The Mage book 2: First Year at a Magical School

by Kelorus

Summary:

Harry Potter is starting Hogwarts… with seven seats in the Wizengamot, a Veela fiancée, a sarcastic house-elf, a snobbish owl, and a knack for summoning extraplanar beings by accident. Flamel would call it excessive. Harry calls it Monday.
Book 2 of The Mage

Chapter 1: Ten Years Later

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

Ten years later

Black Castle
July 26^th 1991

Ten years after the events of Godric’s Hollow, much had changed in the wizarding world—and for our young sorcerer.

Harry had grown up surrounded by a close and loving family. Whether it was the Blacks, the Weasleys, the Malfoys, or the Longbottoms, he had forged strong bonds. Even with the more distant branch—the Crouch family—Barty Crouch had proven to be a sort of uncle (though officially a distant second cousin), an amusing, slightly mad one at that.

And, of course, there was his fiancée, Fleur Delacour. They corresponded weekly by owl, with visits every month, whether at Black Manor or her home. Over time, Harry had come to know and appreciate the woman who would one day be his wife.

She had a fiery temper, a true force of nature who wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. Any threat was swiftly reduced to ashes. But she was also great fun, with a sharp sense of humour. Unfortunately, she had to keep that side of herself hidden at Beauxbatons—her Veela heritage was too strong, and the boys there were constantly drooling over her, forcing her to project an icy persona.

But the biggest change in Harry—and the one that mattered most to him—was magic.

Harry was utterly obsessed with magic.

The moment he learned to read, he threw himself headlong into magical books. Sirius, unable to resist spoiling his godson, bought him every book he desired. A habit encouraged—even championed—by Arcturus, who saw in Harry the future of the Black family.

Even Amelia (who had married Sirius in 1983) encouraged the boy, while her niece Susan was less enthused, being more interested in dolls.

Why such enthusiasm? A simple reason: Magic came naturally to him.

Harry could make books and toys levitate, replicate biscuits by the hundred, and even fly without a broom. His magical prowess defied logic. The adults soon found themselves facing an unprecedented dilemma: What could they possibly teach him about magic?

Harry wielded magic as an artist wields a brush, and his spells were like masterpieces.

Books? They lasted mere hours—Harry absorbed them at a prodigious rate. A five-hundred-page tome? No problem; he’d devour it in an hour.

And Sirius had no qualms about purchasing books of an increasingly esoteric nature. Some teetered on the edge of what was forbidden in Britain—some were outright illegal worldwide. But the Blacks had no shortage of wealth or influence and could acquire whatever they pleased.

Necromancy, Mind Arts, mastery of the Dark Arts? Child’s play.

At first, Sirius had been apprehensive, refusing to give Harry access to books on dark magic. Harry’s response?

“Magic is like a knife—you can use it to cut a steak, a rope, or a throat. It’s a tool, and only its user determines whether it’s good or evil. The concept of morality is human; magic exists beyond it, pure and without preconception.”

At seven years old, the boy delivered this statement to his family. The next day, Arcturus handed him his first book on dark magic. Harry demonstrated an extraordinary aptitude, yet never used it for malicious purposes. Even Mad-Eye Moody questioned him about its various applications and seemed satisfied with the answers—though no one, not even Arcturus or Sirius, ever knew what they discussed.

By the age of nine, they could find no more books to satiate his hunger for knowledge. Then Remus had an idea.

The werewolf had moved into Black Manor, his room next to Moody’s—who claimed he was keeping an eye on him in case he “changed skins.” Remus suggested they look to the Muggle world for answers.

Arcturus scoffed at first—what could Muggles possibly know about magic? He was forced to swallow his words when Remus presented him with a book he’d bought in a game shop.

Titled Unearthed Arcana by Gary Gygax, published in 1985, it contained a wealth of spells that astonished the wizards—even more so when they realised the spells were described with precision yet required no incantations or wands.

They attempted some of the spells but failed. However, when they showed the book to Harry, they were hardly surprised to see him successfully conjure a rolling sphere of fire—quickly extinguished by Kreacher.

A new world of possibilities had opened up for Harry. He wasted no time exploring specialist shops, accompanied by his godfather, his grandfather, and the other adults.

After all, they were curious—how were wizards portrayed in the Muggle world? Arcturus couldn’t contain his laughter when he discovered that the archetypal wizard was a spitting image of Dumbledore, complete with flamboyant robes and a long white beard.

Thus, Harry acquired numerous books based on the Dungeons & Dragons universe, along with others of a similar nature. And they gave him ideas—so many ideas. He wanted to try telep…

 

“Can you hear me, Harry?”

Harry snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of his name. He looked up, his gaze slightly unfocused. Once again, he had drifted off, lost in memories of the past few years.

“Sorry, Uncle Barty, I was miles away.”

“I could tell,” Barty replied with a broad grin. “I was saying that, to celebrate our final lesson, you’re going to remind me of the composition of the Wizengamot and its importance in the wizarding world.”

The young boy rolled his eyes before standing up, accompanied by the amused chuckles of his friends.

Every week since the age of seven, he had attended lessons given by the adults in the family. He wasn’t alone, of course; the other children who were not yet at Hogwarts had to take part as well. Thus, Draco, Neville, Ronald, Ginny, and Susan had all become accustomed to lessons on politics, history, family heritage, and magic.

They had even been joined by others, including Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, and Zacharias Smith. Harry had been told that the goal was to foster connections between the children, as they were all heirs to important Houses (except Ginny) with seats on the Wizengamot.

As for their tutors, the roster often rotated between Arcturus Black, Narcissa Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, and Barty Crouch. Sirius outright refused to teach, insisting he preferred to remain the fun and affectionate godfather, while Amelia simply didn’t have the time due to her role as Head of Magical Law Enforcement.

Harry positioned himself in front of his friends, while Barty took his seat. With a wave of his hand, he conjured floating names in the air, glowing in lines of blue light.

“The Wizengamot is an institution of the highest importance,” he began. “It serves as both the supreme court of law and the legislative body that drafts and enacts laws governing the British Ministry of Magic. Its rulings are final, and no institution, except the International Confederation of Wizards, holds higher authority. For instance, it has the power to remove the Minister for Magic at any time or grant full executive authority to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.”

The other children watched him with admiration, unable to hide their amazement at his effortless use of magic. Meanwhile, Barty nodded approvingly at the explanation.

“Its composition is even more fascinating,” Harry continued, conjuring a pie chart divided into four sections. “There are four ways to obtain a seat on the Wizengamot, and they can be combined. The first is by inheritance; these are the Hereditary Seats, belonging to the Great Houses. There are currently fifty-eight such seats, with twelve currently dormant due to a lack of an active heir. According to records, the Wizengamot originally had seventy seats, but some families were completely wiped out, leaving no heirs, and their seats vanished.”

He glanced at the chart before smiling.

“Contrary to popular belief, these seats are not fixed. Their number can increase when a family is elevated to the status of a Great House. This selection is made by the enchantment that governs the Wizengamot, which instantly identifies eligible families across the United Kingdom and Ireland.”

“And do you know the criteria?” Barty asked, intrigued.

He had never taught anything about this enchantment and hadn’t even been aware of its existence. Harry met his gaze and nodded.

“Of course. To be eligible, a wizard or witch must be of the third generation, with at least one Muggle-born grandparent, and must not already be the heir to a Great House. So, if a third child from a Great House were to marry a Muggle-born, their grandchild could establish a new Great House. Many of today’s pure-blood Houses were established centuries ago in this manner. The last House recorded through this process was the House of Prince, with its first lord, Gaspard Prince, born in 1812.”

“I never knew that,” Draco murmured, frowning. “Father never mentioned it...”

“My grandmother told me about it once,” Neville said proudly. “She said the Longbottoms became a Great House in 1674.”

“Continue with the Wizengamot,” Barty prompted, looking thoughtful.

Something told him that Harry had got this information from one of the many books he had read, having practically emptied the Black family library. Some of those books were ancient, and there was bound to be a copy of the original Wizengamot charter among them.

“The second way is to be a senior official in the Ministry of Magic. There are twelve such positions: six department heads, one seat for the representative of the Department of Mysteries, one for the President of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, one for the Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, another for the Minister for Magic, a seat for the Head of the Auror Office, and lastly, one for the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Even though the latter is an elected role, it is still considered a Ministry position since it comes with a salary.”

“So Professor Dumbledore gets paid? He must be rolling in it with all his jobs!” exclaimed Ronald with a wide grin.

The redhead had changed quite a bit, thanks to the Black family fortune. Dressed in tailor-made clothing, his striking green eyes contrasted sharply with his fiery hair. A highly intelligent boy, he had at first displayed a certain laziness before being taken in hand by Arcturus. The latter had realised that young Ronald simply felt useless, having so many brothers that he thought his parents barely noticed him.

The Black family patriarch had not hesitated to advise Arthur and Molly, urging them not to compare their children to one another lest they create patterns of behaviour like Ronald’s. They had agreed, not having realised their mistake, and soon enough, Ronald began to display his talents as a strategist with remarkable intelligence.

He also developed a certain appreciation for wealth, no doubt a result of having grown up in luxury, as he had only been a toddler when the Weasleys were supported financially by the Black family.

“He is,” Barty confirmed. “In fact, he’s currently the highest-paid wizard in the world.”

And it was true. Albus Dumbledore had a combined income that would make anyone envious. For the sake of transparency, the salaries of all Ministry of Magic employees, Hogwarts staff, and workers in other magical institutions were public knowledge. Many professions also had a standard monthly wage, determined by the demands of the role.

For instance, the conductor of the Knight Bus earned 150 Galleons per month, compared to 160 Galleons for a shop assistant. Other professions, such as journalism, paid 200 Galleons (not including bonuses for successful reporters), while a dragon keeper could earn up to 250 Galleons.

Albus Dumbledore held four positions in addition to being considered a retired professor.

As such, he received 200 Galleons as a professor’s pension (which could only be claimed after 40 years in the profession, as stipulated in the Hogwarts charter, where an active professor earned 320 Galleons). He also earned 550 Galleons as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and 640 Galleons as Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Finally, he received 960 Galleons as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, plus 500 Galleons as the Ministry of Magic’s Representative to the same Confederation.

All in all, Albus Dumbledore earned a monthly salary of 2,850 Galleons, amounting to 34,200 Galleons annually. Given that he had held these positions for several decades, it was safe to say he had amassed over a million Galleons—enough to buy half the shops in Diagon Alley, if not all the ones in other wizarding districts as well.

“The third way is to be nominated as an influential figure. There are ten such appointed seats, granted by the Minister for Magic. Among those nominated are Hector Dagworth-Granger, founder of the Guild of Extraordinary Potioneers, and Perceval Rackharrow, a renowned Healer. But the most famous include Bathilda Bagshot, author of A History of Magic, Griselda Marchbanks, who has been an authority in magical education for over a century, and Filius Flitwick, a two-time world duelling champion.”

Harry sighed as he finished speaking. He had been forced to memorise the names of all Magenmagot members, along with their seats and roles.

“To better prepare you for your future,” Arcturus Black would constantly tell him, and it irked him slightly.

No matter how much he knew, he wasn’t particularly fond of politics. He had other interests, like advancing magic and creating new spells and enchantments.

“Finally, holders of an Order of Merlin, regardless of rank, receive a lifetime seat. Unlike the other seats, theirs are temporary and tied to their lifespan. There is no inheritance, which means the total number of seats in the Magenmagot is ever-changing. Fortunately, to avoid an excessive increase in numbers, Orders of Merlin are only granted with the approval of both the Magenmagot and the Ministry of Magic. The only exception is the International Confederation of Wizards, which can award the Order of Merlin without such approval, though this is extremely rare.”

“You’re not naming any names?” Pansy asked, furrowing her brows.

The young girl kept sneaking glances at Draco, something the boy was doing his utmost to ignore. She had a crush on him, dreaming of marriage. He, on the other hand, did not.

Harry rolled his eyes before nodding.

"Filius Flitwick for his outstanding career, but also Albus Dumbledore for his victory over Grindelwald."

"And you!" Blaise cried out with a wink.

Harry smiled but shivered slightly. He liked Blaise, truly, but he didn’t trust him—or rather, he didn’t trust his mother. She was infamous for her "widowhoods," her husbands dropping like flies, each leaving her their entire fortune. And Blaise seemed keen to follow in her footsteps, to the point that he had set his sights on Harry. Suffice it to say, Fleur and Blaise should never be left alone in a room together; she’d tear him apart.

"Yes, I hold an Order of Merlin, First Class. Thank you ever so much for your comment," he said sarcastically.

Blaise merely gave him a mysterious smile, which made Harry shiver once more. He would do everything in his power to avoid being in the same House as him at Hogwarts.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the other children giggling, well accustomed to Blaise’s antics.

"Thank you, Harry," Barty said with a smile as he stood. "I won’t ask for an explanation on the factions, since we covered them in detail yesterday. Now, can you name the three wizards with the most seats?"

The boy shot his uncle a glare, but Barty merely smiled back. He was doing this on purpose…

"Alastor Moody is in third place with three seats, Arcturus Black in second with four, and finally, Sirius Black dominates the Wizengamot with seven seats."

"Harry…" Barty raised an eyebrow.

Harry’s shoulders slumped.

"Oh, fine. Sirius holds seven seats by proxy, as I’m not yet of age to sit on the Wizengamot. I am the true holder of those seven seats."

"Perfect!"

Barty clapped his hands, looking pleased. Meanwhile, the other children stared, wide-eyed, not having known this. They were aware Harry had seats, but not that he had quite so many.

Harry smirked and flicked his fingers.

Barty didn’t understand why the children erupted into laughter, but when he turned to Harry, he saw the boy’s wicked grin. Harry gave a deep bow before waving his hand again, summoning a mirror before the adult.

Barty groaned at the sight. His hair was now bright pink, tied into pigtails, his beard fluorescent green, and his face adorned with garish clown makeup. He could not wait for them to leave for Hogwarts…

As if some higher power had heard him, Kreattur appeared with a loud pop.

"Oh, great owls have come, yes, with letters, young master… Letters from Hogwarts, for everyone… except poor little Miss Weasley, no, no, nothing for her, oh, what a tragedy, what an injustice! Perhaps Hogwarts has forgotten her? Or maybe…" Kreattur clicked his tongue, eyes glinting mischievously. "…Maybe Hogwarts knows things we do not, oh yes, very mysterious, very suspicious…"

Ginny shot him a murderous look, while Kreattur merely smirked at her. The old elf knew full well she wouldn’t be starting at Hogwarts until next year, and he took great pleasure in teasing her.

He had noticed the young Weasley girl was utterly infatuated with Harry Potter, despite already knowing him. And he did not like it, even if she was a descendant of Cedrella Black. After all, Harry was engaged to Fleur Delacour, and the elf was rather fond of the quarter-Veela.

"Do you know what this means?" Sirius announced as he strolled into the room.

The children exchanged glances, grins spreading across their faces.

"We’re going to Hogwarts?" Millicent asked softly.

Her voice contrasted sharply with her appearance, which was far from delicate. She was kind and possessed impressive physical strength. Unfortunately, she had inherited her parents’ lack of beauty, to the point where some wondered if she had hag blood.

"Yes, but more importantly, it means we’re all going to Diagon Alley tomorrow!" Sirius declared, throwing his arms wide.

Small fireworks exploded around the Marauder as the children cheered. Well, all except Harry, who shot a look at his godfather.

He was far from impressed, especially after Sirius had made it clear they’d all be going together. Harry could handle crowds just fine, but he had no love for shopping—especially not in such a large group.

He sighed internally, already dreading the hours it would take. He cursed the owls under his breath.

Bloody pigeons, couldn’t they have delivered the letters tomorrow when everyone was home?

 

 

Chapter 2: Welcome to...

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

Welcome to...

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

---

Black Castle
July 27th 1991

The next day, the Black family stood before the grand wrought-iron gates of their ancestral estate. For the occasion, the Tonks had joined them, while the others had yet to arrive.

Arcturus retrieved a pocket watch from his coat, checking the time before exhaling quietly. They were late, and he despised tardiness. His gaze lingered on the sweeping second hand, a rare smile tugging at his lips as he admired the craftsmanship. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Harry grinning at him and found himself returning the gesture.

Much had changed in the wizarding world, and the Blacks—Harry included, of course—had been at the very heart of it all.

"What the bloody hell's taking them so long? We've been waiting here for ages, like a bunch of ruddy Flobberworms!" Sirius groaned, visibly irritated.

The patriarch cast a glance at his heir, who was shifting impatiently from foot to foot. Sirius loved being out and about, loved being seen… and above all, he loved to strut. He mocked Lucius Malfoy's birds often enough, yet here he was, preening like a peacock, Arcturus thought with wry amusement.

"There they are!" Susan suddenly cried, pointing to the horizon.

And what an imposing sight it was.

At the head of the group, Lucius Malfoy and Bartemius Crouch were engaged in an animated discussion, undoubtedly about Ministry affairs. Lucius had been shrewd enough to capitalise on the Blacks' influence, as well as his familial ties to Bartemius through marriage, securing himself a position as the Minister's Advisor. Behind them, their wives conversed pleasantly, their smiles perfectly poised.

Off to the side, Frank Longbottom roared with laughter alongside Arthur Weasley and Barty Crouch, while their wives kept a hawkish eye on the children. Yet, the most striking aspect of the group was its sheer diversity: Matthias Nott, Damocles Parkinson, Samuel Smith, Giovanna Zabini, Hector Bulstrode, and Augustus Abbott brought up the rear.

But the most remarkable sight of all was the cluster of children, twelve in total, forming a lively, noisy pack at the centre of the adults, who guarded them protectively.

A small sigh caught Arcturus's attention, and he turned to Harry. A knowing smile ghosted across his lips. The boy cared for his friends, but he couldn't help feeling different from them. Their boundless enthusiasm sometimes struck him as childish, their lack of caution… exasperating. A full day of shopping with them? Utter torment.

But Arcturus had a plan. And if there was one thing to know about the Blacks, it was that they never did things the conventional way.

"Sirius, Arcturus, Amelia!" Arthur greeted warmly, shaking their hands with vigour.

The head of the Weasley family had changed considerably. Gone were the mismatched, often stained robes; in their place were finely tailored wizarding garments. The fatigue that once lined his face had softened, his hair now longer, framing his features. His wife had also undergone a transformation, having shed weight to reveal a svelte figure clad in a gown that flattered her curves. But her smile remained unchanged—warm and motherly as ever.

"Wasn't too much trouble herding this lot together, was it?" Sirius quipped with a chuckle.

Lucius sighed, while Frank burst into laughter.

"Let's just say I now understand why Narcissa threatened to hex me into oblivion if I ever so much as suggested a second child," Lucius muttered, drawing more laughter from the gathered wizards.

