually, they deposited him on a hard plastic chair in a windowless room. Only then was the sack pulled off his head, and Kayneth squinted in the dim light of the bare bulbs hanging in the large, cluttered space that resembled a storage room.
The first thing he noticed, after his eyes adjusted, was Albert MacDuggal sitting on a chair beside him, also cuffed and looking worse for wear. A large bruise marred his face, and his suit was filthy—clear signs that his capture had been even rougher. Kayneth's gaze swept the room and the people in it.
The space resembled a smuggler's den. Piles of miscellaneous goods—electronics, tools, counterfeit porcelain vases, rolls of fabric, paintings, furniture, even a bundle of cheap souvenir katanas—were scattered across the concrete floor, filling shelves, crates, and tables. The air reeked of mildew and old oil.
The obvious leader was a man of about forty, Chinese, dressed in an expensive suit, sitting in a plush chair behind a metal table. His cold, disdainful gaze was locked on the new arrivals. Next to him stood a young man, European, clad entirely in black. Though seemingly unarmed, the aura of menace he exuded was palpable to Kayneth, even if its source remained unclear. The rest of the room's occupants were a dozen armed thugs, most of Asian or South Asian descent, carrying pistols and shotguns.
One of the two men who had abducted Kayneth stepped forward, placed the boy's confiscated wand and knife on the leader's table, then left the room without a word. The leader nodded and cast a significant glance at the man in black, before hiding the mystic tools under the table. Noticing Kayneth's gaze, he offered a polite, almost accentless explanation.
"I've seen Return of the Jedi, you know. I'm not stupid enough to leave weapons in your sight. Take the tape off him," he ordered one of his men. Then, with a sharp bark, "Not the kid, you idiot—the redhead."
"Got it, boss."
"Good day, Mr. Cheng," Albert greeted as though they'd bumped into each other at a formal event. "A pleasure to see you in good health."
"And you as well, Al," Cheng replied, as if exchanging pleasantries at a dinner party. "How's the family?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"Glad to hear it. My own son, however, is in the hospital. No idea when he'll get out, and I haven't even calculated the cost yet. But more than that, it's just disgraceful when a high-end establishment on neutral territory allows some gutter monkey to pull a knife on you. That's bad for business, Al. Surely you agree?"
"I don't think my insignificant opinion matters here," Albert said humbly. "I've paid all my dues to Patrick, and I believe he sent representatives to resolve this unfortunate misunderstanding."
"Oh, he did," Cheng said with mock regret. "Unfortunately, we failed to reach an understanding."
Cheng reached for a pistol resting on his desk—one Kayneth recognized as Albert's—and approached them with unhurried steps.
"Their offer was frankly insulting. Under normal circumstances, I'd call it humiliating. But what else can you expect from the Irish? Your actions didn't just harm a member of my crew or even one of my lieutenants—they hurt my own son. My eldest son. Family, Al, is everything, as you know. Your people have a history of blood feuds, don't they? So tell me, how am I supposed to settle for such a pathetic apology? A token share in a minor operation? A shop on some borderline territory? Monetary compensation? Offering me money for my son's blood—don't you think that's vulgar, Al?"
"With all due respect, Mr. Cheng," Albert began carefully, mustering every ounce of his rhetorical skill while staring up at the man, "I must point out that it wasn't I who gave the reckless order to attack your heir. Nor was I the one who carried out that dreadful act, brazenly violating the agreements among honorable individuals. You're a man of great stature, Mr. Cheng, and I'm just a humble man trying to provide for my family as best I can. I deeply sympathize with your loss and would gladly offer, free of charge, several special formulations that could alleviate your son's pain and quickly heal his injuries, even scars, if he so desires."
"You're not getting it, Al," Cheng said coldly, his tone both patronizing and threatening. "It's precisely because of the goods you sold that this attack was even possible. Every other option was sealed off. Don't take me for a fool. You handed those scum a chance no one saw coming—one that broke agreements and nullified every safeguard in place. Do you still not get it?"
Cheng stepped closer, his voice dropping into an almost conversational tone, though the menace behind it remained clear. "And now, as compensation, you're offering me ointments and powders? My people sell 'miracle remedies based on the Emperor's healers' recipes' on every corner in the West End—most made from crushed cockroaches and rat droppings. Don't tell me I don't know the worth of a snake oil peddler. I'm glad you've carved out a nice little business for yourself, but it's causing problems for decent people. Wouldn't it be fairer for everyone if your pitiful trade went back to following the rules and stopped interfering in others' affairs?"
He raised the Browning pistol and pressed the barrel against Kayneth's forehead. "Maybe then you'll realize not to stick your nose where it doesn't belong or take on more than you can handle."
"Mr. Cheng," Albert interjected, his voice calm yet firm, "everyone knows you're a man of business, respected for it. Wouldn't it be shortsighted to turn away truly exclusive services and rarest items, even after such a regrettable incident? I understand the value of family honor and avenging one's own, but unique opportunities—unavailable anywhere else—could bring far greater benefits to your family and your enterprise than the blood of someone only tangentially involved, with no ill intent toward you or yours. Yes, a mistake was made—a tragic one—but mistakes can and should be turned to greater advantage, don't you think?"
"I don't think so," Cheng replied coldly. "My reputation is worth more than your money, and your 'special services' won't erase the disgrace." He cocked the pistol with a deliberate, audible click and pressed it harder against Kayneth's head. "Blood must be paid with blood. Perhaps remembering this pathetic scene will teach you to think twice next time. And your attempts to buy my forgiveness are laughable…"
The sentence ended in a guttural gasp as Cheng suddenly convulsed, choking and jerking violently. Thin, gleaming metal wires, now slick with blood, had erupted from his throat and neck in multiple places.
"Bloody hell, James! We were practically there!" Albert groaned in genuine exasperation as the triad boss gurgled and twitched, struggling to breathe.
Kayneth had endured long enough. He had tolerated the farce of their negotiation, the strutting theatrics of a self-important thug waving a gun like a badge of power. Even the moment when the barrel of the gun was aimed directly at his head had not pushed him to act; their survival had seemed to hinge on the bluster and pretense of bargaining.
Perhaps Cheng hadn't intended to kill him—merely to use the threat as leverage in the deal, perhaps even to angle for a cut of their business. All the talk of honor and revenge could have been nothing more than posturing. It made sense. But the sound of the cocking pistol brought back too many memories of betrayal and loss—the image of Sola's fate, his own death. It was the last straw.
By sheer force of will, Kayneth activated his magic circuits, reshaping the molecular structure of the steel handcuffs binding his wrists. The metal liquefied, pooling into his right palm as a dense, cold drop. Timing it perfectly as Cheng resumed taunting Albert, Kayneth sprang from the chair and thrust his hand forward, simultaneously swiping the pistol aside.
Cheng reflexively pulled the trigger. The gunshot roared near Kayneth's ear, deafening him temporarily on one side as the bullet whizzed past his head. But it was too late for the triad boss. The steel drop had shot forward, elongating and dividing into fine, sharp threads. They pierced Cheng's throat, twisted inside his neck, then burst out again, forming a half-dozen tight spirals of metallic wire, each wound multiple times.
"Don't move!" Kayneth snarled, ripping the tape from his face with a sharp hiss. "Right now, I've avoided damaging any nerves or arteries, but one wrong move and your 'boss' will lose his head—literally. If you try to shoot me, the steel will extend and do the job without my control. And you," he added icily, locking eyes with the young man in black, who had whipped out a wand from under his coat, "try casting mental magic, and I'll boil your tiny brain inside your skull. Afterward, I'll reanimate your corpse and send it as a gift-wrapped ghoul to your family."
The black-clad wizard froze, his wand still trained on Kayneth. While his calm demeanor suggested experience, Kayneth noted the subtle twitch in his hand. He wasn't as unshakable as he pretended.
With no one making sudden moves—aside from the occasional shout of indignation, which Kayneth ignored—he reached out with his free hand to retrieve the pistol from the trembling hand of Mr. Cheng. Tossing the gun dismissively into a pile of rolled-up carpets in the corner, Kayneth then extracted a pocket watch from his coat. The oversized watch barely fit in his hand, but its surface gleamed faintly with embedded enchantments. He pressed a bloodied finger against its sharp edge, letting a drop of crimson seep into the grooves before flipping it open.
The pocket watch's mechanisms clicked into place, activating its secondary function. The space within expanded, unfurling into a small, contained dimensional rift. From it emerged a gleaming yellow spear, nearly four feet long—almost as tall as Kayneth himself.
"Verite ad me, bellator," Kayneth intoned the aria of the spell. It seemed the young wizard who had organized this ambush had done a remarkably poor job of preparing his men. Otherwise, they would have confiscated more than just his wand and knife—any object capable of serving as a mystic code, no matter how inconspicuous. Neither his pocket watch, medallion, nor bracelet had been taken. Their incompetence was their undoing.
As the familiar presence stirred at the edge of his consciousness, the magus began to move, relying entirely on the instincts of Diarmuid while directing them toward his immediate goals. First, he released the steel wires. In his possessed state, he couldn't use other spells anyway. As the coiled springs of metal unraveled, tearing through Cheng's neck in what seemed slow motion, Kayneth snatched the falling spear. Without missing a beat, he kicked Albert's chair into the corner near the discarded pistol. The landing wouldn't be soft or painless, but the squib needed to be out of the line of fire if Kayneth wanted to avoid finding a new business partner.
The medallion designed for summoning the shadow of a heroic spirit was only half as effective as the prototype, barely reaching an E-rank, but even so, it temporarily enhanced Kayneth's physical abilities to five times those of an ordinary human. With this amplification, he could easily kick an adult man a dozen feet across the room. Assuming everything went as planned, he had at least thirty seconds of real-time to act.
Continuing his motion, he grabbed his chair with his left hand and hurled it at the head of a thug near the far wall. Without waiting to see the result, Kayneth launched himself toward an Indian man standing behind him with a shotgun. His body moved instinctively, guided by Diarmuid's honed techniques, polished over thousands of repetitions.
Three quick steps closed the distance. He halted abruptly, channeling his momentum into a thrust that drove the spear through the man's liver. Wrenching it free in one swift motion, he pivoted, gripping the spear closer to the blade to use the shaft as a club. The end of the pole smashed another thug's pistol-wielding hand aside before a follow-up jab collapsed his windpipe. Without hesitation, Kayneth shifted focus to the next enemy.
"Ex… pel-li…"
The shouted incantation rose above the cacophony of screams and clattering weapons, forcing Kayneth to spin toward the sound mid-stride. A wizard was finishing an aria while gesturing sharply with his wand. In his other hand, he clutched a pendant glowing with magical energy, shrouding him in a faint conceptual aura. The young wizard moved twice as fast as any of the others in the room, far beyond mere reaction speed. Kayneth had seen something like this before—in his previous life—and the memory didn't bode well.
"…ar-mus!"
The disarming spell shot from the wand with uncanny precision, but Kayneth darted toward the nearest thug, using his small stature to thrust the spear upward. The blade tore through the man's throat and shattered his jaw. Twisting violently, Kayneth used the collapsing body as a shield against the incoming spell. The thug's arm snapped backward, dislodging the sawed-off shotgun and likely breaking a few fingers in the process. However, the wizard, the gun was flying towards, didn't bother to catch it. Instead he stepped to the side and made his next wand motion.
Ignoring the fallen weapon as well, Kayneth yanked his spear free and smashed its shaft into another thug's kneecap, splintering the joint. His second strike sent the man flying backward with a sickening crunch. But these actions were perfunctory; his primary focus was now on the wizard—far more dangerous than the hired muscle.
"Incarcero!"
The binding spell shot toward him, but Kayneth evaded with inhuman speed, sidestepping and closing the gap. The wizard shouted his arias, his wand movements sharp and deliberate, despite the clear signs of fear on his face.
"Impedimenta!"
Kayneth snagged a nearby roll of fabric with his spear, tossing it into the air to block the spell. The bolt froze the cloth mid-flight, creating an impromptu barrier. Exploiting his diminutive stature, Kayneth slid beneath the suspended roll, executed a quick roll, and sprang to his feet. But the wizard had already repositioned.
"Depulso!"
A gaudy vase painted with dragons hurtled toward Kayneth's head. He sidestepped it with ease, preparing for a final lunge. The next spell, Reducio, missed its mark entirely, detonating the vase instead. The explosion sent shards flying, tearing through Kayneth's robes and leaving cuts and bruises across his shoulders and neck. Enhanced endurance from the heroic spirit mitigated the worst of the injuries, but the attack left him staggered—a window the wizard exploited.
"Stupefy Tria!"
With no time to dodge, Kayneth hurled his spear as a last-ditch effort. The throw didn't hit the wizard's throat as intended, grazing his shoulder instead. But it disrupted the spell, sending the stunning bolt off course. A thug screamed as the errant spell slammed him into a wall, and chaos erupted as bullets ricocheted wildly.
Unfazed, Kayneth lunged forward, snatching a decorative sword and flinging it at the wizard's head. The man deflected it with a spell just in time, but the distraction allowed Kayneth to leap over a table, reclaim the spear, and aim a thrust at the wizard's face. The wizard managed to dodge, jerking his head to the side. Kayneth, however, didn't repeat the same attack. Instead, he swung the blade in a downward arc, slicing through the pendant around the wizard's neck.
The enchantment broke with a crackling snap, and the wizard staggered, his movements visibly slowed. Smirking, Kayneth drove the spear into his abdomen, twisting the blade before yanking it free. Preparing to end the fight with a decapitating strike, he raised the spear again.
At that moment, a bullet struck Kayneth square in the chest, slamming him into the wall as the sharp crack of gunfire filled the air. The first shot was deflected by the air shield from his bracelet, the shockwave amplifying the destruction in the room. Two more bullets hit the wall, but the fourth lodged itself in his ribs. The force disrupted his intended strike; instead of hitting the wizard's neck, the blade grazed his face. With a cry, the wizard collapsed to the floor.
Kayneth survived only because the reinforcement of his body by the heroic spirit prevented the bullet from penetrating his lung. It merely embedded itself in his rib and left a painful fracture. Even so, the impact was brutal.
Subjectively, the entire fight had lasted less than a minute, but that meant over ten seconds had passed in real time. Even the remaining dimwitted thugs had enough time to stop gawking at the "miracles" unfolding before them and open fire on the man who had killed their boss. Unfortunately, with his current level of synchronization with the heroic spirit, Kayneth couldn't replicate Diarmuid's feats from the Grail War. Deflecting bullets with a spear was out of the question.
He had two options: close the distance and force another melee engagement or be riddled with bullets. No magic would save him if that happened.
Staying low, he darted through piles of scattered junk. Bullets and buckshot tore through rolls of carpet, smashed boxes, shattered televisions, and exploded ceramic vases, but none hit their target. The gunmen weren't skilled enough to lead their shots against his speed. Sliding behind the gang leader's desk, Kayneth placed his spear on the floor. Summoning all his strength, both his own and borrowed, he heaved the desk into the air. It arced ten feet and crashed down into the thugs, scattering them. A couple were thrown aside with broken bones. The momentary chaos gave Kayneth the opening he needed.
With three rapid strides, he reached them and impaled the nearest opponent.
The next ten seconds felt like an eternity. For Kayneth, the fight became a relentless, deadly dance. He wielded the spear with brutal precision, guided by Diarmuid's battle instincts. A strike with the shaft here, a dodge from a knife thrust there. A kick to unbalance one opponent while absorbing a grazing bullet to his shoulder. A swift twist of the spear to knock a shotgun aside, sending its blast into one of the shooter's allies. Seizing the red-hot barrel, he pulled it toward himself, delivering a fatal thrust to another thug's throat.
Even with superhuman capabilities, Kayneth avoided targeting hardened areas like the chest or spine where the spear might get stuck. He focused on soft, vulnerable spots to maintain his speed and fluidity. At one point, reinforcements burst through a door, drawn by the noise. The first was immediately felled by a thrown cleaver, splitting his skull, forcing the others into close combat.
Amid the chaos, Kayneth noticed one of the thugs glance behind him. Instinctively, he rammed his spear shaft into the man's chest, breaking ribs, and spun around.
The wizard stood there, his polished composure now shattered. Bloodied and disheveled, he clutched the wound in his abdomen with one hand while aiming his wand with the other. He moved with the same determined precision, his spell nearly complete.
Kayneth caught only part of the wand's movement, not enough to recognize the incantation. The magical blast was nearly invisible, which at least ruled out the Killing Curse. But the risk was too great. Trusting Diarmuid's reflexes, Kayneth spun and hurled his spear with the force of a whirling drill, simultaneously leaping sideways to take cover behind a shelf.
The spear met the spell midair, igniting in bright flames. "Incendio," Kayneth identified as he scrambled for something to throw.
The wizard flung a body into the air to block the burning spear, sending it and the corpse crashing to the side. Then he froze, his gaze turning inward as if focusing on something else. Kayneth, gripping a porcelain plate he'd found intact, smashed it against a table and readied a shard to throw.
Before he could act, the wizard seemed to blur, distorting the space around him.
"Apparition. Damn it!"
Three bullets struck the shimmering silhouette, disrupting the spell, but the wizard vanished before the fourth could connect. Spinning around, Kayneth saw MacDuggal standing from cover, holding his Browning. Despite his age and unassuming build, the squib had shown impressive agility, freeing himself from the chain linking his handcuffs, retrieving his weapon, and targeting the most dangerous opponent.
When the wizard disappeared, MacDuggal turned to the remaining thugs, calmly executing one who was crawling toward his gun with three precise shots.
"Revertemur," Kayneth murmured the aria to end the mystic code's effects, his voice tight with pain. "Damn it!" The moment the connection broke, a wave of exhaustion and agony overwhelmed him, nearly dropping him to his knees.
Cuts from shrapnel littered his back, neck, and head. Bruises and broken ribs throbbed, deeper lacerations bled profusely, and his right thigh burned from embedded buckshot. His cloak was reduced to tatters unfit for even rags. The mystic code's power had allowed him to endure, but the price was steep.
"You're absolutely insane, James…" MacDuggal's voice broke through the ringing in his ears. Despite his injuries, he managed to sound exasperated. "Everything was going fine! Sure, he was showing off, and yeah, I played along, but we could've worked something out—this wasn't the first time. Was it really necessary to turn this place into a slaughterhouse?" He grimaced at the sight of a thug crushed against the concrete wall, blood pooling beneath him. "You're crazy enough not to fear death, but what the hell got into you just now? Don't tell me you've got some kind of gun phobia."
"What?" Kayneth muttered, straightening with effort. He was too focused on using spiritual healing to staunch his bleeding and mend the worst of his wounds to pay much attention to Albert's complaints.
"Irrational fear of guns"
"Oh, you have no idea how rational my fear of firearms is," Kayneth replied coolly.
"Seriously? That's the whole reason?" Albert sputtered, clearly holding back a more colorful outburst. "Well, hell, what else can I even say to that?"
"Better tell me what you were shooting with," Kayneth interrupted. "Was it my bullets or regular ones? That wizard's taken a beating, but he might survive long enough to bring reinforcements."
"No, he won't," Albert replied. "I've been using the 'special' rounds exclusively for the past month, and not one client has complained so far." He stooped to retrieve a spare magazine that had fallen during the fight, reloaded his pistol, and slipped the half-used one into his pocket.
"Well, that's one problem solved." Kayneth approached the overturned table, opened a drawer, and retrieved his dagger and wand before turning to his spear. "Finite. Glacio." With practiced precision, he extinguished the magical flames and cooled the weapon until it was safe to handle.
Searching under a corpse, he retrieved his pocket watch, opened it, and began slotting the spear back into its mystic storage. The mechanism clicked shut with a satisfying snap. "We have maybe ten or fifteen minutes before the Aurors show up. I'd rather not be here when they do. If there's anything you need from this place, grab it now, and then we're leaving."
"Oh, we've got bigger problems than your magical Men in Black," Albert retorted. "Cheng wasn't just some random thug—he ran a branch of the Triad. Sure, it was the fourth in size London, but it's still not just a gang of burglars. If the higher-ups don't see this as a calculated move on our part, I'm skipping town to Seattle tonight, and you'd better lock yourself away in your cursed elf country for at least five years. Got it?"