The adults had struggled to keep the children in check; they were as excitable as a litter of Crups. Though none would admit it aloud, they secretly envied the Blacks for having such a calm and composed heir.

"And let's not even start on those twins…" Hector muttered, casting a pointed look at Arthur.

Arthur flushed. The twins had once again wreaked havoc with their tricks and traps—this time intended for Hogwarts. Fred had tripped while carrying them through the Weasley Manor, setting off a chain reaction that left the Parkinsons, Bulstrodes, and Notts with rabbit teeth and garishly coloured hair. Suffice to say, the adults had not been amused.

"Well, I found it rather entertaining," Giovanna Zabini remarked with a mischievous smile. "No sense complaining over minor pranks—nothing a simple flick of a wand couldn't fix."

She was a striking woman, with caramel-toned skin and piercing blue eyes, the very embodiment of Italian beauty.

"How are we travelling, then?" Samuel Smith enquired.

The man was dressed in black and yellow robes, a badger-shaped brooch gleaming on his chest. The Smiths were known descendants of Helga Hufflepuff, but they had never managed to reclaim her seat nor her vaults.

The conditions for inheritance were well known: Helga had decreed that her descendants could only claim their birthright upon recovering her lost cup and placing it in its designated location at Hogwarts. But the cup had vanished with the murder of Hepzibah Smith, and even if it were found, no one knew exactly where to place it.

Except for Harry, who had a fair idea. But he wouldn't say a word—it wasn't his business.

Bartemius Crouch stepped forward, his expression as severe as ever. He exchanged a glance with Arcturus, who gave a curt nod.

"We shall travel by carriage. Our group is far too large for Floo Powder."

"Carriages?" Augustus Abbott repeated in surprise. "There's no space in Diagon Alley for that."

Arcturus smiled enigmatically. "Who said we were going to Diagon Alley?"

A hush fell over the group.

Sirius arched a brow at his grandfather. Just what had the old man been plotting? And with the Minister's blessing, no less.

Before he could voice the question, the sound of flapping wings reached their ears.

All heads turned skyward, where three large black carriages, drawn by winged, chestnut-coloured Ethonans, descended gracefully. As they landed, the group took note of the numerous Aurors flanking them—at least four per carriage, two seated with the driver, and two stationed at the rear.

No one was particularly surprised when Alastor Moody emerged from the central carriage, his wooden leg thudding against the ground.

"I was wondering where you'd got to," Sirius remarked, eyeing his wife.

Amelia wore an amused expression—she was evidently in on whatever was about to unfold.

"Everything's set. Shall we?" Moody asked gruffly.

"But set for where, exactly?" Sirius demanded.

Moody's lips curled into a grin—not a friendly one, but one of wry amusement, laced with mischief.

"We're not going to Diagon Alley, are we?" Sirius asked, his voice tinged with suspicion.

His only response was the amused glances exchanged between Arcturus, Alastor, Amelia, and Bartemius. The other adults remained bewildered.

If not Diagon Alley… then where in Merlin's name were they going?

Harry glanced up, meeting his grandfather's gaze. The elder Black gave him a knowing wink, and in return, the young man beamed.

---

Alexander was a fairly ordinary wizard. A Hogwarts graduate, this Muggle-born had quickly discovered that finding a job in the wizarding world was quite a different affair compared to the Muggle one.

What truly mattered was power—along with the subjects taken at Hogwarts and the grades achieved. And, most importantly, connections. As a Muggle-born, he had few, which made securing a prestigious position at the Ministry of Magic rather difficult.

Fortunately, Alexander was resourceful and full of drive. His father, a watchmaker and goldsmith, had passed down all his expertise. Even so, it had been a struggle to find anyone willing to hire him in Diagon Alley, and he preferred to steer clear of Knockturn Alley—far too notorious for its dangers.

Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined being summoned by a goblin at Gringotts, yet a few years ago, a letter bearing the bank's seal had arrived for him. The goblin in question, called Griphook, had made him an offer so tempting, so irresistible, that he simply couldn't refuse.

His own shop, with a substantial investment to get him started. In return, the investor would hold 49% of his business and lease him the premises at cost price. Alexander had accepted without hesitation.

Not once had he regretted his decision.

In his elegant shop, customers could admire clocks, watches, and other mechanical creations of rare craftsmanship. But to him, the most important thing was the portrait hanging behind his counter. Each morning, upon arriving, he would take a moment to stand before it and, with deep respect, utter his customary words.

"Thank you again, Mr Potter."

Then, he would open his shop. Yes, life was good for Alexander Staunt, tradesman of Wonder Alley. And today promised to be even better, for as he glanced up, he saw carriages approaching in the distance. And only one wizard, known to all, travelled in such a manner.

---

Witches and wizards strolled about, admiring Wonder Alley, which had opened just two years prior, accessible from the right-hand thoroughfare surrounding Gringotts. Unlike Diagon Alley, or even Knockturn Alley, this avenue was wide, reminiscent of Place Magique in France.

The ground was paved with polished marble, its sheen catching the soft glow of floating orbs suspended above the terraces and elegantly arranged lampposts. Perfectly maintained patches of greenery punctuated the space, adding a touch of freshness and harmony.

But the most striking feature was the row of shopfronts lining either side of the alley—new, refined buildings exuding an air of modernity, elegance… and, above all, space.

"Make way!" a wizard bellowed.

An Auror, clearly in charge of security, was waving for the onlookers to step aside. The reason became apparent almost instantly as the crowd glanced up.

Three grand carriages were approaching, majestic, drawn by powerful-winged Aethonans. They descended with flawless precision, landing so smoothly that only the faint rustle of the winged creatures broke the sudden silence.

The Aurors were the first to disembark, forming a protective cordon around the vehicles. Then, the doors opened, and a flurry of wizards and children emerged, scattering quickly to reunite with their families.

But it was the central carriage that held everyone's attention.

Alastor Moody was the first to step down, followed closely by Bartemius Crouch—their Minister for Magic—and Amelia Black.

Then, slowly, Arcturus Black descended the steps, as imposing as ever, accompanied by Sirius Black, Susan Bones, and…

A shiver ran through the crowd.

Harry Potter.

The effect was immediate.

A tidal wave surged forward as the gathered witches and wizards rushed towards the Aurors' barrier—thankfully already in place.

"It's Harry Potter!"

"The Boy Who Lived!"

"It's him! He's the one who defeated You-Know-Who!"

Voices rang out from all directions, excited, almost delirious. It felt like an overzealous crowd of groupies.

Sirius exhaled, rolling his eyes skyward.

"Here we go again…"

Moody, on the other hand, was seething.

"Turn around. Back in the carriages—we're hiding out in the depths of the Forest of Dean!"

Amelia shot him a sharp look.

"We are not fleeing from a handful of excitable wizards."

"A handful?" he scoffed, gesturing at the growing throng.

"You lot got nothing better to do than block the way?" Moody barked, striding to the front. "Clear off!"

Not a soul budged.

Arcturus cast a glance at Harry, who simply gave a brief nod before stepping forward.

He approached the barrier, calm and composed, extending a hand to a few people, shaking trembling fingers, offering a discreet smile. He masked his unease with the ease of someone well-accustomed to the situation.

With a fluid motion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a refined quill, swiftly signing a few books and pieces of parchment.

He loathed it.

But as Arcturus Black often reminded him: one must learn to control their own image… or someone else would do it for them.

After a few minutes, he stepped back slightly and raised his head.

No wand.

No incantation.

No embellishment.

And yet…

When his voice rose, it carried effortlessly across the square, clear and commanding.

"Thank you for this warm welcome!"

Applause erupted.

"I understand your excitement and joy at seeing me, and believe me, I am just as delighted to meet you." He allowed a moment of silence before continuing. "But please understand that today is, above all, a day for preparing for our first year at Hogwarts."

His gaze swept over the crowd, both gentle and assured.

"So, I implore you—let us enjoy this day."

A quiet ripple spread through the masses. Some nodded, others exchanged murmurs of approval.

Then, an idea struck Harry.

"Do you like this alley? Isn't it magnificent?"

"It's splendid!" a wizard called out.

"Better than Diagon Alley!" another added.

A small smile tugged at Harry's lips.

"You should know that every shop, every business, every restaurant here… has my personal sponsorship."

The revelation had the desired effect. The crowd froze for a split second before breaking into excited exclamations.

Harry opened his arms in a welcoming gesture.

"So, I invite you to explore these wonders… and who knows? Perhaps we shall cross paths in one of the shops."

That was all it took.

As one, the gathered witches and wizards surged towards the businesses, swept up in the excitement of discovery.

The shopkeepers, who had so far lingered in the background, exchanged stunned glances before breaking into eager smiles.

Arcturus, watching the scene unfold, allowed a faint smile of his own.

"Subtle mind manipulation… or mere eloquence?" he murmured.

Sirius chuckled.

"A stroke of genius."

Moody merely grunted, folding his arms.

"A stroke of luck."

Harry said nothing.

But his smile spoke volumes.

He had just turned an uncontrollable mob into a tide sweeping straight into the shops.

And there was no shortage of shops.

Mad Times displayed extraordinary creations behind its windows: chiming clocks, watches with multiple calendars capable of displaying several time zones simultaneously, and even dials predicting the near future—for the particularly daring.

Further along, Ocul'Hocus was already drawing a crowd, intrigued by its magical-lensed spectacles. Some allowed for instant translation of any language, others provided perfect night vision, and the most advanced models could even detect hidden objects and reveal insidious enchantments. A goblin couple, the shop's proprietors, were eagerly explaining the properties of each model to their fascinated customers.

Next door, Lynx Sights & Sons complemented the optical selection with enchanted monocles, perfect for piercing illusions, as well as precision spectacles capable of magnifying up to ten times—or even a hundred, upon request.

But Wonder Alley offered more than just visual accessories.

At Scribblers & Scribblettes, writing enthusiasts discovered an impressive array of enchanted stationery: Gossip Quills, which whispered transcriptions of their owner's thoughts, Autodidact Quills, which refined handwriting and prose, and even magical typewriters that mimicked their user's exact handwriting.

Next door, The Grumbling Grimoire boasted interactive books—self-correcting tomes that grumbled loudly at every spelling mistake, and animated grimoires that sarcastically annotated the clumsy errors of young, inattentive wizards.

While younger visitors were captivated by these innovative items, the adults in the group took a more measured approach, many of them discovering Wonder Alley for the first time.

Lucius Malfoy halted in front of Gold & Fang, a jeweller's with a bold aesthetic. Behind its glittering windows, rings with glowing stones pulsed gently, while gold and silver necklaces intertwined with striking elements—dragon fangs, griffin claws, even mermaid scales intricately inlaid. His gaze was drawn to a magnificent cane, its handle an exquisite gemstone-studded peacock.

"I must admit… this is remarkably well conceived. I need to see if Arcturus is open to investment."

His tone was composed, yet it concealed the turmoil within. He disliked being left out of such lucrative opportunities. But he knew the rules of the game. It was never too late to secure a seat at the winners' table.

After all, they were family. Like it or not, one's wealth ultimately contributed to the other's.

Narcissa, meanwhile, was already enthralled by the window display of The Chameleosatin, where a crimson gown shimmered as though ablaze with its own magical fire.

"I want that dress," she declared with unwavering certainty.

Draco, standing beside her, rolled his eyes.

"We've only just arrived, Mother."

The other adults were equally absorbed. Some lingered outside The Singing Cauldron, a cosy tearoom where teacups hummed soft melodies with each sip. Others eyed The Enchanted Plate, a fine-dining restaurant where every dish adapted to the customer's palate, ensuring a truly personalised culinary experience.

Arcturus watched the excitement with keen interest, his gaze tracking the ebb and flow of the crowd. Beside him, Sirius, Harry, and Amelia exchanged satisfied glances.

Wonder Alley had been their project.

Well… Harry's project, if truth be told.

It was he who first pointed out the lack of space and truly innovative shops in Diagon Alley. Even Carkitt Market and Horizont Alley, though more recent, felt dull and uninspired by comparison. So, he had asked the question: why not create something entirely new? A space, modern and bold, dedicated to magical innovation?

And the idea took root.

Remus had been the one to suggest hiring Muggle-borns, well aware that, like himself, they often struggled to find work in the wizarding world. Yet, they were clever, capable, and could offer fresh perspectives.

The project grew.

A street, originally intended for the expansion of Diagon Alley, was purchased, redeveloped, transformed. Gringotts, seeing in Harry its wealthiest client, had been quick to support the endeavour.

And so, Wonder Alley was born.

And today…

It all belonged to Harry Potter.

Harry glanced around and quickly noticed that the families had naturally dispersed, each drawn into the frenzy of discovery. The collective attention had drifted from him, and he realised he wouldn't have to spend his shopping trip in their company. A deep sense of pride settled in his chest—his vision had come to life.

I wonder how long before they try to copy me, he mused, thinking of the merchants in the other alleys.

He cast a discreet glance at Arcturus, who was already watching him with amusement.

The patriarch gave him a conspiratorial wink, evidently pleased that he had managed to grant Harry a moment of freedom.

Then, turning his attention to Bartemius, he remarked in a neutral tone—though heavy with implication:

"A fine bit of publicity to keep you in office, wouldn't you say?"

The Minister for Magic turned his head slowly, surveying the scene with a calculating eye. Peace had settled over the wizarding world for years now, and with it, his popularity had begun to wane. After all, what use was a Minister for Justice when there were no enemies left to fight?

After a moment's thought, he inclined his head.

"Publicity or not, I'd rather have this commotion than another war… But if peace makes them forget my role, how long before they decide I am no longer needed?"

Arcturus gave a knowing smile.

"Keeping the public's attention is what matters. They want to see their Minister standing alongside their idol."

"Speaking of publicity…" Sirius interjected, his lips curling into a smirk.

The men looked up at the same time.

The sharp click of high heels against polished marble signalled that company was on its way.

A tall, poised figure strode towards them with predatory confidence, her presence both immaculate and unsettling. Her emerald-green robes clung elegantly to her form, a striking contrast to the bold crimson of her lips.

Perched on her sharp nose, gold half-moon spectacles lent her a false air of severity, undermined only by the greedy smile already playing at her lips.

She was here.

The most feared journalist in the British Isles.

Rita Skeeter.

Harry watched her approach, his green eyes catching the sly glint behind her golden frames. He allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

This was going to be interesting.

Chapter 3: Shopping? I despise it...

Here's the 3rd chapter. Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

---

Wonder Alley
July 27 th  1991

The young wizard smirked slightly as he watched the journalist take her leave. Their little interview had gone rather well. That she had been invited by Arcturus didn't surprise Harry in the slightest.

His grandfather was exactly the sort to wring every last drop of advantage from even the smallest public outing. The old fox—no other creature could compare—had wasted no time making the most of the presence of the other powerful families accompanying them.

After all, an exclusive district where the richest and most influential families in Britain came to shop? That was bound to become the place to be seen. A masterstroke, a publicity coup of the highest order.

And Arcturus had known full well that Harry wouldn't be able to resist singing the praises of Wonder Alley during the interview. Only time would tell if the plan had paid off, but judging by the throngs of eager shoppers, there was little doubt they'd struck gold.

"Well, that was all rather pleasant, but how about we get on with this shopping?" Sirius said, glancing at the list.

"That would be wise. There's plenty to do," Amelia sighed.

"We're here to enjoy ourselves, aren't we?" Arcturus said with a knowing smirk, catching the attention of the others. "I've already arranged for the books and potion ingredients to be delivered. That just leaves robes and wands."

"Even for me?" Susan asked softly.

The young girl had settled into life at Black Manor with ease, seeing Arcturus as a grandfather. He returned the sentiment, viewing her as a living link between the Bones and Black families.

"Naturally," the old man said. "So, I suggest we start with robes, followed by a bit of leisurely shopping, a fine meal, and we'll finish up with wands."

"What about pets?" Sirius asked. "Surely they deserve—oh, wait…"

He hesitated, rethinking. Did they really need to visit the menagerie? Hagrid had already gifted Harry a snowy owl the previous year—Hedwig, he'd named her, though Sirius had no clue why—and Susan had her cat, Velvet.

"Exactly what I thought. I'm relieved to see you can still string a few sensible thoughts together," the patriarch remarked dryly. "Bartemius, will you be joining us?"

"I cleared my schedule," Bartemius said, stroking his moustache. "Not to mention, you pointed out how beneficial it would be for my image…"

"I thought you didn't give a damn about your image?" his son said as he approached.

The Minister for Magic regarded his son with an expression Harry found difficult to decipher. A distant cousin, first degree removed, yet the Black family traits were unmistakable in his sharp nose and angular cheekbones.

But what caught Harry's attention was the storm of emotion in the man's eyes. He'd heard about the affair with Bellatrix Nameless—disowned even by the Rosiers. Or was it about that business with the Imperius Curse? Word was that his cousin, Barty, had been under its influence for years.

Either way, the matter clearly wasn't settled between the Crouch family. Harry suspected that Bartemius was mentally flaying himself for failing to notice his son's condition, despite his high-ranking position at the time.

"But not for the public," Bartemius muttered. "And I refuse to let myself be replaced by that bumbling fool of Fudge. He struts about playing the strongman, but the moment a real threat appears, he'll be flat on his back faster than you can say 'Ministry collapse.'"

"No one here wants to see Mister Bowler Hat in charge," Barty said with a grin, taking his mother's hand. "Anyway, I'd never turn down a good meal."

The woman was terribly thin. Everyone knew she suffered from an incurable illness, eating away at her from the inside. Some reckoned she had no more than five years left. She would likely have passed already if St Mungo's hadn't caught it when she visited them with Barty after his release from the Unforgivable.

"Let's start with robes—it's only nine o'clock, after all," Sirius said cheerfully.

He was already striding towards Chameleosatin, its dazzling storefront impossible to ignore. Harry rather liked the display, with its shifting colours, mannequins twirling behind enchanted glass, and a name that was quite the clever pun.

They stepped inside to find, unsurprisingly, Narcissa—abandoned by both Lucius and Draco. The two weren't fools; they had likely fled at full speed upon spotting the gleam in her eyes.

In the centre of the boutique, before an elegant full-length mirror, Narcissa Malfoy moved through the exquisite fabrics presented by three attendants with razor-sharp precision.

Around her, shimmering robes of chimeric silk shifted subtly in the light, while self-adjusting exotic leather jackets and corsets with adaptive support were displayed. The accessories were as refined as they were ingenious—gloves that altered their texture according to temperature, hats that tilted to match one's mood, and shoes that muffled footsteps to near silence.

Further along, enchanted handbags boasted all manner of tricks—some sealed themselves against intruders, others adjusted their size at will. In that moment, the shop was a palace, and Narcissa its undisputed queen.