Kayneth shrugged nonchalantly, which Albert interpreted as agreement. Fishing a bulky phone out of his pocket—remarkably left untouched by the gang—Albert dialed a number. His tone turned falsely casual when the line connected.
"Larry, hey, long time no see. Listen, do me a favor and put Patrick on. Yeah, it's urgent. No, I haven't lost my mind. Larry, we've known each other for five years; you really think I'd ask for this if it weren't a matter of life and death? No, it's not just about me. Yes, I get it, but we're on the verge of getting wiped out here…"
Kayneth ignored the exchange, focusing on his own task. He knelt and began drawing runes and a small magic circle on the floor with blood. Most of his standard rituals had already been recalculated to suit this world's conditions, so his movements were methodical and precise.
"Praying to your Lucifer or whoever it is you warlocks worship?" Albert called out, sounding notably more cheerful. "Well, good news. Our 'umbrella'—" he snorted at the slang—"understood the value of dismantling a leaderless pack. They're already gathering fighters with our neighbors to take over Cheng's territory and flush out anyone left. No coordination means no real resistance. We'll need to lay low for a few days until it all settles. So what the hell are you summoning now?"
"Just cleaning up the evidence," Kayneth said evenly. He moved to the wall and picked up a shattered medallion, resembling a tiny hourglass encased in a golden disk on a chain. Slipping it into his pocket—his cloak was too shredded to be of use—he returned to his circle. "The Aurors will get here before the police or any gangsters. They don't need to see any of this. So everything will burn. Burn so thoroughly there won't even be ashes left. The spell isn't complicated, but the sacrifices will amplify it to that level." He gestured to the bodies scattered around the room, some of which still twitched faintly.
"Wait…" Albert paused, visibly unsettled. "Alright, fine, I admit it. You're completely insane. You've got an unhealthy obsession with erasing crime scenes down to nothing. But we'll discuss that later. Hang on." He crouched beside Cheng's body, rifled through the pockets, and extracted a garishly decorated silver pistol, a notebook, some keys, and a handful of other items. Stuffing them into his own pockets, he stood. "Okay, now we can go. I've never been here before, but I've heard about this place. We'll take the corridor, then stairs. There's a Chinese restaurant upstairs. We cut through the backrooms to the alley, and if we're lucky, the car they brought you in will still be there."
"Let's hope for the best," Kayneth replied with a predatory smile, clearly anticipating the opportunity to settle scores with a few overeager gangsters. Extending his hand, he activated his magic circuits and began chanting a six-line Latin spell. As his voice rose and fell, the large pool of blood on the floor began to evaporate, forming a red mist that hovered nearby.
"What the hell is that?" Albert asked warily.
"Just insurance." Kayneth smiled faintly. "Armis." The mist condensed almost instantly, solidifying into a pinkish ice wall before him. "Haze." The wall dissolved back into mist. "Ferrum." This time, the mist surged toward a corpse, transforming midair into six slender icy rapiers that impaled the body. "Haze. See? Simple."
"Actually, that's not bad," Albert admitted, pocketing his pistol and hefting a shotgun from the floor. "Now stick close and try not to cause any more trouble. We've already exceeded our quota for the next six months."
"And whose fault is that? I had other plans for tonight too," Kayneth shot back, still smirking. "But alas, fate had other ideas."
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Johnny_Z
Mar 7, 2025
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Threadmarks Interlude 14.5 (Master or Apprentice) New
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Johnny_Z
Mar 7, 2025
#220
"Hermione, you're unusually quiet today. You're not feeling unwell, are you?"
Granger turned away from the passing fields outside the train window and looked directly into her friend's eyes. Whether it was the glasses reflecting the light or just the honest sincerity of his gaze, it was clear the question was genuine, without any hidden meaning.
"Are you trying to say I usually never stop talking, Harry?"
"Not exactly, but I thought I'd spend half the journey hearing about every book you read over the summer," Ron chimed in, completely unfazed by Harry's sharp elbow jabbing his side. "Hey, didn't you say the same thing?"
"I've always admired your honesty, Ronald Weasley," she said dryly.
"Well, you're welcome, I guess. But seriously, what's up with you? And, for the record, it's not like we don't want to listen to you."
"That was almost sweet of you. I'm just thinking about how I must be a terrible teacher."
"Oh, come on, don't take it so seriously. It's not like you're getting paid for it. What's the deal with that kid anyway? Why do you care so much?"
"Ron, are you jealous?" Hermione gasped theatrically, her eyes wide with mock surprise. She glanced at Harry, who had turned away to hide a grin, then returned to her usual tone. "And for your information, at least James wants to learn and takes school seriously—even before he's actually started. Unlike some people, who barely made it to the train five minutes before departure. What would you have done if you missed it? I doubt you'd hop on a plane or catch the next train, and the next bus there only runs late in the evening."
"But Knight Bus only runs at night, right?"
"A Muggle bus, Ronald. Muggle."
"Alright, alright, stop nagging us. This time, it wasn't even our fault, okay? We left early, but then we had to go back because Fred forgot his broom. Then we had to turn around again because George forgot his fireworks—or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, we got to the station twenty minutes before the train left, but there was this massive line because Aurors and patrols were checking everyone's trunks. You know, new rules. You were there, you saw us being searched."
"Sure, but that doesn't excuse either of you."
Hermione, always cautious, had arrived at the station with her parents as early as ten in the morning, aware of the mandatory checks introduced last week. Worried that her Muggle parents, carrying plenty of non-magical items, might be held up at the entrance, she said her goodbyes outside and headed to the magical platform alone.
As expected, an Auror trainee in a robe had politely asked her to open her trunk and submit to an inspection for enchanted items. From what Hermione observed, adults were given a cursory glance, while most of the scrutiny was reserved for students—especially older ones, mainly from Slytherin. Those who protested loudly about the "outrageous invasion of privacy" were swiftly silenced by pointing to the freshly framed decree from the Ministry titled "On Enhanced Security Measures and Combating Dark Magic." After that, they had little ground to argue.
The rules weren't draconian, though. Most confiscations involved enchanted Muggle items like mirrors, lighters, or glasses. Brand-name products purchased from reputable shops in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley were typically returned.
James Murphy, who had indeed come to see her off, arrived about ten minutes after her, oddly dressed in his school uniform. He passed through the checkpoint effortlessly, carrying nothing but his house keys. As he approached, Hermione noticed him exchanging a few polite words with another Auror trainee patrolling the platform.
"Hello, Murphy. Sorry, but I need to check something with a spell first," Hermione said briskly, grabbing his arm and leading him to a quieter corner of the platform. She hesitated before touching her wand in its holster. "Do I have your permission?"
"Good morning," he greeted calmly, showing no surprise at her assertiveness and allowing himself to be led away. "If it's safe, go ahead."
"Thank you," she replied, drawing her wand and raising it before her. She uttered a spell she had practiced over the summer: "Revelio."
James watched her movements warily at first, his body tensing as though ready to flee or fight back if the spell turned out to be hostile. But when nothing happened, he waited a few more seconds, shrugged lightly, and asked curiously:
"Practicing second-year material already? Impressive. Or is there another reason for this?"
"The times are uneasy. You've read the papers; you know what's going on," she said nervously, nodding toward the Auror checkpoint. She tried to sound casual. "I was worried someone might try to attack me by disguising themselves as you, now that everyone knows you're my 'student.'"
"Really? Do you think someone would go to the trouble of impersonating me just to target a first-generation witch with no family debts or blood feuds, who's only starting her second year of school?" he replied, his tone overly polite, though his gaze held a faint hint of amusement. "Are you hiding something, Miss Granger? Do you have worthy enemies already?"
"N-no, of course not! What enemies would I have?" she stammered, hurriedly putting her wand away and raising her hands defensively. "It's just a precaution. Reasonable caution, that's all."
"Is it?" James tilted his head slightly, studying her as though seeing her for the first time. "It feels more like an excuse. Maybe you've been wanting to try something like this for a while, and now the opportunity conveniently presented itself?"
"And why on earth would I do that?" Hermione's voice rose an octave as she attempted an awkward defense.
"I don't know. Maybe you find it unsettling to think that someone younger than you might know a little more about certain things?" James suggested evenly, shrugging once more. "And without being some sixty-year-old wizard who's long since graduated and taught their own students. Do you think it's impossible for someone to read just as many books in a few months and actually understand them enough to know about magic? Or am I wrong?" he asked suddenly, sharply meeting her eyes. "Perhaps I should ask someone older to use Revelio on you, just in case? It often seems to me that, for a first-generation magus, you know far too much…"
"No, no, no… wait!" Hermione exclaimed, feeling as though the ground could swallow her whole. His words struck uncomfortably close to her own thoughts, hitting their mark with painful precision. "Let's just take a deep breath and calm down… Okay, slowly, calmly, without panicking…" She hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, you're right. I'll admit it—I did doubt whether you're really just a Muggle-born who only learned about the magical world half a year ago. I wanted to confirm it. I'll admit it was unfair… Very unfair of me. But, in my defense, you do know more about magic than any first- or second-year student I've ever met. Not that that's much of a defense."
"Except you?"
"Maybe…" she stammered, caught off guard by the unexpected question. "In some things. I don't know!"
"Trust between a teacher and their student is the foundation of a successful relationship. A lack of it can cost one their magic—or even their life, Miss Granger," James said distantly, his tone devoid of anger or resentment. That only made Hermione feel worse. "Was trusting you a mistake?"
"No! I… I don't know anymore. Everything's so confusing—these rumors, the inspections, a murder in broad daylight, the stone and its theft! I don't know who to trust anymore, except my friends. What if anyone—even a professor—could turn out to be someone they're not?" she cried, her voice breaking as she fought not to cry. She knew she'd overstepped, but she hadn't expected it to spiral like this.
"It takes time to truly appreciate the value of advice like 'don't trust strangers,' doesn't it?" James replied. "I'm not angry you suspected me of something. We've only known each other for a couple of months, and you know little about me—just as I know little about you. In fact, I'm even flattered that you thought I might be some secretly skilled wizard. It means I've managed to impress you at least a few times."
"You're not angry at all?" Hermione asked, genuinely surprised. His calm tone had kept her from spiraling into a full-blown panic, but she'd been bracing for accusations—angry, justified ones—not this.
"No," James said simply, shaking his head. Then, adopting a more instructive tone, he added, "If someone else had been in my place, your suspicion might have saved your life. In the magical world, where appearances can often deceive, those who trust too easily don't last long. Perhaps that's why they teach Revelio as early as the second year."
"I'll admit, I'd never thought of it that way. Well, in any case…" Hermione hesitated, then extended her hand awkwardly. "Can we just forget about this? Peace, my student?"
"Peace, my teacher," he replied, shaking her hand easily. "But in the future, I hope for a little more trust—at least toward me."
"Of course. I won't use that spell on you again without a real reason."
"I'm glad we cleared that up. But I wouldn't abandon it altogether. During the war, they say dozens—if not hundreds—of people were placed under Imperius. It's not as though all of them were cursed by their best friends; some could have been impersonated. Vigilance never hurts."
"Yes, yes, I'll keep that in mind. So… um…" Hermione's eyes darted around, searching desperately for a way to change the topic. Even the most awkward distraction would do; she couldn't feel any more mortified than she already did. And then she found one. "I see you've had a haircut. Was that for today's 'special' occasion?"
"And? Does it suit me?" James asked with mock seriousness, as though their prior conversation hadn't happened at all. He even turned his head side to side for effect.
"Maybe it's not for me to say, but the front looks fine. The back, though—it's like the scissors exploded halfway through."
"Clearly, the barber was inexperienced. I've already decided never to set foot there again. Anyway, that's trivial. What's more important is that the new school year is starting—and apparently, your most important subject will be taught by… a writer."
"You're still doubting Professor Lockhart's competence?" Hermione asked, a touch of indignation in her voice. Under different circumstances, she might have been genuinely offended by such open skepticism toward her new idol. Instead, she settled for a quiet huff. "Just because he writes books in his spare time?"
"If he turns his work into novels rather than monographs or articles for reference guides, that's his business," James replied indifferently, waving a hand. He'd already mentioned before that he'd read one of Lockhart's books and found the writing unimpressive. "He's not an official hunter of dangerous creatures, so he needs to make a living somehow. An enthusiast with extensive personal experience might have a lot to share, but I'm skeptical he'll be able to present the material effectively to students. Different years require different approaches, and, judging by the biography in his books, he's never trained as a teacher."
"You sound like you're planning to teach at Hogwarts after you graduate."
"I wouldn't rule it out entirely. In any case, I hope to hear from you on this once classes start. If Mr. Lockhart turns out to be a talented instructor with deep knowledge of his subject, I'll be delighted. After all, that would mean I wouldn't have to self-study the entire Defense curriculum next year—unlike with Quirrell, whose competence in that field was… questionable, to say the least."
They continued chatting about various topics while they had the time—conceptual magic, the protective barriers around the train station and railway, and whether the new Defense professor would last longer than a year or fall victim to the infamous curse on the position. When they returned to the train, Murphy casually introduced her to Tonks, the Auror trainee who had first introduced him to the magical world. According to Tonks, under the new Ministry decree, all patrols and trainees had been reassigned to protect magical settlements. Hogwarts, however, remained unaffected. The headmaster had declined additional Ministry protection, insisting that the school's wards and staff were sufficient.
Hermione listened with skepticism—she'd already learned last year that the so-called infallible protections of Hogwarts were far from perfect.
Fifteen minutes before the train's departure, Murphy gave her a formal, almost overly ceremonious farewell until winter, reminded her once again to write, and returned to Muggle London. On his way out, he passed the sizable Weasley family, accompanied by Potter. The arrival of such a large group practically paralyzed the "customs" process, especially since at least two of the students were guaranteed to have pockets full of enchanted items not on the approved list. As a result, Ron and Harry only managed to reach Hermione moments before the train's departure, with more students still filtering onto the platform. It was a wonder the train wasn't delayed by hours.
"You're thinking about him again."
"What?" Hermione realized she'd been sitting with Lockhart's book open in her hands, reliving the morning's events without actually reading a word.
"I said, you're thinking about that kid again," Ron repeated, watching her. "You've got it bad, taking this professor thing so seriously. You'll stress yourself out over someone else's studies so much your hair will stick up on end—and stay that way."
"My hair is perfectly fine," she snapped, reflexively smoothing it with her hand. "And why are you so fixated on him?"
"I just don't like him. His eyes… they're cold. Detached. Remember when Draco's dad came over to sneer at us in the shop? He has the same kind of look."
"Oh, honestly, what ridiculous nonsense you're spouting. Aren't you embarrassed to talk about someone like that behind their back?"
"Are you defending your students now?" Harry chimed in, finally joining the conversation after silently listening. "Next step, learning to turn into a cat."
"What? Oh, I get it. But no, I won't. I love cats, but I'm not about to turn into one—no offense to Professor McGonagall. Ron, you should be ashamed. You don't even know James, not really, and here you are saying all these things."
"I'm telling you, something's off about him," Ron insisted. "What if he's using you to get to Harry? You-Know-Who's still got plenty of followers left, no matter how many get caught."
"If that's the case, why hasn't James asked me about him?" Hermione countered. "He hasn't brought Harry up, not even once—not like Quirrell or Snape. The one time we talked about him… Don't take this the wrong way, Harry, but James said, 'The boy's done his duty; the boy can go.' Not literally, but—"
"Come on, I went to school too, even if I wasn't great at it. I know that saying," Harry interrupted, clearly annoyed. "You think we're all clueless?"
"Sorry, Harry. Anyway, he thinks you just got lucky, being in the right place at the right time. That it wasn't really up to you at all. You-Know-Who destroyed himself through his own magic, triggered by some kind of ritual, magical phenomenon, or a mix of overlapping causes. Basically, James believes that after that night, you are just an ordinary wizard, not someone especially valuable to anyone. His words, not mine."
"What does he know?" Ron snapped, bristling on Harry's behalf. "You didn't tell him about the stone or anything else, did you? About how they tried to kill Harry—or the warning he got this summer?"
"No. That was our business, no one else's. I understand your point, but listen to me, too—Harry's not important to James. He just wants to learn early, and I'm helping him because I wish someone had helped me like that last year. We met entirely by accident in a bookstore. I approached him first and didn't let him walk away. Happy now?"
"I still don't trust him."
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" She threw up her hands in frustration. "Harry, what about you? What do you think?"
"If we're being honest," Harry began, "we're focusing on the wrong thing. Even if this first-year somehow has ties to Voldemort, he's not a threat to anyone for a long while. But this—this is happening right now." He placed a newspaper on the table.
The now-infamous August 24 issue of The Daily Prophet featured a large, motionless photograph of a wizard and a bold headline: Francis Travers Found Dead in Diagon Alley! Hundreds of Witnesses, Widespread Panic! Where Was the Auror Department?
"I didn't want to ruin the start of the year, but we can't ignore it. There's a dark wizard out there killing people."
"The son of a Death Eater," Ron corrected.
"And that makes it fine?" Harry shot back.
"Like father, like son…"
"Ronald Weasley!" Hermione scolded sharply.
"All right, all right, I'll stop…" Ron muttered.
This was the topic they'd been avoiding all day, the one dominating conversations for the past week—the reason the Ministry had tightened security in magical areas and imposed inspections at the train platform.
A week earlier, while Hermione was working at the library, a bloodied, severely wounded wizard had apparated into the middle of a crowded Diagon Alley. By the time the screams subsided, the crowd scattered, and a few healers pushed through to assist, the young man was already dead. His face was so disfigured and bloodied that it took Aurors at St. Mungo's to identify him as Francis Travers, the heir to an old wizarding family and son of Martin Travers, who was serving a life sentence in Azkaban.
Even under normal circumstances, such an incident would have caused a public outcry. But this one involved more than a hundred witnesses, the sheer brutality of the murder, and, most disturbingly, leaks from the hospital or Ministry hinting that the wizard hadn't been killed by a mere curse—not even an Unforgivable—but by a cursed weapon. A weapon wielding the kind of dark magic the Ministry had claimed to have decisively defeated.
"Do you think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did this too?" Hermione finally asked after a long silence.
"I'm not sure," Harry admitted. "But he didn't completely die. We know that now. So anything's possible."
"I don't think it was him," Ron unexpectedly interjected. "That Travers bloke was killed with Muggle weapons. You-Know-Who would never stoop to something like that."
"So the rumors and the articles in the papers weren't lying?" Hermione pressed.
"No. Dad tries not to talk about it, and he's barely been home all week. But Percy said Dad's pay was bumped up overnight, and they assigned four recent graduates to his department for training. If someone's decided to curse Muggle weapons to kill wizards, then his department suddenly becomes really important, doesn't it? That's probably why the Ministry passed that decree and confiscated enchanted Muggle items at the station. Not that it'll do much good now, but they have to look like they're doing something."
"And the rest?" Hermione pulled out a different issue of the newspaper from her suitcase. It was from the 27th, featuring a moving photo of charred ruins in Muggle London, surrounded by Aurors keeping watch and casting spells to disperse Muggles. The headline read: Francis Travers — Modern Hero or Tragic Victim?
"Rita Skeeter's sunk her claws into this case. I don't know who she bribed or how she got access, but she's written in detail, citing some 'anonymous Auror,' about the use of Muggle weapons and the fact that the place Travers Apparated from was, excuse my language, a Muggle drug den. The last spell recorded on his wand was Incendio, and the site itself was burned to the ground with dark magic—some variant of Fiendfyre."
"I haven't heard about that," Ron said, shaking his head. "Dad didn't mention anything like that to us. And seriously, what would a pure-blood be doing in a Muggle drug den?"
"That's not my term; it's Skeeter's," Hermione clarified. "As for why he was there… The Ministry wants people to believe he was a hero who went there to fight a dark wizard and protect Muggles. For some reason, he didn't warn the Aurors or any experienced wizards. He just went alone, defeated the evil, but couldn't save himself."
"You don't believe it?" Harry asked, noticing her skeptical expression.
"Not entirely," Hermione admitted, shaking her head. "There's no evidence he actually defeated anyone. But the Ministry needs to calm people down—to say there's no dark wizard threatening them because an unknown hero already dealt with him, someone who renounced his father's ways and chose to protect Muggles, even at the cost of his own life. Personally, I think it's the opposite. Travers was working there, and a dark wizard attacked him. Who knows what they were fighting over."