Harry turned at the sound of a chuckle. Sirius shot him a wink, then gestured towards a nearby chair.

Harry had been mistaken—the Malfoy men hadn't fled. No, they were slumped on an opulent divan, staring into the void. Lucius clutched a half-empty glass of whisky as though it were his only lifeline.

Poor sods, Harry thought. Wouldn't want to be in their shoes.

"Interesting clothing… I wonder…" Amelia murmured, throwing a look at Bartemius.

The latter seemed to have had the same thought. Without a word, they slipped away towards the section marked Chameleon Wear.

"What's got into her?" Sirius asked, eyeing Amelia's odd behaviour.

"Probably something to do with the Ministry," Barty mused, just as puzzled.

Harry, however, had a strong suspicion. Chameleon robes would be an invaluable asset for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, reducing their reliance on Disillusionment Charms. He glanced at his grandfather, who gave him a curt nod.

They had come to the same conclusion.

"If it isn't my shining star?! Oh, Master Potter, you grace my humble establishment with your presence! What can I do for my most illustrious patron? Sit down, relax, and let me take care of everything!"

A man approached them with arms outstretched. With his long blue hair and striking green eyes, he looked as though he had stepped straight out of a Japanese manga. His flamboyant yet elegant attire suited him perfectly—exuberant, lively, and utterly theatrical.

Harry barely had time to open his mouth before he was whisked away to a plush sofa. A snap of fingers brought forth an assistant carrying a steaming cup of tea.

"So, what can I do for you?"

For the first time, Harry turned pale. What had he just gotten himself into?

---

(Five hours later)

Harry was utterly exhausted.

Three hours. Three long hours of fittings, swishing fabrics, cries of "Darling, this isn't just an outfit—it's a statement!" and dramatic exclamations about the colour of his eyes. Lucien Lemaître, the store's head designer, had revelled in dressing him up. And he had flat-out refused any notion of a "dull, outdated traditional robe."

So, after what felt like an eternity of fashion-induced suffering, Harry emerged with an entire wardrobe of acromantula silk robes enchanted to reflect sunlight and adapt to both his environment and his desires.

Too hot? The fabric cooled itself. Needed more freedom of movement? The robe transformed into a shirt and trousers. Wanted to disappear? No problem—simply raise the hood, and the robe would blend seamlessly into the surroundings.

And it wasn't just the robes—every item was enchanted, from warm yet breathable undergarments to silent, cushioned shoes that left no scent and cleaned themselves. Even the scarf had been woven from a special wool that emitted a subtle floral fragrance.

Thankfully, Arcturus eventually called an end to the ordeal, declaring it was time for lunch. They dined at The Enchanted Plate, an experience as remarkable as it was delicious. The food was exquisite, and the spectacle even more so—the plates floated gracefully between tables, filling themselves based on each customer's cravings. There was no need to order, for the chef already knew what you desired.

This was hardly surprising, given that the chef was a natural Legilimens, capable of reading the minds of his patrons with ease. Combined with an enchantment that allowed him to interpret the preferences of those skilled in Occlumency, he could discern their tastes—even ones they weren't consciously aware of.

They spent two hours in the restaurant, partly to rest, but mostly to socialise.

Naturally, once the public had spotted Harry entering the establishment, they had flocked to it in droves. And of course, he couldn't very well ignore them—more autographs, more photographs, more conversations. But with a full stomach and his energy somewhat restored, he found himself in better spirits for it all.

But now, that was over, and they stood before Ollivanders.

They had left Wonder Alley behind to return to Diagon Alley, and the difference was stark.

The wide, elegant boulevard had given way to a crooked, crowded street with questionable hygiene. With owls flitting about in all directions and bats hanging lazily from shop signs, the inevitable consequence was… well, obvious.

Sirius grimaced as he stepped over a suspicious-looking puddle.

"Ah, good old Diagon Alley," he said with a sardonic smile. "Between this and Knockturn Alley, I honestly don't know which is worse."

Harry, who had wrinkled his nose, wholeheartedly agreed. He already missed the pristine cleanliness of Wonder Alley. Judging by the expressions of the adults around him, he wasn't the only one.

I wonder where the others went? he thought.

Since their arrival, the other families had more or less vanished. He had glimpsed the Zabinies at the tailor's, while the Bulstrodes had been utterly captivated by an aesthetic salon. As for the rest? No idea. He could only hope they were enjoying themselves.

"Shall we step inside? The smell is becoming quite unbearable," Arcturus declared, gesturing forward.

Without hesitation, they entered the wandmaker's shop. Despite the passing years, the place had remained unchanged—cramped, dimly lit, and filled to the brim with shelves stacked high with narrow boxes, each containing a wand waiting for its rightful owner.

The empty counter intrigued Harry, who wondered where the shopkeeper was. A sudden chill ran down his spine, and he barely stopped himself from yelping as he turned his head to the left—only to find the wandmaker standing mere inches away. His pale blue eyes bore into him, as if reading his very soul.

"Well, Mister Potter, I have been expecting you," he said with a mysterious smile.

"Ollivander," Arcturus Black stated simply.

The wandmaker shifted his gaze to the adults and Susan as he moved behind the counter.

"Mmm… Arcturus Black…"

Ollivander's fingertips ghosted over one of the many boxes stacked behind him.

"Ebony, thirteen and a half inches, dragon heartstring, semi-rigid… A wand for a man of stature, ambitious and methodical, whose magic and will are one and the same. It tolerated neither hesitation nor weakness. I remember—this wand chose you without a moment's doubt. A rare harmony between master and wand."

His gaze flicked to Sirius, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

"Ah… and you, Sirius Black. Black walnut, twelve and three-quarter inches, phoenix feather, highly flexible… A temperamental wand, independent—much like its owner. Do you recall the light it cast when you first held it? A blaze of raw energy, a thrill of excitement. They say Sirius is the brightest star in the Dog constellation—how fitting for you."

His pale fingers tapped thoughtfully against the counter as he turned to Amelia Bones.

"Amelia Bones… Red oak, twelve and a quarter inches, unicorn hair, rigid. A steadfast and incorruptible wand, as loyal to its master as she is to her principles. Nothing better suited for the fight against the Dark Arts, wouldn't you agree, Madam Director?"

His tone darkened slightly as he shifted his gaze to Bartemius Crouch Sr.

"Yew, twelve inches, dragon heartstring, unyielding… A wand of absolute resolve, built for neither concession nor compromise. I believe it found in you a master who imposed his will with unwavering certainty—one who, I suspect, never had to convince it of anything. Such a wand does not debate—it acts."

Finally, his pale eyes settled on Bartemius Crouch Jr., studying him with particular interest.

"Ash, eleven and a half inches, phoenix feather, rigid… Ah. A wand that must have struggled. You see, ash does not abide indecision or inconsistency. It demands a master of firm heart and resolute mind. And yet…"

He tapped the counter, lost in thought.

"I wonder… yes, I wonder how such a wand reacted under the Imperius Curse. An ash wand should have resisted. Should have fought."

For a moment, silence reigned, before he finally turned back to Harry, as if expecting him to grasp some vital truth.

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

"Deeply fascinating," Arcturus cut in, his voice sharp, "but we are not here for your theatrics, Ollivander."

The elderly wandmaker merely smiled and nodded before once again fixing Harry with a curious look.

"Some fail to grasp the significance of a wand—the bond between wizard and focus. But you… I sense you will be unique."

"In that case, shall we begin with Susan?" Amelia interjected, her wary gaze still on the wandmaker.

Ollivander nodded but then stiffened abruptly. His thin lips curled into an intrigued smile.

"Chestnut, twelve and a half inches, dragon heartstring. Fairly rigid."

Everyone looked at him in confusion, wondering why he had described a wand seemingly out of nowhere. Well—almost everyone.

Harry and Arcturus exchanged a glance, then turned subtly towards the corner of the shop, where Alastor Moody stood, concealed beneath an invisibility cloak. Nothing escaped a wandmaker's notice…

"Shall we begin?" Garrick Ollivander said, presenting an open box to Susan Bones.

Susan stepped forward hesitantly, casting a quick glance at Amelia, who gave her an encouraging nod. Ollivander retrieved a slender alder wand from the box and handed it to her with care.

"Alder, ten and a half inches, unicorn hair, flexible. Try it."

Susan grasped the wand and, hesitantly, gave it a flick. A sharp crack accompanied a strange rush of air, but nothing more. Ollivander swiftly retrieved it, shaking his head.

"No, no… far too accommodating. You need a wand that will challenge you a little more. Let's see…"

He turned and plucked another box from the shelves, opening it with precision.

"Maple, eleven and a half inches, dragon heartstring, rigid."

Susan took the wand and immediately felt a pulse in her palm. Encouraged, she twirled it, only to nearly drop it in shock as a spark of blue energy shot out, crackling against a nearby shelf. Ollivander promptly removed the wand from her grasp, smiling.

"Too fiery, I'm afraid. You are more measured than that… Let's try again."

This time, he reached for an older box, its edges slightly worn. Opening it, he revealed a wand of elegant beechwood, shorter than the others.

"Beech, eleven inches, unicorn hair, slightly yielding."

Susan grasped the wand, and at once, a warm sensation ran up her arm. She gave it a careful wave, and a gentle shower of red sparks blossomed from the tip.

Ollivander nodded slowly, satisfied.

"Much better… A wand that favours loyalty and consistency. Not the most impulsive, but possessing remarkable strength when wielded by one who knows their own mind."

Susan, reassured, tightened her grip on the wand with a smile. Amelia placed a hand on her shoulder, and Arcturus gave an approving nod.

"Well then." Ollivander carefully closed the previous box before turning his pale gaze onto Harry. "Now… for our young prodigy."

Harry stepped forward slowly, casting a glance at the stacks of boxes behind Ollivander. The wandmaker watched him with unsettling intensity, his usual smile replaced by unwavering focus.

"Let's see…" he murmured, running his fingertips along a row of boxes. "A wand for Harry Potter… now, that is a fascinating challenge. Let's try this one."

He withdrew a box and lifted out a wand of dark, taut wood.

"Ash, ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring, rigid."

Harry grasped it, but the moment his fingers closed around the wood, the wand shot from his grasp, as though repelled by an unseen force. It struck the counter with a sharp crack before clattering to the floor.

Ollivander raised an eyebrow and retrieved it with a measured motion.

"Hm… no, not the right one. Far too rigid for you."

Turning away, he selected another box and opened it, revealing a slimmer, paler wand.

"Black walnut, twelve inches, unicorn hair, semi-flexible."

Harry took it cautiously. This time, the wand remained in his hand, but when he attempted a small wrist movement, he felt only resistance, as though the wand itself refused to comply. He tried a simple levitation spell, but nothing happened.

Ollivander shook his head and reclaimed the wand.

"Too docile, not nearly enough affinity… You need a wand that truly matches you."

He turned again, reaching for a third box—this one older, its edges slightly worn.

"Holly, eleven and a quarter inches, phoenix feather, supple."

Harry felt a strange tension as he took hold of the wand. This time, a flicker of magic brushed his skin, a fleeting warmth running up his arm. A faint gust of air stirred around him, but before he could attempt a spell, an unpleasant vibration coursed through the wood. The wand's energy fizzled out abruptly.

Silence fell over the room.

Ollivander frowned, his hand drifting thoughtfully to his chin.

"Curious… very curious." He carefully placed the wand back in its box before fixing Harry with a contemplative gaze. "You are… quite the anomaly, Mister Potter."

Harry, feeling increasingly uneasy, glanced at the others, but no one seemed to know what to say. Even Arcturus was momentarily lost for words.

"It is rare—extremely rare—for a wand to reject a wizard, let alone three."

He paused, tapping his fingers lightly against the wooden counter, his pale eyes gleaming with something between fascination and concern. Then, suddenly, his expression shifted, as if a thought had just struck him.

"Tell me, Mister Potter," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Do you… practise magic? And do not worry—whatever you tell me will not leave this room."

Chapter 4: I only wanted a wand...

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

For those wondering about Harry being really OP, he is yes...but his ennemis will be too :p In my fiction, Voldy is powerful as hell :p

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

 

Ollivander's Shop, Diagon Alley
July 27th 1991

Harry turned towards his grandfather to seek his opinion. To his great surprise, there was no one there. He looked around, but the room had changed. The others were gone. Only Ollivander, the counter, and himself remained. His eyes widened as he noticed owls perched on shelves that hadn't been there before, and where the windows had been, now there was only shadow.

In fact, upon closer inspection, there were no windows at all. No door either. Just the shop, its shelves, the counter… and creatures that had appeared from nowhere.

"What?" Harry said, eyes round with shock.

He hadn't felt a thing.

"A little family secret, that's all," Ollivander said with a smile. "Now, tell me everything. We have all the time we need."

Still wary, Harry reasoned that he had little to lose. Garrick Ollivander was known for his professionalism, widely regarded as the greatest wandmaker in all of Europe. Only Gregorovitch was said to rival him, but never surpass him.

"It all started when I was five…"

And so, Harry recounted his discoveries—from books to manually cast spells, to the Muggle texts and games that had inspired him. He spoke of his success with simple charms, such as conjuring fireballs, summoning physical shields, and even calling forth floating, self-willed magical swords.

The old wandmaker listened intently, rolling a wand between his fingers. He appeared deep in thought, but Harry was no fool—he could see the spark in Ollivander's eyes. The old man was delighted, even thrilled, by what he was hearing.

Minutes passed, and Harry finished his tale. Ollivander muttered to himself before nodding, his sharp gaze locking onto Harry.

"I believe I understand now… It is not you who rejects the wands, but rather they that cannot contain you."

He carefully placed the wand back into its box and closed it.

"You do not need a wand that channels you. You need one that follows you. A wand that amplifies your magic rather than guiding it."

He fell silent for a moment before adding:

"What you have done—manipulating magic through this… game, what did you call it? Dungeons & Dragons? It is a radically different approach from anything we know here. A new era of magic, perhaps."

"And can you help me?" Harry asked curiously.

Ollivander studied Harry with rare intensity, his fingers tapping the wooden counter slowly.

"Help you…" He seemed to weigh his words carefully before finally saying, "You need… something else. I do not have the wand you require, and I dare say no one does. You have played with spells rooted in another world, Mister Potter. And so, you will need a focus just as… exotic."

Harry nodded, unconsciously clenching his fists.

"And how do I do that? It's not like I can just summon one!"

Ollivander's lips curled into a knowing smile.

"No? And yet, you just told me about 'Planes' in this game. About portals and teleportation, about summoning and conjuration."

He slowly turned towards the back of his shop, raising a hand toward one of the oldest shelves, where rare magical artefacts and components lay undisturbed, untouched for decades.

"A summoning. A wand that comes to you rather than the other way around. Intriguing, isn't it?"

His fingers brushed over an ebony box, its surface engraved with ancient runes.

"This is not a new idea," he said, turning back to Harry, his expression grave. "But it is an idea that has always failed. Magic here is bound by rules. A wand does not simply appear of its own accord. It is chosen. It does not answer a call."

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"You're talking about the Planes, aren't you? But who's to say they even exist?"

Silence fell over the shop.

Ollivander studied him for a long moment before smiling.

"As I said, others have tried… and failed. But then again, those who failed did not have your… particularity."

He opened the box, revealing a small crystal etched with intricate patterns, placing it on the counter between them.

"Try summoning what you need. Remember, a wand consists of two essential elements—a body and a core… but I suppose you already know that."

The crystal pulsed with a faint glow. A ripple of energy, subtle yet tangible, vibrated through the air around them.

Ollivander tilted his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"So call. But be aware—what answers may not be what you expect…"

Harry took a deep breath.

He placed his hand on the crystal. Focusing intently, he channelled his magic into the object, sending a pulse of energy through the room. The force lifted the dust in the air, causing the owls to shift restlessly on their perches.

In a clear, steady voice, he spoke words drawn from Muggle books:

"From the depths of the Void to the heights of the Astral,
Across the planes of Order and Chaos,
I call upon the forces unseen and unknown."

A presence stirred. The crystal flared with light.

"By the pact of magic, by the will of the arcane,
By the paths untrodden and the gates unsealed,
Let my voice resound beyond the Veil."

The light grew blinding, the crystal heating beneath his touch.

"I do not command. I do not demand.
I seek. I invoke. I summon."

The heat intensified, though it did not burn. The crystal grew heavier, glowing ever brighter.

"Let the one whose nature aligns with my need,
The one who exists beyond the limits of this world,
Hear my plea and answer the call."

As the final words left his lips, the air around them trembled violently. A gust of wind lifted his hair, and across the counter, the old wandmaker gazed at him with awe. The wooden beams groaned, the candles flickered… and then, silence.

---

The light vanished—but something had changed.

Suddenly, the light returned. Not from the crystal—no, from something else entirely. Two rifts formed before Harry.

Then, the first rift flickered, and something—no, someone—stepped through.

A being emerged like a whirlwind of pure energy, a spring breeze intertwined with a luminous storm.

It floated in the air, a constantly shifting figure, surrounded by waves of colour that pulsed to the rhythm of an inaudible melody. Its diaphanous wings shimmered with gold and silver light, and its long hair danced in a wind that no one else could feel.

Its smile was radiant, mischievous, brimming with insatiable curiosity.

"Well now, this is… unexpected!"

Its voice resonated, crystalline and playful, like a song carried on the wind. It cast a glance around the room, its gaze immediately drawn to the living creatures in the shop—the owls perched on their stands, the faint shadows of magical beings lurking beneath the shelves.

With a graceful motion, it extended a hand toward an owl, which, to everyone's surprise, settled onto its arm without hesitation. The bird tilted its head, mesmerised, as though recognising something inherently pure, free, and alive in the being before it.

The Azata let out a laugh, light and carefree.

"So this is where you've called me? A rigid world, structured, bound… I can feel the rules, the dogmas, the invisible chains constraining your magic. And yet… there is something different here."

It twirled a small wooden flute between its fingers before playing a single note. A luminous wave rippled through the room, making the shelves tremble and the dust motes dance in the air.

Then, its sparkling gaze met Harry's, and it grinned.

"So, little summoner… what dream led you to tear me from the winds of Elysium?"

Harry didn't have time to answer—the other rift began to pulse.

There was no flash of light. No sound. No movement.

Just a sudden presence.

Ollivander shuddered, a chill creeping down his spine. The air around the entity felt heavier, denser. Though the shop remained sealed, an ethereal wind filled the space. But this was no mere breeze. It was a force. A correction.

The Aeon did not float. It existed—suspended in space, untouched by gravity or the physical laws of this world.

Its form was both defined and indistinct, a humanoid silhouette composed of constellations, shifting nebulae, an infinity of worlds contained within a tangible shape.

Its single, luminous eye opened slowly—and settled immediately on Harry.

Then it spoke.

"Anomaly."

It was not a word. It was a declaration. A verdict that resonated deep within Harry's very soul. A pressure, inexplicable and immense, weighed on his shoulders for a fleeting moment, as though the universe itself had acknowledged his existence—and found it irregular.

The Aeon turned its head, scanning the shop. Yet it did not observe the objects or beings within—it studied the fabric of existence itself, the underlying laws of this world.

Its voice rang out once more, calm, absolute.

"A rift has been opened. A call without direction. The balance has shifted."

Then, it stepped forward—or at least, what appeared to be a step. Space itself adjusted to its movement, as if time and distance folded away to accommodate it.

It gazed at Harry, as though peering through him—through past, present, and future.

"This world is a stable line. You are not."

Ollivander dared not move. He was witnessing something that defied even the breadth of his knowledge.

Harry's breath quickened.

He had broken a law. He could feel it in every fibre of his being. He had opened a passage to something never before connected to his universe. He had made a mistake… Instead of focusing on his world, he had thought of the planes of another. His mind had strayed—had reached out to the planes of Dungeons & Dragons.

The worst part? He didn't recognise these beings. They were not in any of the rulebooks.

So… where had they truly come from?

The Azata regarded the Aeon with an amused expression.

"Ah! A child of the Monad… and lost, no less. How ironic!" It chuckled, but its gaze gleamed with sharp intelligence. "What brings you here, judge of worlds? Were you summoned against your will?"

The Aeon did not answer immediately.

It slowly shifted its gaze from Harry to the Azata. A long silence stretched between them.

Then, at last, it spoke.

"An invocation without directive. An unknown world. An anomaly."

It raised a hand, and space around it seemed to ripple, as though it were analysing the very structure of this plane of existence.

"This place was not meant to be touched by the Monad."

Harry swallowed hard.

"…But it has been."

The Aeon paused.

Then, it inclined its head slightly.

"Observation confirmed."

Harry's breathing grew shallow. This wasn't supposed to happen. He had been thinking of another world's planes, not the ones that might exist here. Had he created a bridge between two realities?

He looked between the two entities, trying to grasp the situation.

The Azata had straightened, now floating with almost irreverent ease, watching its counterpart with amusement.

The Aeon had not moved, its cold, star-filled gaze fixed on Harry.

Then, once more, it spoke.

"This world was unconnected. It is now linked."

Its voice carried no emotion, no threat. Just fact.

---

Ollivander shivered. His fingers brushed the counter, as though seeking an anchor to reality.

"By Merlin…" he murmured. "What have you done, Mister Potter?"

Harry didn't know. And he was beginning to regret it. He felt the weight of the star-like entity's gaze settle upon him.

The Aeon extended a hand, and immediately, the space around it distorted, like a still surface disrupted by a single drop of water.

It seemed to be examining reality itself—on a level no wizard could comprehend.

"This line of existence follows a stable structure. An uninterrupted flow, anchored in its own equilibrium."

It lowered its hand, though its singular eye remained fixed on Harry.

"You are a divergence. A point outside the alignment. You should not be as you are."

The words sent ice through Harry's veins. What did it mean? How was he not as he should be?

The Azata folded its arms behind its head, laughing softly.

"Ah, always so dramatic, aren't you? 'A divergence,' 'an anomaly'… You know, this kid didn't summon you with any malicious intent. He just… made a mistake."

The Aeon slowly turned to face the Azata.

"A mistake with unquantifiable consequences. But we are not speaking of the summoning. His design was altered, changed. An anomaly existed before our arrival."

A silence followed. But if this difference mattered to the Aeon, it was of no concern to the Azata.

The Azata lived in the moment, embracing the unexpected with carefree delight.

The Aeon saw the grand design, the vast mechanism of the universe.

And in that mechanism, Harry's existence was an anomaly. The world had shifted, veering away from its predetermined path into the unknown. The Aeon had glimpsed the past, had understood that everything had changed on the night of 31 October 1981.

Ollivander cleared his throat, daring to break the silence.

"I fear I do not fully grasp the situation… but you both seem to understand that this invocation was unintended. I hope you are not here to… correct it?"

The question lingered, unanswered. Given the Aeon's power, Ollivander suspected that a 'correction' would mean rewriting reality itself. The mere thought filled him with both terror and fascination.

Then, slowly, the Aeon inclined its head.

"No. Not yet."

Harry felt his heart skip a beat. Not yet? he thought. Please, I don't want to die.

The Azata burst into laughter.

"Ah, always so precise, aren't you? Well, very well. Personally, I'm intrigued. This world fascinates me."

It drifted closer to Harry, its warm aura dispelling some of the tension in the air.

"And you, little summoner, what is it that you truly seek? Surely there was a purpose to this invocation?"

Regaining his breath, Harry forced himself to focus. He hadn't expected this, but his goal remained unchanged. Studying both beings, he declared:

"I want to craft a focus. A wand. The ones in my world reject me because of my abilities. According to Master Ollivander, wands here are designed to channel, to assist. That is not what I need."

The Azata's grin widened.

"Ah! Now that is fascinating. A summoning for a wand—now, that's a rarity! Normally, we're called for battles, aid, wisdom… but seldom for artefacts!"

The cosmic judge observed the exchange without expression—though, admittedly, it was difficult to discern emotion on a face composed of swirling stars and galaxies.

"You seek an amplifier. A conduit between will and reality. A focus that follows different rules. An anomaly for an anomaly."

It turned to the Azata, seeming to converse in some silent language. The being from Elysium nodded with an ever-growing smile.

The Azata drifted away from Harry, spinning lightly in the air, its diaphanous wings fluttering in an unseen breeze. Its eyes gleamed with amusement—and curiosity.

"A focus for a magician who defies rules? I love the idea!"

It snapped its fingers, and a golden light flickered into existence in its palm. It stretched the energy, shaping it delicately with its fingertips, as though sculpting something from the very air itself.

Slowly, the energy solidified into a piece of living wood—deep blue, almost ethereal, pulsating gently as if it were breathing.

"This is Elysian wood, taken from the roots of the Song-Tree, where the very essence of wind dances with light. It is reactive, it sings with magic… and it is free. Just like you."

It tossed the floating shard towards Ollivander, who caught it carefully. The wood vibrated in his hands, as though whispering an unknown melody.

"Fascinating…" the wandmaker murmured, already sensing that this material defied all known craftsmanship.

But before Harry could marvel at it, the air grew cold.

A heavy silence settled over the room as the Aeon stepped forward.

It raised its hand, and the space around it twisted. A fracture in reality itself shimmered above its palm—a crystalline light, pure and absolute.

Its single eye shone with newfound intensity.

"This is not a mere gift. We have consulted the Monad, and the instructions are precise. A new prerogative has been established. A new purpose."

---

Harry felt a crushing weight settle on his shoulders.

The Aeon lowered its hand, and the crystalline essence hovered before Harry, pulsating with an energy he did not yet comprehend.

"We offer more than a wand core. A connection. A bond that cannot be broken. A permanent change."

Silence fell as Harry contemplated the gravity of those words. Ollivander, ever the scholar, was the first to break it.

"What exactly does this… change entail?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

The Aeon regarded him for a moment before returning its attention to Harry. The young wizard trembled slightly.

"Balance demands a price. By accepting this core, the Anomaly forsakes its status. It will become part of the Monad. Aeon we are. Aeon it shall be."

"I should clarify," the Azata chimed in, waving its flute in the air, "what our dear, heartless judge isn't saying is that the transformation will be gradual. He'll have plenty of time before becoming a true Aeon. And when I say plenty, I mean hundreds of years!"

As Harry grappled with the weight of the offer, Ollivander's curiosity sparked.

"But tell me—what exactly are you?" he asked, directing his question at both entities.

The Azata spun its flute between nimble fingers, its radiant smile filling the room with an almost disarming sense of ease.

"Ah! Now that… is a fascinating question!"

The Azata launched into the air, executing a fluid pirouette as though gravity held no claim over him.

"What are we? We are what we choose to be, and what the wind whispers we may become tomorrow."

He let a golden light flicker between his fingers—a fragment of living luminescence, untamed, shifting, vibrant.

"Me? I am an Azata, child of Elysium, messenger of songs and storms. We do not follow rules—we follow our hearts. We do not build empires—we breathe freedom into those who need it. I am the light dancing on water, the promise of an endless horizon."

He halted mid-air, his sparkling gaze locking onto Harry's.

"And you, little summoner… you dared to break the chains of your world, even without knowing it. I like that."

The air became static, the drifting winds stilled. The Aeon did not make a single unnecessary motion. When it finally spoke, its voice was devoid of warmth or emotion. It was pure.

Implacable.

"We are not what we wish to be. We are what we must be."

The Azata rolled his eyes, but the Aeon did not even glance at him. Its focus remained entirely on Harry.

"I am an Aeon. I belong to Law—not that of mortal nations, but of the universe, of the fabric of reality. Where there is imbalance, we intervene. Where order is fractured, we restore what was and what will be. We are architects and builders of the Grand Design."

The space around it bent slightly, as if even gravity and time hesitated in its presence.

It did not need to move—everything simply adjusted around it.

"Do you accept this gift? To become an Aeon?" the cosmic being asked.

The Azata chuckled, flipping through the air with a mischievous grin. He spread his arms wide, as though revealing a grand truth Harry had yet to discover.

"You know, kid, there's another option. A much more exciting one."

The Aeon did not react immediately, but its single eye pulsed with a brighter glow.

The Azata continued, his grin stretching wider.

"I've always found Aeons a bit… stiff. Always talking about order, balance, the 'Grand Design,' blah blah blah… But you? You're different. You don't want to be locked in a gilded cage, whether it's one of Law or Chaos. So why not be both?"

He spun a strand of golden energy between his fingers, a piece of his own essence.

"Become the first Aeon-Azata. A tightrope walker between the inevitable and the impossible. You're a wizard, a mage, aren't you? I can assure you, with our power, you will achieve wonders. Who knows? Perhaps you'll rival Nethys himself. After all… I've felt no pantheon here."

The Aeon slowly turned toward its counterpart, and for the first time, it hesitated.

Its single eye scrutinised Harry, and then—it froze, as if consulting something beyond time and space.

A pure tension filled the air, a resonance that seemed to echo through the shop like a suspended verdict.

Then, at last, it spoke.

"Balance does not tolerate paradoxes. An anomaly cannot embody two opposing forces at once."

The Azata smirked, clearly delighted by the challenge.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my dear judge! Why couldn't he be a shifting point of equilibrium? Why not break stagnation? After all, the universe changes. Why not an Aeon?"

The Aeon remained silent for a moment, as if in communion with something unseen.

Then, slowly, it inclined its head.

"An unexplored path. A unique divergence. The Monad approves."

"But if you speak of essence and transformation," Ollivander interjected, ever the craftsman at heart, "what of the wand? If Mister Potter changes and absorbs your essences, what shall serve as its core?"

The Aeon regarded him before making a slight motion with its hand. A fragment of… something… white, wreathed in flames just as pale, drifted above the counter.

"What is that…" the wandmaker began, his voice barely above a whisper, mesmerised by the material.

"A fragment of a star," the Aeon stated simply, returning its attention to Harry.

Ollivander froze, unable to tear his gaze away from the incandescent shard.

"A fragment… of a star?"

His breath hitched. His mind raced to comprehend what he was seeing, but nothing in his ancestral knowledge of wand-making could explain such a material.

"This… this is impossible…" he murmured, more to himself than to the others.

The Azata let out a slow whistle, his smile never fading. He stepped closer to the young wizard.

"Oh, now things are getting interesting. Listen up, kid."

He extended a hand toward the crystalline essence floating before Harry, and a pulse of golden energy radiated outward, partially merging with the Aeon's light.

"You will be the first. The first to embrace freedom and justice, balance and chaos, harmony and rebellion."

The Aeon, unwavering, added:

"You shall embody the movement of the scales, the alternation of judgment and choice. You shall be uncertainty made law."

The Azata laughed, radiant.

"And most importantly… you will be unique. I can assure you, in our world, wizards would kill for such an opportunity. In fact, all mortals—and beyond—would kill for it. So, what do you say?"

The Azata shot the Aeon a final glance, a glimmer of exhilaration in his eyes. He knew this was a historic moment.

The Aeon, however, remained impassive… silent. For the first time, it did not pass judgment. As if, for once, it could not predict the outcome.

Harry stared at the fused luminous shard, a dizzying sensation washing over him.

The Aeon and the Azata were offering him a fate no one had ever known.

He could remain a mere wizard…

Or he could become the first Aeon-Azata, the balance between two absolutes. More than just a wizard—he could become a mage, as Merlin once was. Perhaps even greater…

He reached toward the glowing fragment—then hesitated. It wasn't fear that held him back, nor doubt. No, it was something else, something deeper.

He felt watched.

And he knew, instinctively, that his decision would carry weight beyond imagining.

He took a deep breath. He had made his choice. He—

Ollivander shuddered, a chill creeping down his spine. The air around the entity felt heavier, denser. Though the shop remained sealed, an ethereal wind filled the space. But this was no mere breeze. It was a force. A correction.

The Aeon did not float. It existed—suspended in space, untouched by gravity or the physical laws of this world.

Its form was both defined and indistinct, a humanoid silhouette composed of constellations, shifting nebulae, an infinity of worlds contained within a tangible shape.

Its single, luminous eye opened slowly—and settled immediately on Harry.

Then it spoke.

"Anomaly."

It was not a word. It was a declaration. A verdict that resonated deep within Harry's very soul. A pressure, inexplicable and immense, weighed on his shoulders for a fleeting moment, as though the universe itself had acknowledged his existence—and found it irregular.

The Aeon turned its head, scanning the shop. Yet it did not observe the objects or beings within—it studied the fabric of existence itself, the underlying laws of this world.

Its voice rang out once more, calm, absolute.

"A rift has been opened. A call without direction. The balance has shifted."

Then, it stepped forward—or at least, what appeared to be a step. Space itself adjusted to its movement, as if time and distance folded away to accommodate it.

It gazed at Harry, as though peering through him—through past, present, and future.

"This world is a stable line. You are not."

Ollivander dared not move. He was witnessing something that defied even the breadth of his knowledge.

Harry's breath quickened.

He had broken a law. He could feel it in every fibre of his being. He had opened a passage to something never before connected to his universe. He had made a mistake… Instead of focusing on his world, he had thought of the planes of another. His mind had strayed—had reached out to the planes of Dungeons & Dragons.

The worst part? He didn't recognise these beings. They were not in any of the rulebooks.

So… where had they truly come from?

The Azata regarded the Aeon with an amused expression.

"Ah! A child of the Monad… and lost, no less. How ironic!" It chuckled, but its gaze gleamed with sharp intelligence. "What brings you here, judge of worlds? Were you summoned against your will?"

The Aeon did not answer immediately.

It slowly shifted its gaze from Harry to the Azata. A long silence stretched between them.

Then, at last, it spoke.

"An invocation without directive. An unknown world. An anomaly."

It raised a hand, and space around it seemed to ripple, as though it were analysing the very structure of this plane of existence.

"This place was not meant to be touched by the Monad."

Harry swallowed hard.

"…But it has been."

The Aeon paused.

Then, it inclined its head slightly.

"Observation confirmed."

Harry's breathing grew shallow. This wasn't supposed to happen. He had been thinking of another world's planes, not the ones that might exist here. Had he created a bridge between two realities?

He looked between the two entities, trying to grasp the situation.

The Azata had straightened, now floating with almost irreverent ease, watching its counterpart with amusement.

The Aeon had not moved, its cold, star-filled gaze fixed on Harry.

Then, once more, it spoke.

"This world was unconnected. It is now linked."

Its voice carried no emotion, no threat. Just fact.

Ollivander shivered. His fingers brushed the counter, as though seeking an anchor to reality.

"By Merlin…" he murmured. "What have you done, Mister Potter?"

Harry didn't know. And he was beginning to regret it. He felt the weight of the star-like entity's gaze settle upon him.

The Aeon extended a hand, and immediately, the space around it distorted, like a still surface disrupted by a single drop of water.

It seemed to be examining reality itself—on a level no wizard could comprehend.

"This line of existence follows a stable structure. An uninterrupted flow, anchored in its own equilibrium."

It lowered its hand, though its singular eye remained fixed on Harry.

"You are a divergence. A point outside the alignment. You should not be as you are."

The words sent ice through Harry's veins. What did it mean? How was he not as he should be?

The Azata folded its arms behind its head, laughing softly.

"Ah, always so dramatic, aren't you? 'A divergence,' 'an anomaly'… You know, this kid didn't summon you with any malicious intent. He just… made a mistake."

The Aeon slowly turned to face the Azata.

"A mistake with unquantifiable consequences. But we are not speaking of the summoning. His design was altered, changed. An anomaly existed before our arrival."

A silence followed. But if this difference mattered to the Aeon, it was of no concern to the Azata.

The Azata lived in the moment, embracing the unexpected with carefree delight.

The Aeon saw the grand design, the vast mechanism of the universe.

And in that mechanism, Harry's existence was an anomaly. The world had shifted, veering away from its predetermined path into the unknown. The Aeon had glimpsed the past, had understood that everything had changed on the night of 31 October 1981.

Ollivander cleared his throat, daring to break the silence.

"I fear I do not fully grasp the situation… but you both seem to understand that this invocation was unintended. I hope you are not here to… correct it?"

The question lingered, unanswered. Given the Aeon's power, Ollivander suspected that a 'correction' would mean rewriting reality itself. The mere thought filled him with both terror and fascination.

Then, slowly, the Aeon inclined its head.

"No. Not yet."

Harry felt his heart skip a beat. Not yet? he thought. Please, I don't want to die.

The Azata burst into laughter.

"Ah, always so precise, aren't you? Well, very well. Personally, I'm intrigued. This world fascinates me."

It drifted closer to Harry, its warm aura dispelling some of the tension in the air.

"And you, little summoner, what is it that you truly seek? Surely there was a purpose to this invocation?"

Regaining his breath, Harry forced himself to focus. He hadn't expected this, but his goal remained unchanged. Studying both beings, he declared:

"I want to craft a focus. A wand. The ones in my world reject me because of my abilities. According to Master Ollivander, wands here are designed to channel, to assist. That is not what I need."

The Azata's grin widened.

"Ah! Now that is fascinating. A summoning for a wand—now, that's a rarity! Normally, we're called for battles, aid, wisdom… but seldom for artefacts!"

The cosmic judge observed the exchange without expression—though, admittedly, it was difficult to discern emotion on a face composed of swirling stars and galaxies.

"You seek an amplifier. A conduit between will and reality. A focus that follows different rules. An anomaly for an anomaly."