"A pure-blood? A Death Eater's son? Working with Muggles?" Ron sounded incredulous.
"It's just my theory. Think about it, though. He was almost twenty, graduated from Hogwarts a couple of years ago, and hadn't worked anywhere in the wizarding world. With his background, he wouldn't have been able to get a job here anyway. Sure, Malfoy got off scot-free, but Travers Sr. is in Azkaban for life, no parole—You-Know-Who's closest lieutenant. Meanwhile, his son has to make a living somehow. Not all pure-blood families…" She trailed off, realizing where she was heading. Ron and Harry had already decided to avoid this sensitive topic, and she didn't want to stir it up again. "Well, you get the idea. With the head of the family in prison for eleven years, Travers had nothing to lose. Muggles would pay a wizard willing to work with them handsomely, I'm sure, even a former Hogwarts student. And Travers passed his NEWTs."
"If you're right, I can only imagine the scandal this caused among the pure-bloods," Ron said, grinning. "Malfoy probably had a fit. The heir of an ancient family working for 'those worthless Muggles'? Hermione, no offense. Compared to that, all their talk about our so-called 'betrayal' is a joke."
"But it's just my theory. We don't know what really happened. If I'm right, though, You-Know-Who would definitely have killed him as soon as he found out."
"With Muggle weapons?"
"Maybe just to make a point—in his own twisted style."
"I doubt he even has a sense of humor," Harry muttered darkly, likely recalling the end of their first year. "And the real question is, what do we do now? If there could be two dark wizards loose in Britain, or even more? Dumbledore told me Voldemort wants me dead, but he wouldn't say why. Just this vague 'you'll understand when you're older.' What if this affects all dark wizards? If one of them wants me dead, what if the others do too? What if they start competing over it?"
"What do we do?" Hermione repeated. "The answer is obvious. Study."
"Oh, of course! Why did I even ask?"
"Can't you be serious, for once?"
"I. Am. Completely. Serious," she said, standing up and staring down at their disgruntled faces. "For us, knowledge is power, far more than for anyone else. For instance…" She pulled a quill from her robe pocket, placed it on the compartment table, then drew her wand. Closing her eyes to concentrate, she waved it in a half-circle, then pointed it at the quill. A moment later, she picked up a slim rapier that now lay where the quill had been.
"Well, who said the pen is mightier than the sword?" she asked with a sly smile.
"Uh…"
"Um…"
"Oh, that was rhetorical. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, but that's not the point," she said, setting the rapier in a corner and hoping no one would walk in for at least a few minutes. By her calculations, the transfiguration wouldn't last much longer. "My point is that, unlike regular schools, the knowledge we gain here really can keep us safe. If you didn't realize that after first year, you should have. Knowledge can protect you from curses, creatures—even bullets. And we have an amazing opportunity this year—Gilderoy Lockhart himself teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts. A renowned slayer of monsters, with experience from all over the world. If, after this," she gestured at the newspapers, "you two don't take this seriously and waste the chance, I'll be very disappointed in you both."
"You know, teaching isn't doing you any favors. You're starting to treat us like complete idiots…"
"What did you just say, Ronald?" Hermione's hand twitched toward her wand for emphasis, but she restrained herself.
"I said I'll attend Lockhart's classes," Ron repeated. "No point in spending so much on his books otherwise, right? But if he ends up teaching us rubbish like Quirrell did, we're going to have a talk about it."
"Oh, I can't wait for that conversation. Harry?"
"I get it. Study hard, or we're doomed. Magic's the problem, and magic's the solution."
"Less fatalism, please. I'm not asking you to master the mechanics of conceptual influence and recite it back to me. All I want is for you to take lessons seriously, especially the ones that might save your life."
"You know, Hermione, right now you sound more like Snape than McGonagall."
"For all his faults, especially toward our house, Professor Snape is an incredibly skilled wizard, particularly for his age. I could almost take that as a compliment."
"How old is he, anyway?" Harry asked, curious.
"I'm not sure. Maybe fifty-five?" Ron guessed with a shrug.
"Thirty-two, Ronald. And if you don't want me repeating that in front of him, you'd better stay awake in Potions."
"I can already tell this is going to be a rough year…"
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Johnny_Z
Mar 7, 2025
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Johnny_Z
Mar 15, 2025
#242
"Good morning, boss. Happy birthday."
"Good morni—wait, what?"
"You said your birthday was November 3rd. That's today."
"I know what I said, but I wasn't planning on celebrating… Forget it. Lyn, are you going to let us in, or should we stand here all day?" the magus asked irritably, gesturing toward the slightly neglected facade of the mansion.
"My apologies. Please, come in," Lyn replied, stepping aside to let them enter. He added politely, "Good morning, Mr. MacDuggal."
"Hey, uh, Lyn, right?" Albert replied, a bit awkwardly.
Once the door was closed, their host led them deeper into the house, stopping at an unassuming wooden door that opened to reveal a staircase leading down to the basement. Archibald unlocked it with a regular key, but a flight lower, they were met with a solid steel door that practically hummed with imbued magic and structural reinforcement barriers. There were no visible keyholes or electronic locks; instead, the magus placed his hand on the metal and recited a long incantation in Latin. The mechanisms responded with a heavy click, disengaging the locks and opening the passage.
Archibald allowed his two companions to enter first, then closed the door behind them and reactivated the barriers. Another flight down, Lyn flipped a switch on the concrete wall, illuminating the bunker with ceiling lights. The space was utilitarian but clearly optimized for work: shelves lined the walls, though many were still empty; a workbench and a small array of chemical equipment were neatly arranged; materials were stored in crates, and magical protective circles adorned the floor, walls, and low ceiling. At the far end of the room, a door led to another chamber. Near the staircase stood a plain wooden table with several chairs, where the three of them settled.
"Not bad," Albert remarked as he surveyed the setup. "Not exactly cozy, but definitely better equipped than the last 'workshop.'"
"Much better," Archibald agreed, his gaze sweeping over the shelves and workstations. "Still far from perfect, of course, but this was the best option available at the time. There's enough space for now, and if necessary, we can expand later."
"Or burn it down and move elsewhere?"
"That's the backup plan, yes."
The relocation and setup of the new workshop had been an ongoing ordeal since August. The day they were both captured, Triad thugs had also raided the rented apartment. While the guards MacDuggal had hired put up a fight, they didn't last long. Thankfully, Miss Stone—forewarned about the possibility of such an attack—managed to barricade herself inside Archibald's workshop. Using an artifact specifically designed for a non-magical user, she activated a weak but functional barrier. Archibald didn't particularly care for her well-being, but he valued her competency and didn't want the potential fallout from her death to create problems for James Murphy.
The thugs lacked the skill to breach the barrier, and sticking around to deal with police wasn't an option. When Archibald and Albert returned that evening, they found the barrier intact and Stone unharmed, though the apartment had been compromised beyond recovery.
Over the next few days, as the magical press erupted over the murder of a wizard with "Muggle weaponry," it became clear that loose ends had to be tied up decisively. Archibald spent a sleepless 24 hours packing books and equipment into several magically expanded suitcases, dismantling every barrier to erase any trace of their presence. The apartment was then set ablaze in a controlled magical fire, leaving no evidence behind. Hypnosis and a bribe convinced the landlord that the tenants had nothing to do with the incident. Nearby neighbors, too, had their memories subtly altered, describing the event as a mundane robbery gone wrong.
They temporarily relocated to a house on the outskirts of London that Albert had reserved for emergencies. However, Albert's troubles didn't end there. When it became clear that enchanted bullets were being traced by both Aurors and the police, MacDuggal had to vanish entirely, severing all ties to both magical and mundane contacts. This evasion wasn't cheap—his dealings with certain gangs now ran far deeper than before, though at least these new "partners" didn't try to kill him on sight.
Archibald himself ventured out sparingly in the following weeks. On September 1st, he made an appearance in the magical world to see off his "teacher" and maintain the illusion of normalcy. Days earlier, he had arranged a meeting with Fletcher to acquire Polyjuice Potion in a hurry. Fletcher charged three times the usual rate, possibly suspecting that Archibald had ties to the Travers incident.
During the meeting, Archibald incapacitated Fletcher with a stunning spell disguised as a harmless Lumos gesture. While eliminating Fletcher entirely would have been the simplest solution, the magus knew such an act would draw undue attention. Instead, he altered Fletcher's memories, substituting James Murphy's image and voice with that of one of Albert's associates. The mental manipulation was meticulous—unlike Obliviate, which crudely erases memories, this subtle reweaving of events minimized the risk of contradictions.
In subsequent dealings, Archibald only approached Fletcher while disguised, and the smuggler began bringing backup to their meetings, possibly sensing lingering traces of tampering. Fletcher also raised his prices, but Archibald grudgingly accepted the new terms—better inflated fees than the risk of betrayal. Fletcher, ever motivated by greed, seemed content to keep things as they were for now.
In September, Archibald finally found a suitable apartment, nearly identical to the previous one. However, with newspapers reporting constant checks and large-scale hunts for "dark wizards" and traces of black magic—even in the ancestral manors of old families—he decided to take a more thorough approach this time. His new workshop would be hidden much more securely, and he would maintain his guise as a first-generation wizard with greater diligence. This led him to purchase a small single-story house with a fully-equipped bunker just three blocks from his new residence in a private housing sector.
The previous owner had apparently been a paranoid prepper terrified of World War III and Soviet missile strikes on London. Under the modest house, they had built a shelter almost equal in size to the property itself, preparing for the apocalypse. With the dissolution of the USSR a year prior and the waning nuclear threat, such properties had plummeted in value. It was the type of house no one wanted—unless, of course, you were Archibald, who found it perfect. Naturally, the purchase was made under the names of unrelated individuals. Archibald had planned to relocate his workshop closer to the time of his enrollment in school, but circumstances accelerated that timeline.