It turned to the Azata, seeming to converse in some silent language. The being from Elysium nodded with an ever-growing smile.

The Azata drifted away from Harry, spinning lightly in the air, its diaphanous wings fluttering in an unseen breeze. Its eyes gleamed with amusement—and curiosity.

"A focus for a magician who defies rules? I love the idea!"

It snapped its fingers, and a golden light flickered into existence in its palm. It stretched the energy, shaping it delicately with its fingertips, as though sculpting something from the very air itself.

Slowly, the energy solidified into a piece of living wood—deep blue, almost ethereal, pulsating gently as if it were breathing.

"This is Elysian wood, taken from the roots of the Song-Tree, where the very essence of wind dances with light. It is reactive, it sings with magic… and it is free. Just like you."

It tossed the floating shard towards Ollivander, who caught it carefully. The wood vibrated in his hands, as though whispering an unknown melody.

"Fascinating…" the wandmaker murmured, already sensing that this material defied all known craftsmanship.

But before Harry could marvel at it, the air grew cold.

A heavy silence settled over the room as the Aeon stepped forward.

It raised its hand, and the space around it twisted. A fracture in reality itself shimmered above its palm—a crystalline light, pure and absolute.

Its single eye shone with newfound intensity.

"This is not a mere gift. We have consulted the Monad, and the instructions are precise. A new prerogative has been established. A new purpose."

Harry felt a crushing weight settle on his shoulders.

The Aeon lowered its hand, and the crystalline essence hovered before Harry, pulsating with an energy he did not yet comprehend.

"We offer more than a wand core. A connection. A bond that cannot be broken. A permanent change."

Silence fell as Harry contemplated the gravity of those words. Ollivander, ever the scholar, was the first to break it.

"What exactly does this… change entail?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

The Aeon regarded him for a moment before returning its attention to Harry. The young wizard trembled slightly.

"Balance demands a price. By accepting this core, the Anomaly forsakes its status. It will become part of the Monad. Aeon we are. Aeon it shall be."

"I should clarify," the Azata chimed in, waving its flute in the air, "what our dear, heartless judge isn't saying is that the transformation will be gradual. He'll have plenty of time before becoming a true Aeon. And when I say plenty, I mean hundreds of years!"

As Harry grappled with the weight of the offer, Ollivander's curiosity sparked.

"But tell me—what exactly are you?" he asked, directing his question at both entities.

The Azata spun its flute between nimble fingers, its radiant smile filling the room with an almost disarming sense of ease.

"Ah! Now that… is a fascinating question!"

The Azata launched into the air, executing a fluid pirouette as though gravity held no claim over him.

"What are we? We are what we choose to be, and what the wind whispers we may become tomorrow."

He let a golden light flicker between his fingers—a fragment of living luminescence, untamed, shifting, vibrant.

"Me? I am an Azata, child of Elysium, messenger of songs and storms. We do not follow rules—we follow our hearts. We do not build empires—we breathe freedom into those who need it. I am the light dancing on water, the promise of an endless horizon."

He halted mid-air, his sparkling gaze locking onto Harry's.

"And you, little summoner… you dared to break the chains of your world, even without knowing it. I like that."

The air became static, the drifting winds stilled. The Aeon did not make a single unnecessary motion. When it finally spoke, its voice was devoid of warmth or emotion. It was pure.

Implacable.

"We are not what we wish to be. We are what we must be."

The Azata rolled his eyes, but the Aeon did not even glance at him. Its focus remained entirely on Harry.

"I am an Aeon. I belong to Law—not that of mortal nations, but of the universe, of the fabric of reality. Where there is imbalance, we intervene. Where order is fractured, we restore what was and what will be. We are architects and builders of the Grand Design."

The space around it bent slightly, as if even gravity and time hesitated in its presence.

It did not need to move—everything simply adjusted around it.

"Do you accept this gift? To become an Aeon?" the cosmic being asked.

The Azata chuckled, flipping through the air with a mischievous grin. He spread his arms wide, as though revealing a grand truth Harry had yet to discover.

"You know, kid, there's another option. A much more exciting one."

The Aeon did not react immediately, but its single eye pulsed with a brighter glow.

The Azata continued, his grin stretching wider.

"I've always found Aeons a bit… stiff. Always talking about order, balance, the 'Grand Design,' blah blah blah… But you? You're different. You don't want to be locked in a gilded cage, whether it's one of Law or Chaos. So why not be both?"

He spun a strand of golden energy between his fingers, a piece of his own essence.

"Become the first Aeon-Azata. A tightrope walker between the inevitable and the impossible. You're a wizard, a mage, aren't you? I can assure you, with our power, you will achieve wonders. Who knows? Perhaps you'll rival Nethys himself. After all… I've felt no pantheon here."

The Aeon slowly turned toward its counterpart, and for the first time, it hesitated.

Its single eye scrutinised Harry, and then—it froze, as if consulting something beyond time and space.

A pure tension filled the air, a resonance that seemed to echo through the shop like a suspended verdict.

Then, at last, it spoke.

"Balance does not tolerate paradoxes. An anomaly cannot embody two opposing forces at once."

The Azata smirked, clearly delighted by the challenge.

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my dear judge! Why couldn't he be a shifting point of equilibrium? Why not break stagnation? After all, the universe changes. Why not an Aeon?"

The Aeon remained silent for a moment, as if in communion with something unseen.

Then, slowly, it inclined its head.

"An unexplored path. A unique divergence. The Monad approves."

"But if you speak of essence and transformation," Ollivander interjected, ever the craftsman at heart, "what of the wand? If Mister Potter changes and absorbs your essences, what shall serve as its core?"

The Aeon regarded him before making a slight motion with its hand. A fragment of… something… white, wreathed in flames just as pale, drifted above the counter.

"What is that…" the wandmaker began, his voice barely above a whisper, mesmerised by the material.

"A fragment of a star," the Aeon stated simply, returning its attention to Harry.

Ollivander froze, unable to tear his gaze away from the incandescent shard.

"A fragment… of a star?"

His breath hitched. His mind raced to comprehend what he was seeing, but nothing in his ancestral knowledge of wand-making could explain such a material.

"This… this is impossible…" he murmured, more to himself than to the others.

The Azata let out a slow whistle, his smile never fading. He stepped closer to the young wizard.

"Oh, now things are getting interesting. Listen up, kid."

He extended a hand toward the crystalline essence floating before Harry, and a pulse of golden energy radiated outward, partially merging with the Aeon's light.

"You will be the first. The first to embrace freedom and justice, balance and chaos, harmony and rebellion."

The Aeon, unwavering, added:

"You shall embody the movement of the scales, the alternation of judgment and choice. You shall be uncertainty made law."

The Azata laughed, radiant.

"And most importantly… you will be unique. I can assure you, in our world, wizards would kill for such an opportunity. In fact, all mortals—and beyond—would kill for it. So, what do you say?"

The Azata shot the Aeon a final glance, a glimmer of exhilaration in his eyes. He knew this was a historic moment.

The Aeon, however, remained impassive… silent. For the first time, it did not pass judgment. As if, for once, it could not predict the outcome.

Harry stared at the fused luminous shard, a dizzying sensation washing over him.

The Aeon and the Azata were offering him a fate no one had ever known.

He could remain a mere wizard…

Or he could become the first Aeon-Azata, the balance between two absolutes. More than just a wizard—he could become a mage, as Merlin once was. Perhaps even greater…

He reached toward the glowing fragment—then hesitated. It wasn't fear that held him back, nor doubt. No, it was something else, something deeper.

He felt watched.

And he knew, instinctively, that his decision would carry weight beyond imagining.

He took a deep breath. He had made his choice. He—

Chapter 5: Direction: Hogwarts!

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

For those wondering about Harry being really OP, he is yes...but his ennemis will be too :p In my fiction, Voldy is powerful as hell :p

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

Black Castle
September 01st 1991

The first light of day filtered through the drawn curtains of Harry's bedroom. The young wizard opened his eyes slowly, his gaze lost in the shifting shadows on the ceiling. He'd gone to sleep late, his thoughts a muddle and his mind constantly whirring.

He kept replaying the day at Ollivander's—that strange summoning, the encounter with those two beings… extraplanar, they'd said. Had he made the right choice? The question was a thorny one, with more consequences than he could yet grasp. Time will tell, he thought wistfully.

He turned his head to the left, his eyes falling on the wand resting proudly on the bedside table. The focci was truly one of a kind. Just under eleven inches long, its wood shimmered between shades of blue—sky blue, cerulean, royal, and midnight. A faint white glow enveloped it, like a newly laid shroud.

Right or wrong, the wand was his now. According to them, it was a gift, a reward for managing to summon them. He couldn't help but see the "gift" more as a bribe in disguise. But no matter—he wasn't particularly offended by it.

"The young master is finally awake."

Kreacher was standing at the foot of the bed, a tray balanced in his gnarled hands. He placed it delicately on the nightstand, next to the wand, and gave his master a disapproving look.

"Young master needs strength today. It's the big day, oh yes. Can't go looking all thin and scrawny at the station. Young master is a Black, and a Black must be presentable. Always, yes indeed."

Harry gave a faint smile, but the elf wasn't fooled.

"Hmph. Kreacher worries. Master was far too quiet last night. Too quiet—even for a wizard. What keeps young master from sleeping, hmm?"

Harry reached for the mug of hot chocolate and took a sip, letting out a contented sigh. He didn't feel like talking about it. Not just yet. But he knew Kreacher wouldn't let it drop—and that he'd never breathe a word to anyone else.

"I keep thinking about that day at Ollivander's…"

The old house-elf nodded, understanding what was left unsaid. With a sharp gesture, he drew the curtains wide open and turned to meet Harry's gaze. Harry lowered his mug and returned the look.

"Master is troubled by his choice. Kreacher understands. But young master mustn't dwell on it, mustn't doubt himself. Kreacher has faith in young master. Young master can't be wrong. Oh yes, Kreacher knows this."

Faced with his loyal elf's unwavering conviction, Harry couldn't help but smile. He could always count on Kreacher—mercurial, sharp-tongued, and spirited as he was. Harry had a fondness for people who stood out, who owned their personality, who were a bit irreverent, often sarcastic, sometimes downright scathing.

Was it a touch of masochism? He wasn't sure. But he did enjoy his exchanges with his fiancée, Fleur Delacour, who never held back in her letters. Her "friends" at Beauxbatons must have sore ears from all the gossiping she did about them.

"What do you think—will they be there?"

He was thinking of the gawping crowds, the flashbulbs, the ever-watchful eyes that never truly saw him. He didn't fancy being a celebrity today… not really. Lately, he'd felt an overwhelming urge to punish them for all the lies, the spin, the pretty little fictions. And yet, he couldn't help but admire their flair—their boldness, their imaginative turn of phrase, their unapologetic licence.

His choice had clearly shaken him. This transition—he could already tell—would be a long and uneasy one. But he also knew, as surely as he knew the sun would rise, that the storm would pass. That balance would return.

One day.

But not today. That much, he also knew.

Kreacher looked at him and nodded, his eyes gleaming with open devotion.

"Where young master goes, they are there. They are right to come, for young master is grand and important. Oh yes, they are right to capture the greatness of young master."

Harry let out a low grunt of disagreement. Kreacher ignored him entirely and departed with the now-empty tray. Amused by the elf's behaviour, Harry made his way to the wardrobe to get dressed, swapping cashmere pyjamas for brocade robes. Kreacher had laid them out the night before.

And Harry understood why: the garment was exquisite, shimmering with silvery hues and adorned with the crests of the houses he'd inherited. More than a robe, it was a statement.

Once his shoes were on, he left the room. In the manor's corridors, suits of armour bowed as usual, and the portraits greeted him politely. He stopped in front of one of them.

"How are you, my boy? Ready for the big day?"

The elderly man in the painting looked at him with pride, while the woman beside him offered a soft, soothing smile.

"As ready as one can be, Grandfather. But I still wonder if it's all really necessary…"

"Hogwarts may be a school of magic, but it's also a place where all the heirs meet. I've no doubt you'll find your way. And if, despite your best efforts, you don't, then request to sit your exams early."

He looked at his grandmother and nodded. Euphemia Potter, née Gaunt, was a sharp mind—brilliant, in fact—as well as a renowned politician and enchantress. She and her husband, Fleamont, had once made a formidable pair. Thankfully, Voldemort hadn't destroyed their portraits—without them, Harry would never have known his paternal family.

"And don't forget—you're a Potter. Hold your head high, and never let them walk over you."

His grandfather gave him a wink before disappearing from the frame with his wife, likely to visit another family member's portrait. The paintings loved to wander the castle, trading gossip and news. Anything to liven up their… non-life.

He had to admit, their advice wasn't without merit. He could ask to sit his exams early. But there was a catch: once a wizard passed their N.E.W.T.s, they were automatically considered of age. And Sirius had warned him—once that happened, Harry would assume control of his seats. The Marauder was growing bored of politics… Then again, he'd already flattened all opposition, and the Blacks now ruled the Wizengamot without challenge.

But Harry didn't feel ready. Not in his current state.

He continued on, and found his other grandfather, Arcturus, waiting at the top of the stairs, standing tall, posture impeccable. A faint, almost teasing smile played on the old man's lips. Harry was very close to him, and that bond meant the patriarch knew him inside and out.

"Sleep well?" the old man asked.

"Not really."

Arcturus studied him for a moment.

"No matter. Sleep comes when the mind is still. And yours, I imagine, has seen a fair bit lately."

Harry nodded. There was no need to say more. Arcturus knew, and he understood. He was the only one Harry had confided in about what had happened at Ollivander's. Not because he didn't trust Sirius—but because he did trust him, and knew full well Sirius would share it all with Amelia Bones and Remus Lupin.

Arcturus had explained how, to the others, he and Garrick Ollivander had simply vanished for ten seconds. The panic had set in when they returned—drained, Harry pale as a ghost and clutching a wand of staggering power. It had been a deeply unsettling experience for the Black family, one that had forced Arcturus to demand answers. Ollivander, citing sacred confidentiality, had refused to speak.

"You're probably right… but for how much longer? Even I can't tell anymore…"

Harry let out a sound—half groan, half sigh—not at all typical of him. Arcturus gave him a curious look, but the boy merely shook his head. The old man wondered whether he'd truly told him everything.

Downstairs, things were far livelier. Sirius was grumbling about the photographers who would surely be waiting for them at King's Cross. Susan was checking her trunk for the fifth time, and Amelia was barking orders at the Aurors. One could even hear Alastor bellowing, "Constant vigilance!"

The manor buzzed with excitement, everyone on high alert. They'd been preparing for this day, well aware that the crowd would be out in force. After all, it wasn't every day that the wizarding world's hero started school.

Despite the chaos, a strange calm had settled over Harry. As if he no longer stood quite in the same place as the others. Deep down, he felt that everything was unfolding as it was meant to. That everything was in… order.

---

The Black procession left the manor shortly after eight o'clock, escorted by three Aurors and two Hit-Wizards. With prior approval from Amelia and Alastor, Harry opened a portal leading directly to the magical entrance of King's Cross. He had perfected the spell and had agreed to teach it to the Hit-Wizards—the elite among spellcasters—and, of course, to his family.

Naturally, he'd had to adjust the spell to make it wand-compatible, but that hadn't been particularly difficult. None of them had quite mastered it yet, apart from Sirius. That surprised no one, really—Sirius saw the portal as an ideal tool for mischief.

The magical entrance to King's Cross was not to be confused with the barrier inside the Muggle station. No—this was a new gateway, linking Wonders' Alley to Platform 9¾. The idea had come from Harry himself, which only confirmed what most already suspected: Wonders' Alley had become the most sought-after address in magical London.

Harry walked at the front, his steps steady and unhurried. His robes glimmered silver in the morning light, displaying the crests of Potter, Black, Figg, Fleamont, Gaunt, Gryffindor, Moody and Peverell—the largest, of course, belonging to House Potter.

King's Cross was already heaving. Witches and wizards from every corner of society had gathered—some curious, some irritated, many enthusiastic. They stood waiting like hyenas, beaming wide, expectant smiles. They knew Harry was coming.

Their reaction came instantly. Harry had barely raised a hand in greeting before the first flashes burst into life. Photographers and paparazzi of every kind were revelling in the moment. For this occasion, it seemed, even borders had vanished.

From Germany's Runenbote to Italy's La Voce Incantata, along with The Witchlight Tribune and even the famously discreet Mahō Jihō, they were all there. Harry had become a global name, for reasons that went far beyond Voldemort's defeat.

Everyone was talking about Wonders' Alley or his magical exploits. His portal spell—despite being taught to only a select few—had already stirred international buzz.

And no one had forgotten his ninth birthday, when a Death Eater tried to assassinate him—a grave mistake. Harry had made him explode into a shower of rose petals, after impaling him with enchanted swords that had materialised from thin air.

"Lord Potter! A word for The Daily Prophet?"

"Is it true you were awarded a scholarship for exceptional magical ability?"

"A comment on your Hogwarts debut, Heir presumptive Black?"

Harry studied the reporters for a moment. He considered whether to respond—or perhaps even deliver a short speech. He glanced at his grandfather, who gave him the faintest nod. Better to set the tone himself than let them spin their own tales.

He looked over at his godfather and his godmother. The two flanked him without a word, while Alastor, ever vigilant, took position behind the crowd, eyes sweeping for the slightest threat. To complete the formation, Arcturus stood directly behind Harry, and Susan shyly took her place beside her aunt. One Auror stayed back, guarding the luggage and pets.

"Leave the poor lad alone, you bunch of imbeciles! Let my fledgling breathe!"

The voice was oddly familiar… but he couldn't quite place it. Where had it come from? And why was no one reacting?

He drew a breath—and silence fell. A church-like hush settled over the crowd, every person hanging on the words of their living legend.

"Thank you all for being here today."

His voice was clear, composed. The reporters stilled. The enchanted quills slowed to a halt.

"For many of us, today marks a moment we'll never forget—it's the start of our journey to Hogwarts. For me, it's also a return to my roots… to the place where two of my ancestors founded something far greater than a school—a vision of the magical world."

A ripple of murmurs moved through the crowd, and several reporters took note. The reference to Gryffindor and Slytherin had not gone unnoticed.

"I'm proud to be joining this institution—to follow in the footsteps of those who came before me, and to forge a path of my own."

One flash. Then another. Then none. They were all waiting, spellbound.

"What I've achieved so far, I haven't done alone. I owe it to my family, to my teachers, and to everyone who's guided, challenged, or stood by me."

He cast a quick glance at Sirius, then at Arcturus. Both gave the subtlest of nods.

"Now, I look ahead. I hope the years to come are full of discovery, hard work, and progress."