Even so, the endeavor was costly. The Syndicate loaned him the money for the purchase, secured by Albert's promise from his undisclosed hideout and guarantees of exclusive services. As a result, Archibald spent the first half of September abandoning his own research to focus entirely on healing the wounded from gang-related territorial skirmishes and other "operations." Some injuries were too severe or suspicious for a hospital visit, forcing him to exhaust his magical reserves using ancestral techniques, basic healing spells with local mystic codes, and a variety of potions—both purchased and brewed himself. It was unpleasant, not to mention humiliating, but having a proper workshop was worth the hassle.
For now, he couldn't conduct meaningful research. His equipment and books remained packed in the refuge, while renovations on the basement of the new house consumed time and money. Walls were demolished, ventilation and electrical systems improved, and doors and outer walls reinforced to meet his requirements.
At the same time, he realized he needed at least one assistant. MacDuggal was still in hiding, and involving any of James's acquaintances would compromise everything. Most of them were also out of reach in Scotland. The idea of hiring someone from Knockturn Alley or similar semi-legal London spots was tempting but far too risky.
Working with injured gang members sparked another idea. While wizards were highly visible and interconnected within Britain's magical society, squibs—descendants of magical families with minimal or no magical ability—were an overlooked resource. Some squibs lived among wizards, performing menial jobs, while many integrated into the non-magical world, often unaware of their heritage. Albert himself had been an example. Among the wounded gang members Archibald treated, he found individuals with one or two magic circuits and faint, almost useless magical talents. Finding the right candidate seemed feasible.
The gang's leader agreed to lend him one of their rookies as a "student," again on Albert's word and for a price. Two weeks of careful testing and observation—without arousing suspicion—yielded four candidates with latent magical abilities. From them, Archibald selected the one who suited his purposes best.
"Rumor has it," Albert said, studying the young man sitting across from him, "that you managed to teach an ordinary person magic from scratch in just over a month. Is that true?"
Lyn, the young man in question, looked like an average college student—not particularly wealthy, dressed modestly, and utterly unremarkable among London's thousands. He was just nineteen.
"James, weren't you the one who told me that was impossible?"
"It is impossible," Archibald replied calmly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Albert. After two months in hiding, the man looked pale and tired, but otherwise unharmed. He had likely been laying low in basements and warehouses, avoiding sunlight and fresh air. Given how many people were after him, there wasn't much choice. If the Aurors caught him, they might literally "go after his soul"—a particularly grim possibility under magical Britain's laws, which allowed for executions by Dementor. Fascinating creatures, those Dementors.
Now that the investigation seemed to have quieted, especially on the Aurors' end, Albert planned to adjust his appearance with magic and gradually re-enter his old networks under the guise of a distant relative. He still had contacts, after all, and losing them would be a waste.
"Don't listen to amateurs who don't know what they're talking about," Archibald continued. "This isn't really magic—not the kind wizards use, anyway. Lyn, demonstrate."
"Got it, boss," Lyn replied. He pulled a short knife with a bone handle from his jeans, adjusted his grip, and concentrated. With a quick slash upward, he unleashed a powerful gust of wind that struck the concrete ceiling between the lights, causing the protective circle etched there to faintly glow. Two more strikes followed from different angles.
"That's all I can do for now, but a week ago, I couldn't even manage that," Lyn said, lowering the knife.
"Not bad. You're improving," Archibald said dryly. He turned to Albert. "This isn't traditional wizardry. It's the physical manifestation of an innate property of the soul—a concept called an Origin. His is 'Gale.' It's useful but highly unpredictable. Since I have some knowledge of wind-based magic, I created a sort of catalyst for him—runes, amplifiers, a spirit of air bound within, and a fragment of his own bone. It took over a week to calculate and assemble. It enhances his natural talent by several orders of magnitude, making it practical. To be honest, there's more magic in that knife than in either of you."
"In what sense 'his own bone'?" Albert asked, convinced he must have misheard.
"In the most literal sense," Archibald replied without hesitation. "A piece of his shinbone was used for the inlays on the knife handle. It made focusing the magic much simpler. With the help of some potions, we regrew the bone within a couple of days. Painful, of course, excruciating even, but I think it was worth it. The fact that he, like you, has a very faint magical gift made it easier for him to adapt to the new abilities. That said, it would have been possible to work with a completely ordinary person too, though it would take far longer.
"And to answer your unspoken question—no, it's too late for you to awaken your gift. Adapting would be much harder, and even if you did, there's no guarantee your abilities would be useful."
"Too bad," Albert sighed with a shrug. "But I got by just fine without it before."
Lyn sat quietly, listening but not participating in their conversation. His full name was Llewellyn Smith, an orphan raised in a shelter like Murphy. Tall, with dark blond hair and brown eyes, he bore no striking resemblance to anyone from the pure-blood wizarding families Archibald had read about—names like the Weasleys or Malfoys. However, the name he was given suggested a magical heritage. Who else but a wizard would leave a baby at an orphanage's doorstep with the name of an ancient Welsh king?
Life hadn't been kind to him. His impulsive nature—likely tied to his Origin, "Gale"—combined with a childhood full of ridicule for his "impossible" stories about gnomes and ghosts, made him anything but compliant. He cycled through three foster homes, escaped them all, wandered the streets, joined teenage gangs, and eventually climbed his way into the lowest ranks of the Syndicate by eighteen.
Winning him over wasn't difficult for Archibald. It was enough to convince him that he wasn't crazy, that the magical creatures he'd seen as a child were real. To drive the point home, Archibald even summoned a couple of his own ghosts as proof. From there, Lyn eagerly agreed to develop his meager abilities in exchange for becoming Archibald's assistant. He continued to work for "the family," but now with a slightly elevated rank.
While Lyn could never become a full-fledged magus with his paltry and low-grade magic circuits, he could be trained as a competent assistant and bodyguard—someone who could hand over a scalpel or shield him from a spell in combat. Loyalty wouldn't be an issue, either. Once a person experienced magic, they inevitably came to see the problems of the mundane world as inconsequential.
By October, after the renovations to the bunker-turned-workshop were complete, Lyn moved into the house. He kept it clean and maintained Archibald's cover as a "first-generation wizard." After all, what could be more normal than a young wizard occasionally visiting a squib neighbor to discuss their paranormal work—things far beyond the understanding of ordinary Muggles?
"And overall, how have things been without me?" Albert asked, eyeing the workbench where a short sword's blade and its disassembled hilt and guard lay.
"I take it business has slowed, and you've focused on… let's call it local demand?"
"Mostly," Archibald said, glancing at the bench. "Healing injuries, crafting amulets, brewing potions for the 'family.' I even had to deal with a few hauntings—some basements and warehouses where too much blood had been spilled were attracting ghosts and even a phantom. I banished one; it wasn't particularly useful. But the others I kept. That phantom, in particular, might be worth something."
He gestured toward the dismantled sword. "For now, I've paused work on enchanted bullets and adaptive blades to avoid unnecessary attention. Protective bracelets are still in demand, though. I'll refine the design when I have the time."
"And why's there been such a fuss, anyway?" Albert asked irritably, slapping the table. "Sure, I shot the guy, and yeah, your bullets are nasty pieces of work. But why all this uproar—why are they turning the world upside down looking for us?"
"It's simple. We got unlucky," Archibald replied. He walked to a nearby shelf and returned with a stack of magical newspapers from late August and September. Spreading them out in a fan on the table, he pointed to the headlines: 'Cursed Weapon,' 'Dark Wizard,' 'Dark Magic,' 'Cursed Weapon.'
"The problem isn't the bullets themselves but the enchantment on them. The British Ministry of Magic has this unhealthy habit of labeling anything they don't understand as 'dark magic' so they can brag about fighting it. They need something to justify their budgets and bonuses," he added with disdain.
"A fifty-pounds wand and the Incendio spell—something they teach eleven-year-olds—can burn a man alive in seconds, and nobody bats an eye. But an enchanted dagger that sets blood aflame? Suddenly, it's an abomination. Hypocrites.
"And Lyn," he added sternly, glancing at his assistant, "don't go flashing your knife around unnecessarily, especially near anyone from their side. It's a perfectly innocent tool, but they'd never see it that way."
"Understood, boss," Lyn replied.
"And why do they keep claiming this guy 'fought a dark wizard and won'?" Albert asked, jabbing a finger at one of the headlines. "Right here, it says the fire was so intense there were no remains. So how can they even be sure he won?"
"That's propaganda," Archibald said with a scoff. "They might want the truth for their investigation, but preserving public confidence and saving face are higher priorities. While the Aurors scour slums and hideouts for us, the Ministry is telling everyone there's no danger, that the dark magic they've been scaremongering about for a decade is no longer a threat."
He sneered. "They've backed themselves into a corner. They don't even know what true dark magic or forbidden arts really are."
"Do you know, boss?" Lyn asked quietly. Despite the apparent age difference, he treated Archibald with a measure of respect—a natural result of witnessing the magus's impressive demonstrations and hearing his lectures on the magical world and its fantastical creatures. Archibald hadn't revealed much about himself, only that he was older than he looked, and that had been enough to cement Lyn's regard for him.
"Of course I know," Archibald replied confidently, casting a disdainful glance at the moving photograph of the Auror Chief addressing the press. "Remember, Mr. MacDuggal, when you asked why I'm so meticulous about erasing traces of my work? It's not just a quirk of mine but a necessity, and I can tell you exactly what happens when you don't. Take, for example, a case from about twenty years ago. A certain wizard decided to conduct experiments on vampires on a remote tropical island. He probably thought that, should anything go wrong, no one would ever find out. Naive…"
Archibald shared a few tales from his home world, detailing instances where breaches of secrecy led to brutal repercussions—entire districts and settlements razed to the ground in retaliation. True, this world lacked the Holy Church's Executors and their lethal efficiency. Here, the Magical Confederation preferred covering up supernatural events with mass memory erasure rather than obliterating the site of the incident. Still, the effects were far from harmless: people left with permanent amnesia, driven mad, or reduced to "vegetables" due to hastily executed memory-altering procedures often performed by those unskilled in mental magic.
Reiterating the importance of secrecy was a lesson Lyn and Albert, both squibs now entangled in the affairs of wizards, needed for their own safety. The warnings also served to curb any overenthusiastic experiments with their newfound magical "toys," a temptation many novices struggled to resist.
Roughly half an hour later, they parted ways. Albert left to "test the waters" before re-establishing connections for his trade network, while Lyn headed off on an errand for his Syndicate superiors. Archibald stayed in the bunker.