He paused. His gaze swept the crowd. Then, in a lighter tone:

"And rest assured, I've no immediate plans to slay dragons or hags—neither of them have done me any harm."

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Everyone knew the Adventures of Harry Potter—that infamous children's book series, wildly romanticised and only loosely based on reality.

"I'm going to Hogwarts to learn… And believe me—" he hesitated, as though surprised by the weight of his own words, "—that's already one hell of an adventure."

He gave a small nod. The first round of applause broke out, quickly followed by more. A wave of camera flashes surged forward. The crowd was won over—but Harry felt torn. This speech hadn't been planned, and the sudden inspiration had caught him off guard…

"Heir Potter, is it true you invented this famous portal? And do you plan to make it available to the wider public?"

His gaze settled on the journalist who had spoken. Something about the man was off. He wasn't… honest. Harry couldn't have said why, but the feeling clung to him—prickly and unclean, like ants crawling over his skin. Oddly, he knew exactly what to say.

"The portal is one of my own creations—though the idea has long lived in our collective memory. As for making it widely available… that's not under consideration at the moment. After all, we wouldn't want ill-intentioned witches or wizards using it to commit crimes with complete impunity… Like, say, unregistered Animagus reporters."

At Harry's words, the journalist turned deathly pale, and an Auror swiftly moved in to detain him. The message had been received loud and clear. Sirius shot Harry a curious glance. How had his godson known that? The man was an Ottoman journalist—and none of them had ever seen him before.

"One final question," Arcturus announced, his tone brooking no argument. "The train won't wait for us."

Unsurprisingly, it was Rita Skeeter who stepped forward, her crimson lips widening into a predatory smile—one Harry knew, in his case, was at least partly genuine. She struck a dramatic pose, framing her chin with poison-green manicured nails.

"Your speech was truly stirring. So here's my question—what is your dream?"

Harry paused, a quiet spark in his eyes. He knew it wasn't a throwaway question—Rita never asked anything by chance. But she'd handed him a gift, and he intended to take it with full composure.

"My dream is to help the magical world flourish," he said, voice steady, full of calm conviction.

He could feel the atmosphere tighten around him. The enchanted quills resumed their frantic scribbling.

"…to lead it into a golden age unlike any we've known."

A few reporters exchanged glances. Others smiled faintly. Grand declarations were always popular. But this one, delivered without theatrics, felt like a promise.

"My focus is on innovation, on expanding our magical understanding—because magic is the very essence of our lives."

Behind him, Susan was smiling. Sirius stood with his arms folded, but a proud flicker crossed his face.

"Whether we are wizards, goblins, werewolves, vampires, hags, or otherwise…"

A quiet stir moved through the crowd. Some faces tensed. Others nodded slowly.

"From the smallest magical creature to the greatest, we are all connected by magic…"

Now he was no longer looking just at the crowd on the platform. He was speaking as though to something far larger.

"…and we all have a role to play in advancing our knowledge."

A strained silence followed.

Then, with perfect dramatic flair, Rita Skeeter began to applaud—slowly, elegantly, in that affected way that was entirely hers.

Her smile had widened—sharper than ever, yet oddly sincere.

The other journalists hesitated… then joined in.

And within heartbeats, the entire platform erupted in applause. It was an ovation for the young wizard—though Harry could still spot a few sour faces among the more bigoted onlookers.

He remained still, eyes fixed on Rita. There was nothing more to say. She had given him the perfect closing line.

And the world had just embraced—without realising it—the vision of a boy who was no longer entirely a child.

"Let's go," murmured Arcturus.

They turned away from the crowd and made their way towards the train. Sirius glanced at Harry with a faint smile.

"Wonderful speech. And I quite agree with your dream. James and Lily would be proud of you."

Harry returned the smile, slightly moved by his godfather's words.

"But… how did you know that journalist was an unregistered Animagus?"

Harry was about to give a small lie in response—something harmless—when he stopped short. The very idea of lying repulsed him more than it should have.

Sirius caught the hesitation and gave a quiet sigh.

"Fine, keep your secrets. But I know you're not telling me everything." He ruffled Harry's hair. "Just don't forget—I'm your godfather. There's no one in this world more important to me than you. You can tell me anything."

Harry simply nodded, while Arcturus allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Even Amelia smiled faintly, and Susan looked a little lost—she never liked journalists, finding them far too invasive for her taste.

Behind them, the Malfoy, Tonks, Bones, and Weasley families were all managing their own arrivals, each drawing their fair share of attention—but none stirred the crowd quite like the Blacks.

They reached one of the carriages, and Sirius handed Harry his trunk. With a simple flick of his hand, the boy shrank it and slipped it into his pocket. Only Hedwig remained at full size, watching him proudly from her golden cage.

Harry jumped slightly as he picked it up.

"Those journalists ought to leave you alone… Uncouth lot, the whole bunch! Except the ladybug woman—I like her style."

Harry barely flinched, peering more closely at his owl. He was surprised—but not shocked. He understood this wasn't normal. But his mind no longer registered the unusual as it once had… It accepted the improbable with a strange, unsettling clarity.

As for Hedwig? Her gaze seemed almost… amused.

"Oh, you understand me. Excellent. That means you'll meet my expectations. So, I want…"

She launched into a spirited rant about bacon and the necessity of a perch with proper padding for her talons.

Harry blinked, breath catching. His heart quickened. He wasn't imagining it. Something inside him had shifted—imperceptibly, but irreversibly.

"Harry? Would you mind…" Susan's voice brought him back, gesturing to her trunk.

He nodded and, with a simple motion, shrank her luggage as well. She was holding her black cat, Velvet, in her arms.

"I do love her strokes—always a pleasure. If only she'd give me salmon, my life would be complete."

Harry flinched again. The cat had spoken too.

Another shiver ran through him, deeper this time. But he showed nothing.

"Is something wrong, Harry?" asked Sirius, a hint of concern in his voice.

Harry replied instinctively, without thinking:

"I was just thinking—Velvet ought to eat more fish. Salmon, maybe. It'd do wonders for her coat."

"Hm… why not? D'you think it would work on Padfoot too?" Sirius replied with a sideways grin.

Amelia gave him a firm smack on the back of the head, unimpressed. The Marauder laughed, rubbing his neck.

"All right, enough messing about. Time for you to go," said Arcturus, just as the train's whistle blew. "Don't forget to write—whatever the reason."

"You're not curious which house I'll be in?" Harry asked with a crooked smile.

The Black patriarch returned the look.

"Do I really need to ask?"

They all had their own ideas, of course… but Harry knew nothing was set in stone.

He gave his family a quick hug—even Alastor—before climbing aboard the train with Susan. The other children were already inside, and it was time he joined them.

As he set foot on the train, Harry knew his time at Hogwarts had officially begun.

And that the world he loved so dearly was about to change.

Chapter 6: A sorting like no other

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

 

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

Hogwarts Express
September 01st 1991

Harry, accompanied by Susan, began searching for the compartment where his friends were sitting. After five minutes, he spotted Draco's slicked-back blond hair through the porthole window of a door.

They stepped into the relatively spacious carriage. Draco was deep in a game of wizard's chess with Ronald, while Blaise sat nearby, reading an Italian magazine with an appreciative smile on his face.

Meanwhile, Pansy was chatting with Milicent about the latest gossip.

"There you are at last. I was starting to think you'd got lost on the train," said Draco, glancing up from the chessboard.

"Harry? Get lost? Don't be daft, Malfoy – he was probably held up by Sirius."

The blond boy shot the redhead a glare.

"A Malfoy is never daft, Weasley."

"But he does lose at chess!" Ronald grinned, trapping Draco's king with his queen. "Checkmate!"

"What?" Malfoy cried, whipping his eyes back to the board.

The Malfoy heir growled as he realised he'd been beaten, while Blaise burst out laughing. Shaking his head, Harry took a seat while Susan joined the other girls, having placed their caged pets on the shelf above the window.

Moments later, there was a knock at the door. It was Hannah Abbott, Susan's best friend.

"Hello, everyone. Sorry I'm late – the platform was absolutely heaving."

She shot Harry a knowing look. He nodded, well aware it was his fault. Wherever he went, journalists and fans gathered like flies to honey—or worse.

"That was a really good speech," said Theodore as he stepped into the compartment.

Everyone except Harry jumped. The Nott boy was unusually quiet, a lover of books and libraries. In his hands, he held an old copy of The Daily Prophet – the 28th of July 1991 edition.

"Let me guess," Blaise said with a smirk, eyes still on his magazine, "you're here to reread that article about our visit to Marvel Alley?"

Theodore looked up calmly, closing the paper with deliberate care.

"It's an excellent exercise in analysis. The way the journalist plays with the reader's emotions is fascinating. Honestly, it couldn't have been better publicity for your Alley, Harry."

Ronald burst out laughing.

"He's not wrong. I reckon even Merlin didn't get that kind of praise."

"And you lot haven't even read the French version," Hannah added, clearly amused. "They call him The Patron of Innovation."

Harry sighed, though a small smile crept onto his lips. Despite the gossip—and his dislike of politics—he had to admit he didn't mind the attention. It was a chance to highlight his achievements, which, in his view, mattered far more than his so-called "defeat" of Voldemort.

"They'll get bored eventually…"

"Or have you canonised as well," Pansy said with amusement, pulling her own copy of the article from her bag.

"Mmmh… Saint Harry of Hogwarts, Patron of Gifted Young Wizards. Has a nice ring to it," added Blaise in a mock-reverent tone.

"If you've quite finished being ridiculous…" Draco cut in with a hint of irritation. "...perhaps we could discuss something important?"

"Like your crushing defeat?" Ronald quipped, roaring with laughter.

The blond boy sighed and raised his nose in the air with an exaggerated, pompous air. The others burst out laughing, while Harry watched the scene with quiet satisfaction. He liked being surrounded by his friends, even if they didn't always understand him completely. Still, he couldn't help but feel slightly detached—as if something had changed.

"Where's Neville?" he asked.

Though he cared for all of them, he had to admit he held a particular fondness for his 'brother in all but blood', Neville Longbottom. The boy was gentle, deeply caring with animals and plants, and had a heart of gold. If he hadn't been engaged to Fleur, Harry might've considered a betrothal contract with him… Though the matter of heirs would've been complicated…

"He's lost his toad again. Went off looking for it on the train," Ron replied, resetting the chess pieces.

"Oh no, not again! How about a round of Exploding Snap instead?"

Harry shook his head at his friends. As close as they were, there were definite divides within the group. The girls tended to stick together, trading gossip and chatter, while Draco and Ronald spent much of their time together—something that, according to Lucius, would make his father spin in his grave. As for Neville, he spent most of his time with Harry.

"I'll go find him."

He stood, leaving the group to begin a game of cards. Stepping into the corridor, he raised a hand, conjuring a small orb of white light.

"Lead me to Neville."

The light brightened for a moment before darting off ahead, guiding him down the corridor. Harry noted the many open doors with students of all ages chatting away. Some stared at him in astonishment; others nodded slightly in greeting. Everyone knew who he was—after all, who didn't know the legend of the Boy Who Lived?

Even Muggle-borns had heard of him by the time they entered the wizarding world—especially since the 1986 Integration Act. Proposed by Sirius, the law aimed to introduce Muggle-borns to the magical world from the age of seven, with specific lessons in handwriting, magical history, and political structure.

After a few moments, the glowing orb twirled in front of a half-open door, chiming softly like crystal. Harry approached with caution, ready to find his friend. But instead of Neville, a young girl with a focused expression looked up abruptly.

She was holding an old leather-bound book in one hand and a brand-new wand in the other, rummaging beneath the compartment seats like an archaeologist on the trail of a long-lost artefact.

"Wouldn't happen to be looking for a toad, would you?" Harry asked with a wry smile.

The girl straightened at once, clearly surprised that someone had spoken to her. Then she frowned slightly, as if trying to place his face.

"Yes, Trevor. He belongs to a rather clumsy boy who vanished the moment we boarded. I thought I might help out."

She studied him more closely, her hazel eyes alight with curiosity. Harry, for his part, frowned ever so slightly. He wouldn't call Neville clumsy, and he didn't much like people talking about his 'brother' that way.

"Wait… you're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

Harry nodded without much ceremony. He'd learned to answer simply—any overly excited reactions wore him out quickly.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said, extending her hand solemnly. "I'm Muggle-born, but I've read all the recommended core texts for Hogwarts, as well as A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot—twice."

Harry shook her hand, intrigued. She spoke like a Ministry committee report. She was both interesting and slightly exhausting. He could tell she was the rule-abiding type, one who valued order above all, likely at the expense of personal freedom.

"Nice to meet you, Hermione. Any luck finding Trevor?"

"No, but I think he's slipped under the compartments at the back. It would make sense for a toad. They like damp and dark places."

He nodded, impressed by her reasoning. She seemed clever, and from her manner, he guessed she was unpopular due to her tendency to know everything. Probably the kind who recites texts word for word, corrects everyone, always has her hand up… he thought.

A soft rustle came from behind them, followed by a faint croak. Hermione bent down instantly, but Harry raised a hand to stop her.

"Let me."

He extended his palm, and a gentle pulse of magic radiated from his hand. The floor vibrated ever so slightly before a plump toad was slowly lifted from beneath the bench, as if floating in an invisible bubble.

Trevor gave a faint croak, legs splayed, looking rather grumpy. His bulging eyes met Harry's.

"Too dry. Not going back in there."

Harry flinched almost imperceptibly. That was the third time it had happened today. He had to admit the truth—he could speak to animals. Letting out a quiet sigh, he made another gesture. A jar, filled to a fifth with water, materialised, and he gently lowered the toad inside.

"That's better! Thanks!"

Harry looked at the toad, which now seemed to be eyeing him with gratitude. A subtle nod was his reply.

"How do you do all that?"

Hermione asked the question, but the look in her eyes made Harry instinctively take a step back. She had the gaze of a hungry lioness eyeing a defenceless gazelle. He knew that look all too well—an intense thirst for knowledge, tinged with envy. The same look certain adults sometimes gave him…

"Trevor!"

Neville appeared in the doorway, breathless, cheeks flushed and hair in disarray. When he saw Harry, his face lit up with genuine joy. Without hesitation, he rushed forward and pulled him into a warm hug.

"I knew you'd come."

Harry wrapped his arms around him in return, smiling softly. No words were needed. Their bond ran deeper than anything words could express. In another life, in another time, perhaps he would have chosen Neville as his partner. But this was not that time.

"He escaped again?" Harry asked as they pulled apart.

Neville winced as he retrieved Trevor, who was now sitting comfortably in his jar, eyes half-closed.

"Apparently the air was too dry for him."

Harry felt Hermione suddenly turn her head towards him, but he said nothing more. Neither she nor Neville commented.

"Thank you for helping me find him," Neville said to Hermione.

"Hermione Granger," she replied simply, extending her hand.

"Neville Longbottom."

They exchanged a quick, slightly awkward but polite handshake.

"Shall we head back to our compartment?" Harry said to Neville, before turning to Hermione. "We'll see you at Hogwarts."

He left rather briskly, with Neville close behind. The latter gave him a teasing look.

"Last time you made an exit that fast was when that Unspeakable said he'd do anything to learn your portal spell."

Harry chuckled at the memory.

"A sixty-year-old man getting on all fours in front of a ten-year-old boy… That is a bit much," he said, shaking his head. "But you're right, she had the same look in her eyes…"

"As long as she doesn't end up the same way."

Neville grimaced slightly at the memory of the Unspeakable. The man had tried to force Harry into revealing his secret… Let's just say Kreacher hadn't taken it well. There were still bloodstains in the castle's parlour…

They rejoined their friends in the compartment for the long journey ahead.

---

Eight hours later, the Hogwarts Express pulled into the station at Hogsmeade. The deceleration was gradual, almost smooth, before the train came to a halt with a hiss of steam.

Barely had the pupils set foot on the platform when house-elves in tunics bearing the Hogwarts crest appeared silently along the length of the train. Discreet yet well-organised, they moved with quiet efficiency.

Harry watched one of them bow to a second-year girl before retrieving, with a snap of its fingers, a cage containing a visibly sleeping cat.

"Luggage and pets will be delivered directly to your dormitories. Please do not take anything with you," announced a prefect, clearly reciting a well-memorised instruction.

Harry nodded. He handed Hedwig's cage to a sharp-eyed elf in a spotless uniform. The elf accepted it with a silent bow before vanishing with a muffled pop.

Next to him, Neville hesitated for a moment before reluctantly handing over Trevor. The toad, still in his jar, let out a grumpy croak.

"Watch the legs, pointy-ears."

Harry stifled a smile. Once the animals had been entrusted and the luggage taken care of, the first-years were gathered at the far end of the platform. The group formed naturally—some pupils scanning the crowd for familiar faces, others clutching their robes nervously like lifelines.

Harry stood calmly beside Neville, alert but composed. Not far off, Draco and Susan were speaking in hushed tones, flanked by Hannah and Blaise. Ron was bickering in a low voice with Pansy—probably about the boarding order for the boats—while Milicent stood by, impassive, watching the scene unfold without comment. Theodore, as quiet as ever, remained slightly apart, his gaze analytical as he observed the group.

Hermione stood a little to the side. She watched them from the corner of her eye, not quite daring to join in. Too bright, too quick, not yet in her place.

Hagrid raised a glowing lantern high above his head.

"Follow me. Mind yer step."

The path was narrow, flanked by tall grasses and sodden ground from the evening mist. The air was damp, thick with the scent of moss and stagnant water. After a few minutes, the trail opened out onto a small wooden jetty—simple, but sturdy.

Dozens of black boats waited, moored along the shore. Each one could carry four pupils. There were no oars, no rudders—they steered themselves.

"Four ter a boat!" Hagrid called, his voice echoing over the lake.

Harry stepped into the first boat, followed by Neville, Susan, and… Hermione, who had moved forward without waiting for an invitation. He glanced at her, but said nothing. She clutched her cloak tightly around her, chin raised, visibly tense.

One by one, the boats pushed off from the bank. The wood creaked, then all fell still. Only the gentle lapping of water against the hulls broke the silence.

Then, suddenly, they rounded a bend.

Hogwarts Castle came into view.

Majestic. Shadowed. Lit by a thousand glowing windows. Perched atop its cliff, it loomed over the lake black as ink. Even the most talkative fell silent. A new tension settled across the boats—a mix of awe and anticipation.

Neville whispered to Harry,

"Do you think we'll be in the same house?"

Harry didn't answer straight away. His eyes remained fixed on the castle.

"We'll see."

Behind them, he could hear Draco and Ron already arguing about which of them would have their house crest hanging above the Gryffindor table. Blaise laughed freely, clearly amused. Theodore, as usual, remained expressionless, while Milicent and Pansy had taken another boat. The latter was glaring daggers at Blaise—he'd clearly taken her spot.

Hermione said nothing. Sitting bolt upright at the front of the boat, she stared at the castle with an intense look in her eyes. It wasn't wonder Harry saw there… but determination.

He paid it no mind. Unlike her, he wasn't here to prove himself.
No, he had other plans…

The boats glided to a stop one by one at the foot of a small stone landing. A staircase, carved into the rock, led up to a broad oak door flanked by two floating torches. Hagrid led the pupils to the top step, then knocked three times, sharp and clear.

The door opened in silence.

They were greeted by a stern-looking witch with her hair in a tight bun, wearing immaculate emerald-green robes and a gaze sharp as a scalpel. Harry already knew her name: Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of First Years.

"First-year students, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid announced.

"Thank you, Hagrid. That will be all."

She looked them all over for a moment, gauging the general level of nervousness. Behind her, Hagrid walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing in the air.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said in a neutral tone. "The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly. You will enter the Great Hall one at a time and be called forward to join the house that best matches your potential."

A murmur rippled through the group.

She continued, paying it no mind.

"Four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Each has produced generations of witches and wizards who have shaped our history. Your achievements, your successes—and even your mistakes—will count towards the honour of your house."

Harry noticed she placed slight emphasis on the word mistakes. Her gaze slid briefly to a student who was trying, rather badly, to hide a Doxy egg in his pocket.

"In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and be sorted into one of the four houses. But before that… a word of advice: stand tall, no whispering, and try to maintain some semblance of dignity."

She cast them all a sharp look.

"I need to make sure everything is ready. Wait here."

She left them alone in the entrance hall. Then, the air grew colder.

Whispers rose among the pupils as several translucent forms drifted through the stone wall. The Hogwarts ghosts had arrived.

The Fat Friar floated into the vestibule in his slightly transparent monk's habit, beaming, while Nearly Headless Nick attempted a theatrical entrance, his head perched askew upon his collar.

Behind them, the Bloody Baron glided silently by, his robes stained with what looked suspiciously like dried blood. The Grey Lady kept to the background—elegant, ethereal, distant. Her eyes were unreadable, fixed in a cold, watchful calm.

"I said we ought to give him another chance," the Fat Friar sighed aloud, evidently in the middle of a discussion. "Peeves isn't evil at heart."

"Loud at heart, yes," the Baron growled.

"You're arguing about Peeves again?" Nick cut in, exasperated. "It's the same every year."

The students, tense, watched the scene in silence. But gradually, the atmosphere began to shift.

One by one, the ghosts turned towards Harry. As if drawn to him, whether they liked it or not.

The Fat Friar slowed, and his smile faltered. He gave a subtle nod of the head, then turned away.
Nick inclined his own head gently in greeting.
The Bloody Baron stopped, bowed ever so slightly—a rare gesture—and continued on without a word, though his eyes remained fixed on Harry.

And finally, the Grey Lady.

She stared at him for a long time, arms crossed. Her gaze was calm, almost neutral… but something strange flickered in her eyes. Something between ancient respect and silent fear.

She said nothing.

But she bowed. Slowly.

Not out of duty.
Out of recognition.

A shiver ran down Harry's spine.

He didn't see the ghosts as others did.
They weren't just spirits or lingering memories. There was something else. Something… broken in their presence. Like a piece of music left hanging in the air, refusing to fall back into silence.

He didn't fear them.
But he couldn't ignore them.

He felt them too deeply.

The Grey Lady's gesture unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Not because she bowed—
—but because she seemed to recognise him.
Not him.
Something else.

He held her gaze without flinching.

And then she vanished, like the others.

Around him, silence lingered for a moment.

Hermione frowned. Ron looked away. Even Draco, for once, seemed to have lost his usual appetite for commentary.

Then McGonagall returned.

She paused briefly, looked them over with a severe eye, then nodded.

"Single file. Follow me."

The great doors opened with a soft breath.

The Great Hall of Hogwarts came into view.

Four long tables, packed with students, stretched out beneath an enchanted night sky, mirroring the heavens above with uncanny accuracy: a clear, starlit sky with no moon in sight. Hundreds of candles floated overhead, bathing the room in a gentle golden light.

Murmurs swept through the hall as they entered. The youngest shrank in on themselves. Others, more confident, lifted their chins.

Hermione's eyes shot upward at once.
"The ceiling's enchanted to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History," she whispered to no one in particular.

Ron shrugged, muttering sarcastically,

"I thought it was the sky."

Draco let out a quiet snort. Harry said nothing. He was watching the hall, fully absorbed.

The magic was palpable—and very old. He could feel it, even see it. It was different from the typical magic of the wizarding world. It was more wild, more dangerous, and above all… powerful.

Was this the so-called ancient magic he'd read about in certain books? It had supposedly vanished centuries ago, since one had to be born with the gift.

His ancestor, Phineas Nigellus Black, had once told him about a pupil born with that gift—and how it was tied to the death of another ancestor: Eleazar Fig.

They reached the far end of the hall.

In front of the staff table stood a rickety old stool.

Upon it rested a battered, threadbare hat, so worn and droopy it wouldn't have stood out in a second-hand shop.

Some students frowned. Others, like Ron, looked about ready to ask when the real ceremony would begin.

Hermione squinted, visibly frustrated not to recognise what she was seeing.

But then—
The hat moved.

Slowly, the seam along its front split open…forming a mouth. And without warning, a deep, clear voice rang out:

(Beginning of excerpt from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Chapter 7, by J.K. Rowling. All rights reserved.)

"Oh you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
if you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folks use any means
To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

(end of excerpt)

Silence fell as the hat became still again. At last, a few polite claps broke out while the Sorting Hat gave an exaggerated bow toward each house table.

Some pupils exchanged uncertain glances. Others looked fascinated—or slightly terrified. It was hard to accept that a shabby old hat would decide their fate, but the magical world was special… and just a little mad.

Harry, for his part, smiled faintly. He didn't know why exactly… but he had liked that song.

The Sorting Hat's voice was deep, full of life. The lyrics were clever, rhythmic—but more than that, there was something freeing in them. He'd always enjoyed music, and even more so now.

McGonagall unrolled a scroll and stepped forward.
"When I call your name, step forward, put on the hat, and sit on the stool."

The names began to be called.

Unfamiliar faces stepped up one by one, some hesitant, others confident. Some were sorted in barely ten seconds, while others squirmed for nearly a full minute beneath the hat. But Harry wasn't paying much attention.

Until McGonagall's voice rang out again:
"Abbott, Hannah!"

Hannah stepped forward with quiet confidence, not rushing. She placed the hat on her head and barely had it touched her dark curls when:

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Polite applause rose from the black-and-yellow table. Hannah joined her house with a composed smile.

A few names later:
"Bones, Susan!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Then:
"Granger, Hermione!"

She ascended with determination, chin held high.

The hat hesitated for a long minute, then finally declared:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Hermione gave a near-triumphant smile as she made her way to the table, already eyeing up her neighbour to the right.

Harry shook his head slightly. She clearly didn't belong in that house, and judging by the hat's hesitation, it agreed.

He noted the reverent look she cast towards the staff table. Did she want to emulate Dumbledore? She didn't know him then.

Harry had come to know the Headmaster of Hogwarts, who had become a frequent visitor at Black Castle. The old man held Harry's brilliance in high esteem—so much so that they often shared long discussions about complex esoteric theories, ones that even Remus and Filius Flitwick (another regular guest) struggled to follow.

And Harry had learned things about Dumbledore's past. He didn't look it now, but he had once been wild and rebellious—brave, flamboyant, a natural Gryffindor through and through.

But Hermione? No—she didn't possess any of those qualities, and she'd soon come to realise it. Harry could already see it… Life in Gryffindor wouldn't be easy for her.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

The hat had barely touched his gelled blond hair before:
"SLYTHERIN!"

Draco made his way proudly to the table, casting a glance at Harry, a broad smile playing on his lips. He was clearly pleased to join the same house as his parents, grandparents, and so on.

To Harry, the idea of wanting to end up in the same house as one's parents was absurd. Each house matched distinct traits, and a child was not a carbon copy of their lineage.

Very quickly, the names he knew began to follow.

"Nott, Theodore!"
"SLYTHERIN."

"Parkinson, Pansy!"
"SLYTHERIN."

"Bulstrode, Milicent!"
"SLYTHERIN."

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly. No surprises. It was all expected. Still, the cohesion of the old aristocratic families remained… striking.

"Weasley, Ronald!"

The Sorting Hat paused for a few seconds, clearly weighing its options. After a short moment, it made its decision—one that drew a small ripple of surprise.

"RAVENCLAW."

The first to applaud was Percy Weasley, seated proudly at the blue-and-bronze table, his prefect badge gleaming. His satisfied smile made it clear he approved of his younger brother's sorting.

Not so with Fred and George Weasley over at the Gryffindor table, who were pretending to sob dramatically.

But Harry wasn't surprised by the Sorting Hat's decision.

Ronald was a very clever boy, a budding chess master and natural strategist. Of course, he had a few flaws—like his bottomless appetite, which no one would expect given how thin he was—and his unshakable love of money. That last trait probably stemmed from a childhood spent in comfortable luxury at Black Castle and his near-daily contact with Harry's household.

"Potter, Harry!"

The hall fell silent at once. He could hear a few pupils whispering, pointing at him. He stepped forward and calmly sat on the stool. McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat over his head.

The fabric fell over his eyes, plunging him into darkness—the hat was far too big for a child's head.

Finally, a deep, masculine voice echoed in his mind—clear, resonant, almost warm.
Hmm… interesting. Very interesting.

The Hat seemed to rummage about—not roughly, but with no real delicacy either. Harry understood how the Sorting Hat worked, having read a book once owned by his ancestor, Godric. So he lowered his Occlumency barriers, knowing no secrets would be exposed.

You have talent, boy… and plenty of it. Uncommon power. A quick mind, impressive analytical skills… and a sensitivity that's rare. Very rare. Almost… too great for your age.

Harry stayed silent. He knew speaking wouldn't make a difference. The Hat already saw everything.

Cunning. Quite a lot of it. You think fast, you anticipate. You'd thrive in Slytherin. And yet… that courage. Not recklessness—no. Determination. Cold. Controlled. That's more dangerous, you know? You truly are their descendant.

A dry, almost curious laugh.

You've patience too. Loyalty matters to you. You protect those you choose… even when they don't understand it. Hufflepuff would not be unworthy of you.

Still, Harry said nothing. He let it continue.

And such hunger for knowledge… my boy, your mind is starving. Structured, rigorous—but above all, free. You don't just absorb knowledge. You deconstruct it. You'd be an eagle among eagles.

The Sorting Hat hesitated.

But that's not enough. You don't belong to a house. You could go into any of them… but none could hold you without bending around you.

A longer silence. Heavier.

I see deeper things… You are not like the others. You walk a path never taken. A new path. You don't seek belonging. You seek mastery.

A pause.

You don't need a house. You need something older. Freer. A forgotten tradition… but not lost.

And then, for the first time, the Sorting Hat's voice seemed to speak out loud, to the entire hall:

"APPRENTICE!"

A stunned murmur rippled across the Great Hall.

Even McGonagall raised her eyebrows slightly. At the staff table, Dumbledore smiled, fingers steepled under his chin.

Harry removed the hat calmly, placed it back on the stool, and stepped down without a word.

He didn't need to ask where to go.

The floor of the Great Hall trembled almost imperceptibly.

A faint shimmer of magic rippled through the air… and a fifth table slowly emerged between the four traditional ones. It stretched out elegantly, as if sculpted from the very stone, forming a long table of darkened wood with a metallic sheen. The space around it adjusted silently—the walls edged back slightly, the ceiling rose with a soundless breath.

The students felt no shift, proof of the depth of the enchantments.

All eyes turned to the new table—and above it.

A fifth banner now floated proudly, bearing the image of a sleeping dragon.

Harry's robes shifted to reflect the change. The seams darkened, and the once-blank crest—stitched that way so it could receive the Sorting enchantment—now bore the same emblem as the banner. Opposite it, a stylised A appeared on his chest.

Finally, a golden band traced the collar and cuffs—something none of the other houses had.

At the staff table, McGonagall stood frozen, the scroll suspended in her hands.

Dumbledore had closed his eyes, as if everything unfolding simply confirmed what he had long suspected.

Harry walked calmly towards his table.

He sat down, alone, without a word. At last, the tension broke. Applause rang out—slow, but steady. Ronald had been the first to clap, from the Ravenclaw table.

Soon, Harry's friends followed suit, one after the other. Even those who hadn't yet been Sorted—like Blaise, Neville, and Theodore.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the betrayed look on Hermione Granger's face.

Why was she reacting like that, he wondered. Was it jealousy? Bruised pride?

He had a feeling she wouldn't leave him in peace—but no matter. If she needed correcting, he wouldn't hesitate to set her straight.

At last, the applause faded, and the Sorting resumed.

"Zabini, Blaise."

The Italian boy stepped forward with a feline grace. He liked to exaggerate his movements, just like his mother—but it was a trick, a diversion.

Blaise Zabini concealed his cunning and cleverness behind grand gestures, like a Muggle magician using sleight of hand. He was still Harry's friend, but Harry knew better than to let his guard down. Blaise had his eye on the Potter and Black fortunes, and Harry was his winning ticket.

But he would have to get past Fleur first, find a way to void the contract—and likely face other challengers too.

Harry wouldn't interfere. Despite his fondness for Fleur, he had no particular interest in marriage. It was secondary—his pursuit of knowledge was far more important.

"SLYTHERIN."

The boy shot the Sorting Hat a withering glare before heading towards his house's table.

He had clearly aimed for another house… Mine, thought Harry.

"Nott, Theodore."

The boy approached slowly, moving with quiet fluidity.

Theodore was one of the quietest among them—but by no means the least clever. He observed more than he spoke, and judged even more than he spoke.

Harry had an idea of which house he would join, though others disagreed. They saw him as a Slytherin—but they were wrong.

The hat was placed on his head. A few seconds passed before the seam that formed the hat's mouth opened:
"RAVENCLAW."

A small wave ran through the hall, followed by a few protests from the Slytherin table. Draco grumbled and passed a small leather pouch to Milicent. They had made a bet—and he had lost.

Theodore stepped down without a word, his gaze calm, and made his way to the blue-and-bronze table.

He spotted Ronald already seated and sat down not far from him. Ron gave him a small nod, which Theodore returned with almost imperceptible discretion.

At least Ron wouldn't be alone—Percy didn't count, being a prefect in another year.

"Longbottom, Neville."

Harry turned all his attention to his brother-in-heart.

This was the only Sorting that truly mattered to him.

He had to admit, his bond with Neville was special.

Not in its foundations—loyalty, affection, trust. No. It was special in its closeness, a kind of intimacy rarely found. They shared everything—there were no secrets between them.

Neville was, in fact, the only one who knew everything about what had happened at Ollivander's—even what Harry had hidden from Arcturus.

Harry liked to think that, had Neville not been betrothed to Fleur, he might have considered a marriage contract with him.

In truth, there was a tiny possibility. Their contract punished infidelity, but said nothing about… sharing a partner.

Still, this wasn't the time for such thoughts. They were young, and Harry didn't know whether he'd feel the same way after puberty. Best to wait.

Neville walked calmly to the stool. He didn't tremble. His face was composed—almost gentle.

He met Harry's gaze briefly, and a faint smile lit up his face.

He sat down, and McGonagall lowered the Sorting Hat.

Silence stretched on for several seconds. A full minute passed.

The fabric remained motionless.

But those watching closely saw a faint glow begin to spread across Neville's robes.

Harry recognised the Hogwarts enchantment—the decision had been made.

And then, the hat opened once more.

"Apprentice."

Gasps filled the hall—students and teachers alike stunned.

There hadn't been an apprentice in centuries, and now two had appeared at once.

Those who knew Neville were less surprised—they knew he'd do anything to be where Harry was.

Neville's robes shifted too, changing to match Harry's.

The dragon on the banner above stirred, opening one eye.

Neville stepped down from the stool and walked directly towards the fifth table.

Harry watched him approach. He hadn't moved. He didn't smile.

But something in his gaze had changed—full, as though he'd stopped holding something back without even realising.

Neville sat across from him.

They didn't speak.

But in the silence, it was perfectly clear:

He wasn't alone—and never would be.

Harry turned his attention back to the front, noting that Neville had been the last to be Sorted.

The Sorting Hat was removed, and McGonagall slowly rolled up her scroll.

"This concludes the Sorting."

A ripple of excitement passed through the four traditional house tables.

They all knew what came next—
The feast.

All eyes turned to the dais, where the Headmaster had risen.

Albus Dumbledore wore deep blue velvet robes adorned with a pattern of stars. His long beard glinted silver in the candlelight. His eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles…

But Harry could see the sharpness behind the sparkle.

Dumbledore raised his arms—

And the feast appeared.

Dishes piled high with a variety of golden, steaming foods appeared on the tables with a soft, enchanted rustle. Plates filled themselves, jugs of pumpkin juice began to float gently through the air. Laughter rose, conversations sparked.

Even at the Apprentices' table, a few dishes materialised before Harry and Neville—beautifully arranged, perfectly suited to their tastes.

As the plates emptied and the laughter began to fade, Dumbledore rose.

The hall fell silent at once.

He stood tall, hands resting on the table, his blue gaze sweeping over the pupils with a calm warmth.

"Before you head off to your dormitories—or your Apprentices' quarters—a few words."

His voice was clear, measured, with a touch of amusement.

"The Forbidden Forest is, as its name suggests, strictly forbidden to all students. Even those who think they know what they're doing."

A muffled ripple of murmurs ran through the hall.

"Mr Filch, our caretaker, has also asked me to remind you that the list of banned items now contains four hundred and thirty-two entries. It's pinned to his office door, for the curious."

At the Gryffindor table, a few faces quickly turned away, though Dumbledore made no comment.

"We also have a few changes in our teaching staff."

He turned slightly to the man on his right.

"Professor Quirrell will be leaving his post as Muggle Studies teacher this year to take up the role of Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor."

Quirrell stood briefly. His hair was neatly styled, his posture upright and relaxed, and a sharp gaze shone beneath well-defined eyebrows. He greeted the hall with a broad smile, looking genuinely enthusiastic.

Dumbledore continued:
"His former post will now be held by Professor Charity Burbage, whom some of you already know."

A woman with salt-and-pepper hair gave a small wave to the pupils. A few Ravenclaws clapped discreetly.

Then Dumbledore spoke again, this time with a distinct note of seriousness:

"Professor Quirrell will also serve as Head of Apprentices. He will oversee their progress and represent their status within the school."

All eyes turned to the fifth table, where Harry and Neville sat in quiet stillness.