His first task was potion brewing. Consulting a recipe, he carefully combined ingredients following the local methodology. A cloudy solution simmered over a low flame. While he had become adept at brewing standard concoctions by strictly adhering to instructions, modifying recipes—or creating new ones—remained challenging. His failure rate for such experiments was frustratingly high. "Conceptual" alchemy as practiced here—where the potion embodied a specific mystery—required accounting for countless variables: ingredient selection, preparation, and even the process of blending components.
Despite the frustration to his pride as a master alchemist, Archibald had no choice but to treat the process as practice, accepting wasted ingredients and efforts. Occasionally, a successful result justified the effort. Today's brew, for instance, came from a necromancy textbook he had purchased from Fletcher for thirteen thousand Galleons (after a price hike). The formula, centuries old, was meant to create a barrier that repelled ghosts and spirits. Archibald had attempted a minor modification, shortening the drying time of the applied solution from thirty minutes to five. Only practical tests would reveal if his adjustments had compromised the potion's inherent mystery.
With the potion simmering, Archibald retreated to a curtained corner of the lab, separated from the alchemical section by a barrier. Settling into a chair, he retrieved Hermione Granger's latest letter from his coat pocket. The young witch had taken his "student's" request for updates on Hogwarts life quite seriously, sending regular, detailed accounts every weekend via familiar. While the letters arrived at his decoy apartment rather than the bunker, they painted a vivid picture of life at the castle and its academic environment.
For the most part, nothing unusual stood out. Hermione described her progress in basic alchemy and introductory transfiguration, the latter of which, once she grasped the underlying principles, came remarkably easily to her. Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology were straightforward, though she noted the History of Magic class was, as others had warned, terribly taught despite its importance. Tonks had once made a similar complaint.
Unsurprisingly, Defense Against the Dark Arts posed the biggest challenge. By early October, Hermione admitted with clear frustration in her letter that Professor Lockhart, while perhaps a celebrated hunter of magical creatures and a talented writer, was a dreadful teacher. Archibald had suspected as much but waited for Hermione's initial infatuation with the "people's hero" to fade before encouraging her to critically assess his teaching methods.
She described how Lockhart had begun his first lesson by releasing a swarm of minor elementals—a cross between pixies and gremlins—into a packed classroom and telling the students to subdue them. It was a chaotic and dangerous exercise. A fight against unknown creatures in a confined space, without the ability to use area-of-effect spells, would be difficult even for magi trained in close combat. For twelve-year-olds with no magic crests or instant-cast familial spells, it bordered on impossible. Predictably, the students failed to handle the threat effectively.
Lockhart declared the class woefully unprepared for his subject and shifted focus to theory. Using his books as a basis, he lectured on combating various magical creatures, discussing spell combinations, potion preparation, tracking methods, and tactical positioning for confrontations. While the methods themselves were solid—if somewhat dramatic—his teaching fell short. He failed to explain why certain spells were used in specific orders or why he chose one potion over a potentially better alternative. Nor could he justify why, in one scenario, he relied on a combination of freezing and kinetic spells, while in another, he exclusively used elemental magic.
In short, Lockhart presented the students with rigid templates—effective but inflexible—and lacked the ability to break them down into modular components. This deprived his students of the chance to adapt these methods to their own affinities, magical styles, and resources.
Roughly a third of his correspondence with Granger revolved around Defense Against the Dark Arts—dissecting topics that Professor Lockhart either couldn't or wouldn't explain. To Archibald's mild surprise, the young witch had taken an unexpectedly serious interest in the subject. Based on hints in her letters, he suspected that the Travers incident had profoundly affected her. More concerning was her apparent belief that the killer might pose a direct threat to the school, specifically to her house, her circle of friends, or even herself. This fear seemed to fuel her determination to master defensive magic, and Archibald offered advice within the bounds of what a gifted Muggle-born could feasibly accomplish.
Occasionally, as he read her letters, Archibald wondered if the "teacher" was hiding something from him. Did she have a concrete reason to fear an attack? Perhaps something had happened during her first year that made her take magic even more seriously than most pure-blood wizards?
During her clumsy attempt to uncover his secrets, she had panicked and let slip something about a stone and a professor who had turned out to be someone else entirely. According to her, the previous Defense teacher had suffered an unfortunate accident at the end of the school year. Cross-referencing newspapers from that time revealed an obituary for Quirinus Quirrell. Could he have attacked a Muggle-born first-year for some reason—prejudice, perhaps, or something more mundane? And had Granger actually killed an adult wizard in self-defense?
The mere possibility opened a floodgate of questions. Had he been wrong to dismiss the idea of involving her in the library altercation with the gang? Could she have dealt with them on her own if she'd been aware? Though he felt no threat from her despite these speculations, Archibald decided it might be prudent to treat her with a little less indulgence until he learned the full story. What could have happened to make a thirteen-year-old girl seriously anticipate an attack from an unknown wizard?
A soft bubbling sound from the brewing potion drew Archibald from his musings. He quickly finished the letter and found its conclusion unremarkable. Granger described a surprise inspection of the castle, including student dormitories, led by the Board of Governors and Lucius Malfoy, searching for dark or illegally enchanted items per Ministry decrees. The inspection had yielded no significant results. She also recounted a ghostly celebration at Hogwarts, which Archibald skimmed through; as a spiritualist, he regarded ghosts and phantoms as tools rather than personalities, useful for tasks like guarding or spying.
Folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket, he headed to the alchemy station to prevent the potion from boiling over, which could lead to unpredictable consequences. There would be time to write a reply tomorrow. Tonight, he had an appointment in the magical quarter. It was time for James Murphy to officially acquire a mystic code and establish himself as a proper wizard in the eyes of society.
Nymphadora Tonks felt uncomfortably out of place at the table, and Archibald had gone to great lengths to ensure this.
"Would you like more tea, Lady Tonks?" asked Mrs. Stone, her tone overly polite.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Stone. And please, don't call me 'Lady.' Just 'Miss' is fine—I'm not from an aristocratic family."
Archibald observed the exchange with interest. Convincing Tonks to visit had been no easy feat, but it was essential for several reasons. To achieve the desired effect, the atmosphere had to be just right.
"You know, Jim has spoken so much about you. Without your help, Miss Tonks, he would never have managed to navigate your world on his own," Mrs. Stone continued, joining them at the table with a cup of tea. Archibald couldn't help but admit that his "adopted mother" earned her keep. For the past six months, her role as a caretaker had primarily been to fool ordinary neighbors, whose memories could be easily adjusted if needed. This time, however, her performance carried far greater stakes.
"I really can't thank you enough for all your efforts. I know how busy you must be with your studies."
"No, no, it's nothing, Mrs. Stone," Tonks replied, her cheeks turning red and her hair shifting to a bright orange. "In fact, we should be thanking you on behalf of the wizarding community. Taking in a child knowing he's a wizard is a truly admirable act—not everyone would be so open-minded. Unfortunately, there are still many prejudices and superstitions about magic and 'evil sorcerers,' even today."
"Oh, what prejudices? We're long past the Middle Ages. How could anyone deny a child a family just because they're a little different? And Jim said that magic is strictly forbidden at home anyway, isn't that right?"
"Yes, until the age of seventeen—that's Ministry law."
"Well, tell me, Miss Auror…" began Kaybeth's assistant.
"I'm just a trainee, Llywelyn," Tonks corrected, forcing her hair back to its usual violet hue. "It'll be another year and a half before I qualify as a full Auror."
"But James said you've already participated in patrols and arrests, even as a trainee," Llywelyn said with genuine admiration. Though he was playing a role, the sentiment wasn't entirely feigned. Despite his difficult past and involvement in criminal activities, Llywelyn had developed a sincere, almost childlike awe for wizards and their abilities since meeting Archibald. Archibald had used this to his advantage, inviting Llywelyn to the meeting and introducing him as a curious squib neighbor eager to meet a real wizard, especially an Auror. The setup added to Tonks's discomfort, precisely as planned.
"That's nothing special," Tonks said modestly, brushing off the compliment. "It's just like police work—searches, interrogations, setting up barriers. Trainees aren't trusted with solo arrests yet; we're still learning from the senior Aurors."
"It's still remarkable. Miss Tonks, can you show us something… magical? You're allowed to use magic freely now, aren't you?" Llywelyn asked, his curiosity genuine.
"May I?" Tonks turned to Mrs. Stone, seeking permission.
"Of course, as long as it's not dangerous or disruptive to the neighbors. Honestly, I'd love to see it too," Mrs. Stone admitted.
"Alright, I'll keep it simple." Drawing her wand, Tonks pointed it at the table and intoned, "Expecto Patronum."
"Whoa, is that… a rabbit?" Llywelyn asked, marveling at the silvery creature bounding gracefully across the tabletop.
"Where? I don't see anything," Mrs. Stone admitted, looking puzzled.
"This spell conjures a protector against dark creatures," Archibald explained, his gaze fixed on the manifestation. The materialization of emotions into a semi-physical familiar intrigued him. He had read about this kind of magic but had never witnessed it firsthand. While its effectiveness was limited to creatures that thrived on negative emotions, he speculated it might also counter certain cursed objects or trap-based spells triggered by fear or anger. "Unfortunately, ordinary people can't see them."
"What a shame."
"My apologies—I didn't think of that," Tonks said, dispelling the Patronus. Her tone lacked sincerity, suggesting the demonstration might have been a subtle test to confirm whether Llywelyn was truly a squib or if Murphy had breached the Statute by revealing magic to a Muggle.
Perhaps to soften the atmosphere, she levitated the empty teacups, making them spin gracefully in mid-air. "Is this easier to see?"
After the impromptu magic show, Llywelyn thanked Tonks enthusiastically before heading home, and Mrs. Stone busied herself with chores. This left Archibald and Tonks alone in his room. One of the main objectives of her visit was to give her a clear view of his living conditions—before anyone at the Ministry decided to investigate what a Muggle-born boy with nearly a year left before attending Hogwarts was doing with a legally purchased wand. Archibald wasn't certain whether such inspections occurred before acceptance letters were issued, but eliminating any potential risk of exposure seemed prudent. Inviting a trainee Auror to see everything openly lent an air of transparency.
The room itself was deliberately mundane: a bed, a desk with a lamp, a television, and a workout machine in the corner—because even James's physical form needed development alongside his magic circuits. The few magical items were unobtrusive: an owl cage by the window, a wand on a stand, and a bookshelf filled with introductory texts on magic. Most of these were among the less useful books he had purchased during his first trip to Diagon Alley, alongside textbooks for the first three years at Hogwarts and a few higher-level theoretical works. Some were duplicates of volumes stored in his secret workshop. Anything potentially incriminating—like the older tomes or materials from Fletcher—was securely hidden elsewhere.
"So, you mentioned you wanted to ask me something besides offering thanks?" Tonks prompted, settling into a chair.
"Yes, there's a problem I'm facing, and I don't know anyone else I can turn to for advice," Archibald began, retrieving some parchment scrolls from his desk before sitting across from her. "It's about a girl I introduced you to on September first—Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born two years older than me. She helped me prepare for school over the summer. We've kept corresponding; she asks about news from the Muggle world, and I ask about her lessons at Hogwarts. But about a month and a half ago, after Halloween, she started mentioning some troubling incidents.
"First, one of her friends… it's like he's cursed, but not in the textbook sense. There's no direct spell involved, nor has he touched any cursed items. But misfortunes follow him constantly. He's on his house Quidditch team and has already been sent to the hospital wing three times. A rogue Bludger broke his arm, his broom nearly snapped in half mid-flight, and another time, a different broom crashed into a wall at full speed. Beyond that, potions explode unexpectedly, basic spells fail for no reason, and he's constantly tripping or being hit by doors and objects.
"They suspected students from a rival house—apparently, some there really dislike him—but they've never caught anyone. And it's not like these kids could be using advanced invisibility or masking charms that even most adults wouldn't know. He's already suffered fractures, concussions, and other injuries. And someone has been leaving him ominous notes in the hospital wing, saying things like, 'Leave Hogwarts immediately, or you'll be in grave danger.'"
"Do you think someone's targeting him? Maybe an older student?" Tonks asked, her tone serious. She herself had endured bullying during her school years, for being a Metamorphmagus, a half-blood, and because of her parents, though it had never escalated to this level.
"I'm not sure yet. But that's not the worst of it. About a week after his troubles began, something else started happening at the school. Once a week, sometimes more often, first- and second-years have been found unconscious, stunned by a spell. They're often covered in bruises or cuts, and their magical energy is almost completely depleted. It's as if someone has been tormenting them, but the victims either can't remember or refuse to talk about it.
"I've seen something similar in the orphanage—though, of course, without the magic. It happened to me this year too—'accidentally fell down the stairs' and ended up nearly dead. But this is Hogwarts. Surely the teachers care about their students, right?" He sounded more doubtful than convinced. "There've been seven or eight incidents so far. Hardly anyone stayed at the castle over Christmas, but there's no guarantee the attacks won't resume in January.
"The worst part is that rumors are linking all of this to Hermione's friend. People are saying his 'curse' is spreading—first affecting kids in his house, then all the second-years, and now even the first-years. If it keeps escalating, they're saying it could reach the older students next—and eventually the teachers themselves."
"What utter nonsense!" Tonks exclaimed, throwing up her hands in frustration. "Curses don't work like that. I say this as someone who got top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts—it's just not possible."
"I believe you," Kayneth agreed. From his perspective, it sounded like complete rubbish as well, contradicting everything he knew about the theory and mechanics of curses. Still, he understood that children, especially those whose knowledge of magic began only a year or two ago, couldn't be expected to grasp such nuances. The same likely applied to many purebloods; based on the Ministry's ban on underage magic outside school grounds, he suspected that family-level instruction here was far inferior to what he was accustomed to.
"I haven't seen anything remotely like this in any books I've read either. And Granger agrees, as do the professors. They think it's all some cruel, idiotic prank. They've been trying to catch the culprits for over a month but with no luck. Classes won't be suspended over something like this. The problem is, some students believe the rumors, and now they're openly threatening that boy, shouting for him to leave the school and stop endangering them. It's possible this is all part of one big scheme, with the attacks on him and others being connected."
"Does anyone have a reason to hate a second-year that much? Is he from a family with a bad reputation?"
"His surname is Potter, Lady Tonks."
"Oh…" Tonks blinked, her surprise genuine. She quickly nodded and said, "That explains a lot, actually. And yes, I can see why some people would hold a grudge. But what does this have to do with you? What exactly were you going to ask me?"
"I was just getting to that. Granger believes—and I agree with her—that eventually the culprits will be caught. The castle isn't that big, and someone involved will slip up sooner or later. But until then, Potter and his friends, who are also getting dragged into this, need a way to cope—with this so-called 'curse,' with whoever is attacking people, and with the students who believe the rumors.
"They tried asking their current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for extra lessons, but unfortunately, Mr. Lockhart is a much better writer than he is a teacher." Kayneth cast a skeptical glance at a row of books on the shelf. "His practical lessons are far too advanced for children, and his theory lessons focus on memorizing fixed methods rather than preparing for unknown threats. He failed to organize practical sessions outside of class, though he recently made an attempt. Upper years are too busy with exams or their own problems to help. Other teachers are overwhelmed with their own subjects and extra tutoring. And despite their efforts, the staff hasn't found the culprits after a month. They've even investigated the most obvious suspects to no avail.
"That's when Granger turned to me, knowing I have a connection to you." He left out the fact that he had subtly nudged her toward this idea, steering her away from futile attempts to find the culprits themselves. Looking out the window at the mix of sleet and rain, he added, "Christmas break starts in less than a week. Her group will return to London, and she'd like to request—through me—a couple of lessons on practical defense against magic and curses. Just enough to learn some techniques they can practice on their own back at school. Otherwise, it's only a matter of time before the injuries go beyond broken bones."
"If it's this serious, they should turn to someone else," Tonks said after a pause. "I'm not even a full Auror yet, just a trainee. The heads of houses, the headmaster, parents, or the Education Committee should handle this. Maybe they need to add extra lessons or get the Ministry involved to find the culprits. In the worst case, Potter could be moved to homeschooling for his safety."
"That all sounds reasonable, but only because you trust me, and I trust Granger. To the teachers and heads of houses, these are just 'schoolyard pranks'—nothing worth alerting the Ministry over. Students at Hogwarts are always throwing newly learned spells at each other. Is that a reason to panic? No one's been seriously hurt. When a cauldron explodes in Potions and a few students get scalded or splashed with acid, does that warrant canceling classes, calling in healers, or seeking Ministry help? Or when someone falls twenty feet off a broom during Quidditch? These things happen. They'll be patched up in the infirmary in a day or two.
"As for adults, Potter doesn't have parents. Granger's Muggle-born like me; her parents' voices mean nothing in the wizarding world. Weasley's too afraid his mother will pull him out of school. So these two are left to fend for themselves, alone with their problems. They've asked for help where they could but received nothing of real use. That's why they turned to me, and why I'm asking you for help. They just need to hold on for a while, but they can't rely on anyone else because no one else believes them."
"Couldn't they ask a real Auror for help?" Tonks suggested. "Someone who not only knows what they're doing but also has the experience to teach. You said the current Defense teacher is a good fighter but a poor instructor. I'm not sure I'd do any better."
"Do you think they'd agree? To help a Muggle-born like me who hasn't even started at Hogwarts? Or Granger, a second-year also born to Muggles? What could we possibly know about curses and spells to gauge the danger? Isn't that right, Lady Tonks?"
Tonks fell silent. Unfortunately, James wasn't wrong. Without solid evidence, even if the second-years managed to get a hearing with the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement—which wasn't impossible since one of them was the son of a department head—they wouldn't be taken seriously. At best, the Ministry would send a query to the school, which the headmaster would promptly reject. They might try the Board of Governors, but with Lucius Malfoy in charge, the trio—"the Boy Who Lived, a blood traitor, and a Mudblood"—would be the perfect storm of grievances for him. He wouldn't help; he'd probably push to have them expelled.
So what options were left? She could ask someone herself, discreetly. Scrimgeour or Kingsley wouldn't believe her, and even if they did, they wouldn't interfere with what they'd see as "schoolyard mischief." Alastor Moody would jump at the chance, but he was the last person to involve with twelve-year-olds; his idea of training had no concept of restraint, and he'd run them ragged before any villain could.
That left no real alternatives. She could refuse outright, but what if this truly was a case of targeted harassment? If Potter was being punished for his parents' actions or if someone sought vengeance for fallen relatives? And what if she could've helped but chose to do nothing, like so many adults had when she was a student?
"I can show the basics—not even from the Auror training program, just material from the upper years. But nothing dangerous, and certainly no dark magic, not even as examples."
"That's more than enough," Kayneth nodded appreciatively. Truthfully, he didn't particularly care about others' problems, except for the fact that Granger being ostracized could negatively impact her reputation—and, by extension, that of her "student." But this was also an opportunity to learn at least the fundamentals of the local combat magic system, taught by someone training to hunt down criminals and renegades. That promised a significantly higher level of expertise than the magi he'd encountered in battle so far—brainless thugs or a young aristocratic heir who didn't know what he was getting into and wasn't prepared for a real fight. It would be a waste to pass up such a chance, which was why he had gone to such lengths to set this up.
"At the very least, I'd like to speak with them. Maybe this Granger is exaggerating in her letters or taking ordinary pranks far too seriously."
"I'd like that to be the case," Kayneth replied, his tone firm. "But I'm heading there in a year, and I have no desire to wake up half-dead under a staircase... again."
"Believe me, I understand you perfectly." Tonks sighed. "Alright, it's decided. Two or three lessons during the holidays—just the basics, with a focus on defensive magic. But we'll need a place where underage magic is allowed."
"I already have a location in mind," Kayneth assured her. "The most important thing is that you've agreed to help. The rest is just logistics we can figure out later. You are an exceptional person, Lady Tonks. I'm sure you'll make a first-rate Auror. And, uh, I hope I'll be allowed to sit in on these lessons? Purely for observational purposes. I have a feeling that in a year, these skills might come in very handy."
Last edited: Mar 15, 2025
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Johnny_Z
Mar 15, 2025
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