Dumbledore allowed the silence to linger just long enough.

Then, as if shifting register entirely, he announced:

"And now… a few words to end the evening."

He took a deep breath, looked out across the four house tables… and said, with the smile of an old alchemist:

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Compartments!"

Some laughed.
Others weren't sure if they were meant to.

Harry, for his part, frowned slightly. He recognised that kind of language. It wasn't nonsense. It was coded—perfectly deliberate.

And he had to admit… the words matched the houses quite well, and their view of one another.

He'd remember it.

Dumbledore tapped his hands together once.

"Good night to you all—and may this year be… memorable."

---

N.B.: The word "Compartments", added to the final phrase of Dumbledore's speech, follows the implicit logic of the previous four. It reflects the way Apprentices view the division of the houses, and their desire to reintegrate magic into a more fluid, freer whole—without partitions.ithout partitions.

Chapter 7: A scholarship unlike any other!

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

 

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The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

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Faculty tower – Hogwarts
September 02nd 1991

Sensing a faint glimmer of light through his closed eyelids, Harry slowly opened his eyes. Above him, the crimson hangings of the four-poster bed caught the dawn's early light. Iridescent hues shifted through varying shades of red, lending the fabric a hypnotic quality.

Glancing around, he noticed that Neville was beginning to stir as well. His bed was positioned right next to the young prodigy's. Taking a deep breath, Harry sat up to get out of bed.

As he rose, he took a moment to properly take in the room. The exhaustion from the previous night's long journey had overcome him so completely that he hadn't had the chance to really study his surroundings.

He preferred to call it a room rather than a dormitory. After all, there were only the two of them.

Spacious and well laid-out, the room was divided into several distinct areas:

The sleeping quarters, with two large four-poster beds, flanked by bedside tables and placed against the rear wall. A few ordinary, non-magical paintings hung on the walls, alongside calendars that could be written on. A fireplace sat between the two beds, radiating a welcome warmth.

To the left, a wide wooden screen offered a degree of privacy thanks to its position. The door to the corridor lay just behind it, so anyone entering couldn't see straight into the room. In front of the screen stood Hedwig's perch, along with a table that held Trevor's terrarium.

Opposite the beds, two large, solid desks were separated by a handsome, empty bookcase, presumably meant for storing the apprentices' collection of books and tomes. The desks faced tall windows that looked out over Hogwarts' inner courtyard, with smaller windows giving a view of the Hufflepuff dormitory. Beyond that lay the lake, stretching out towards the rest of the Hogwarts Valley. If you squinted, you could even make out the village of Campolard-en-Bas, and in the distance, the County of Aran.

To the right, a door stood between two large wardrobes holding their clothes, each flanked by its own dressing table. The door led to the bathroom Harry had discovered the night before: spacious and tiled, it contained two separate showers, two sinks, and two toilets.

Finally, the centre of the room was furnished with a settee and two armchairs arranged around a low table. A wizard's chess set rested on the tabletop, though it had yet to be used.

"Did you sleep well?"

Harry turned to Neville, who had just left his bed. His blue-and-white striped pyjamas were rumpled, clear evidence that he'd tossed and turned all night. He nodded.

"Perfectly. Judging by the state of your pyjamas, I'd guess you didn't?"

Neville bit his lip — a nervous habit Harry had noticed in his best friend.

"I just don't know what to expect from this house… I've never even heard of the apprentices. What about you?"

"I knew it was a possibility," Harry replied. "Godric Gryffindor's journal mentions this fifth potential sorting. Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin came up with the idea, wanting to avoid limiting gifted students. He didn't go into detail about it, but everything suggests we'll be somewhat set apart."

"Oh… Maybe Professor Quirrell will explain more?"

Harry didn't answer, simply shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't you think this is all a bit… much?" Neville went on. "My dad described his dormitory at Gryffindor, and it was nothing like this."

With a slight smile, Harry let his gaze drift towards the Hogwarts Valley as he stepped closer to the window. He could see the leaves swirling in the distance, dancing to a melody only they could hear.

"I suppose apprentices are treated differently from the outset. You'll notice that, grand and luxurious as our room may be, it's been designed primarily for study."

Neville took another look around, his eyes brightening with understanding.

"Everything's set up so we can study properly."

"Exactly. You know, apprentices are often described in old texts as budding scholars, researchers in search of recognition. Well… we'll soon find out, I suppose."

"You're right, we'll see. We should get ready, they'll be serving breakfast soon."

The two boys headed for the bathroom to take a shower.

A few minutes later, dressed in their uniforms, they left their room and nearly collided with Professor Flitwick.

"Oh!" squeaked the little professor in his high-pitched voice. "I'd quite forgotten the apprentices were lodging in our tower. I was just on my way to breakfast — let's walk together!"

Without waiting for a reply, he set off at a brisk pace. Harry smiled at the professor's cheerful mood, though he wasn't fooled. Behind his jolly demeanour, Filius Flitwick was a renowned duellist, a wizard capable of standing against the likes of Albus Dumbledore. Some tales even claimed he was one of the few who could face Voldemort on equal footing.

"So, how was your first night? Must be a change from waking up to Sirius's pranks!"

"I do like Sirius, but I have to admit, it's a relief not to wake up to a bucket of water or dancing toads…" Harry replied with a wry smile.

"…or exploding clothes," Neville added with a grimace.

The diminutive professor burst out laughing, drawing a few glances from passing students. They carried on chatting as they made their way to the Great Hall.

---

No sooner had they crossed the threshold than several heads turned in their direction. Whispers spread like wildfire — or rather, like enchanted powder set alight.

"It's him… It's Harry Potter."

"And the other one, Longbottom — do you think the rumours are true?"

Harry ignored them, as he always did. But Neville seemed uncomfortable under the weight of so much attention. Filius left them to join the staff table, not without casting a warning glance at the students, clearly telling them to keep quiet, while the two friends made their way to their own table.

Only the section closest to the staff table was laden with food. Given how few students there were, there was no point in covering the whole table for breakfast. They began to eat, under the gaze and whispers of the other pupils.

After a few moments, Ronald approached them.

"Mind if I sit with you? Must be a bit dull with just the two of you."

"With pleasure!" Neville beamed, and Harry gave an approving nod.

Ron didn't need telling twice — a plate appeared in front of him at once. Before long, they were joined by their other friends. Naturally, this only fuelled the gossip swirling around the hall.

To the more observant students, the group gathered at the apprentices' table represented the so-called Black Coalition of the Wizengamot. And at the centre, as ever, sat Harry Potter.

Several professors passed by, some amused, others curious. None of them intervened, which only deepened the students' fascination. A Ravenclaw student approached Flitwick, full of curiosity.

"Professor, are we actually allowed to sit at a different table?"

The young professor smiled, clearly delighted by the question.

"There's nothing to stop you sitting at another table. The requirement to sit with your house only applies at certain events, like the Welcoming Feast, the end-of-year ceremony with the House Cup, and a few special occasions. Outside of those, there's no such rule."

He had enchanted his voice so that it carried across the entire hall. The murmuring swelled to a lively hum. Very soon, students began to shift about, joining their friends at different tables, while the professors looked on in amusement.

Rather unexpectedly, Percy Weasley left the Ravenclaw table to join the Apprentices, closely followed by George and Fred from Gryffindor. Altogether, there were no fewer than fourteen students at the table now, including Zacharias Smith, who had decided to join them.

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow in Dumbledore's direction.

The headmaster merely responded with a small, amused nod, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

Fortunately for the growing group, more dishes appeared at their table. Conversation soon blossomed, and Harry and Neville found themselves bombarded with questions about their room. Neville took the time to answer, while Harry watched the gathering with a slightly detached air.

He couldn't understand their fascination with a mere bedroom. Shouldn't they be more interested in their lessons? Or perhaps ask about the advantages of their house? Instead, they wanted to know how big the room was, or whether the bathroom was shared…

"I'm not sure… It's just that our room is in the professors' tower," Neville explained.

Ron had asked whether he might visit, clearly tempted by the chess set. Unsurprisingly, this reply only provoked more questions. After all, the professors' tower was a restricted area within Hogwarts, normally accessible only to prefects.

"But if you invited us, they'd have to let us in, wouldn't they?" Blaise grinned.

Percy frowned. As a prefect, he knew the Hogwarts rulebook inside out.

"No, the tower is strictly off-limits to students — apprentices and prefects being the only exceptions."

"Oh, come on, Percy! They'll make an exception for the Boy Who Lived if he asks," Draco chimed in.

"Exactly, he's got a point…" began Fred.

"…dear brother," George continued, grinning.

"After all…" Fred went on with a wink.

"…no one says no to our Harry!" George finished with a flourish.

As they carried on debating the possibility of bending the rules and sneaking into the dormitory, Harry's right eye began to twitch.

Fred and George kept up their jokes, Draco joined in, Blaise egged them on… they were all laughing, smiling, gesticulating.

But Harry wasn't laughing.

His right eye twitched again, almost imperceptibly. He set his fork down, slowly, on the edge of his plate.

The hall did not fall silent, but something shifted around him.

Neville noticed first.

"Harry…? Are you all right?"

He nodded. Once. Very slowly.

Then he spoke. His voice was calm, measured — but razor-sharp.

"The rules are not there to be bent. They exist to structure and regulate interactions. They are the very foundation of how Hogwarts functions, and they are not to be sidestepped for the sake of curiosity."

Fred raised an eyebrow. George blinked.

"It was… just a joke, mate."

Draco tried to lighten the mood with a crooked smile.

"You're not seriously getting worked up over a bedroom…"

Harry turned his gaze towards him, slowly. There was no anger there. Just… a chilling clarity in his eyes. Draco instinctively recoiled, though the bench behind him kept him in place. Harry's gaze was… terrifying.

"The Apprentices' Chamber is not a place for entertainment. It is a sanctuary of study, dedicated to the advancement of magic by its occupants. It is not a simple bedroom, and it is certainly not a playground."

No one replied.

One beat. Then another.

And at that precise moment, the owls arrived, tearing through the enchanted ceiling like a storm of talons and feathers. The students let out a collective breath, as though they'd narrowly avoided a disaster. At the staff table, the exchange had been closely watched. Dumbledore, in particular, was observing Harry intently. The old man could sense it — something had changed.

The owls wheeled silently through the Great Hall, as quiet as the night itself. From great horned owls to barn owls, they all flew in a silent ballet, dropping off parcels and newspapers in front of their recipients. Some even took the opportunity to snatch a morsel of food — mostly bacon, sausages, and black pudding.

Hedwig deftly delivered a letter and a newspaper to her master, then turned to him.

"I think I deserve a reward, don't you?" she said, eyeing the bacon.

Harry smiled and handed her a piece. He had to admit, being able to speak with his familiar was rather enjoyable — she was full of wit and sharp sarcasm. A proper diva.

"Mmm… Bacon is life!" she declared, gulping down the greasy morsels.

"She'll end up too fat to fly at this rate. She's already quite plump…" Draco remarked, shaking his head.

Harry just about managed to hold Hedwig back.

"You bleached albino! Did you just call me fat? Have you even looked in a mirror lately?"

Harry struggled to suppress a laugh. Draco, meanwhile, simply raised an eyebrow at the white owl. After all, to him, they were nothing but angry bird squawks.

"You ought to apologise, Draco."

The blond boy glanced at Harry.

"Why should I? It's true, she is fat. It's a miracle she can fly at all…"

"You little brat! I'll peck your eyes out and shit in your bed! And every time you leave this hall, my pigeon friends will bombard you like it's the bloody apocalypse! Harry, let me at him!"

Still holding her back with some effort, Harry shot Draco a colder look.

"Your apology. Now," he said, his voice icy. "Or I'll let Hedwig show you exactly what she thinks of your comments."

Draco frowned and looked at the owl, who was squirming furiously in Harry's hands. He swallowed hard at the sight of her menacing glare.

"Erm… I… I didn't mean it. She's not fat at all, really. Must've mistaken her for… another pigeon."

"He called me a pigeon?! I'll—!"

Harry sighed at his friend's foolishness. He let go of Hedwig, leaving her to exact her own revenge.

She needed no further invitation.

With an angry flap of her wings, she launched herself at Draco, aimed perfectly… and dug her talons into his blonde hair.

"Ow! WHAT—?!"

She began to beat her wings furiously, while Draco shrieked and clung to the bench to avoid being carried off. The students burst into laughter, while the professors looked on in a mixture of shock and disbelief. After a few seconds, a handful of blond hair was ripped from Draco's head, eliciting a fresh scream of pain.

Hedwig fluttered back to Harry, a spark of triumph in her eyes.

"That's for the pigeon comment, you brainless blonde! And your torment has only just begun…"

Draco stared at Hedwig, wide-eyed.

"She… she… she pulled out my—"

"I did warn you. If I were you, I'd watch out for other birds. Particularly the pigeons…" Harry remarked, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

Ignoring Draco's protests, Harry calmly picked up his copy of the Daily Prophet. Neville, who had been shaking his head at the blond's antics, pointed to the headline and exhaled:

"Rita Skeeter's at it again. She must absolutely adore you."

They shared a knowing smile. Of course, they both knew it to be true. The bold headline gleamed in the morning light, the letters slightly enchanted with a golden shimmer:

"Harry Potter, First Apprentice of the Century: The Return of a Lost Tradition"

Neville's eyes widened as he skimmed the article.

"She really doesn't do things by halves," he muttered.

Harry smirked slightly, his gaze still fixed on the paper.

"That's why I rather like her."

"You might be the only one," Ronald added, glancing at his own copy. "Last time, she called Professor Dumbledore a doddering old man in a sequined robe."

"That's rather different. Dumbledore claims he enjoys Rita Skeeter's barbs — he says her acid-tipped quill adds a bit of spice to his day," Harry replied, casting a glance at the headmaster.

Dumbledore was levitating his newspaper while munching on a phoenix-shaped piece of toast. Around his cup, two teaspoons were engaged in a fierce duel for the honour of sweetening his tea.

Harry shook his head with a faint smile. It wasn't the first time Dumbledore let his cutlery settle their diplomatic disputes unaided.

Suddenly, the hall fell silent. Curious, Harry looked around to see what had caused the hush. The students were all staring in his direction — or rather, just above him. He tilted his gaze upwards and his eyes widened slightly.

The owls had formed a coordinated aerial display right over his head. Even Hedwig had joined in, her plumage standing out among the rest. Then, a sound filled the air.

It wasn't a cry or a hoot. No, it was a melody.

At first, it came as scattered notes, tentative, as though the birds were unsure of their own voices. Then, slowly, the sounds wove together, creating a strange, mesmerising harmony. Different tones answered one another in perfect synchrony, as though they had rehearsed this celestial choreography for centuries.

Harry felt, though he couldn't explain how or why, an irresistible urge to rise. He set down his paper and stood, quietly making his way towards the golden lectern. He knew, somehow, that he was meant to go there…

Immediately, the owls' movements shifted.

They stopped circling high above and descended in a graceful spiral, drawing closer to him, their dance tighter, more intimate.

Their song, once airy and diffuse, deepened into something richer, pulsing with a resonance that seemed to echo in his chest. For a fleeting moment, he thought the melody was aligning with the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

Golden filaments drifted around him, casting a soft, otherworldly light upon his features. Hedwig led the dance with almost insolent majesty, her iridescent white feathers gleaming against the others.

With his hands raised, illusions of birds appeared at his command. Emerald hummingbirds, white swallows, golden swans and gilded nightingales soared into the bewitching dance, their crystalline songs blending with the deeper melody of the owls, while beneath their wings, an ethereal image began to take shape: a majestic tree, its branches made of light, blossomed endlessly, stretching towards the enchanted ceiling as if to touch the heavens themselves.

At its centre, Harry stood, an imaginary breeze tousling his hair as he closed his eyes in contentment. His head swayed gently from side to side, the music drawing him into a trance of pure bliss.

The students held their breath.

Even the professors, usually so composed, seemed spellbound. McGonagall whispered something inaudible to Dumbledore, who replied with a faint smile, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the owls' song reached its final note — pure, long, suspended in time. Everything seemed to freeze, and Harry opened his eyes once more. They shone with a vivid light, so bright that several students turned away, while others gazed at him, utterly mesmerised.

The birds scattered, and the illusions faded. Only the image of the tree remained, with Harry motionless at its centre, bathed in a soft, dawn-like glow.

Then, in a ripple of astonishment, tentative applause began to rise… swelling into a thunderous ovation that filled the entire hall. Even the ghosts, drifting along the walls, clapped their transparent hands with spectral solemnity.

The professors themselves joined in, some with restraint, others with genuine admiration. Flitwick clapped enthusiastically, McGonagall maintained her usual stern composure but there was a quiet sparkle in her eyes, and Quirrell watched Harry with a broad smile. Even Slughorn was beaming, a tear glistening in the corner of his eye.

As for Dumbledore, he slowly set down his phoenix-shaped piece of toast, laced his fingers beneath his chin, and regarded Harry with a look of profound satisfaction.

"Fascinating," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "I have always said that Music is one of the most beautiful forms of magic."

Little by little, silence settled once again, like the mist descending after fireworks. The illusion of the tree slowly dissolved, its branches of light fading into the air with the grace of a departing dawn.

With measured steps, McGonagall advanced, her upright, strict silhouette restoring order to the Great Hall. She cast her gaze over the assembled students, then addressed them in a clear voice, amplified by a subtle Sonorus charm.

"Well, now that… this unexpected display has come to an end, I invite you to return to your seats. The distribution of timetables will begin shortly."

A murmur rippled through the students. Some returned to their places reluctantly, casting lingering, fascinated glances at Harry, while others whispered amongst themselves, trying to make sense of what they had just witnessed.

Harry, for his part, quietly resumed his seat at the Apprentices' table, still under the burning curiosity of many gazes.

Neville leaned towards him.

"Do you think that was supposed to happen?"

Harry replied with an enigmatic smile.

"I think it just… felt natural."

His best friend nodded, sensing that it was likely tied to what they called the day.

McGonagall, satisfied to see order restored, signalled to the Deputy-Heads of House to begin distributing the timetables.

Following the reforms of the Wizengamot — and Sirius's strengthened position on the school's Board of Governors, his seat as Gryffindor heir giving him complete control in the absence of other claimants — many things had changed at Hogwarts. The school's funds had increased substantially, though it had never truly lacked for money, and the traditionalists who had previously scrapped certain lessons had been… replaced.

Quirinus Quirrell approached the Apprentices' table.

"Mr Potter, Mr Longbottom, have you finished your breakfast?" he asked.

Both boys nodded.

"In that case, follow me to my office. I'll explain in more detail how your studies will be arranged," he said, gesturing for them to come along.

Harry rose, slipping the unopened letter into his pocket. He followed close behind his Head of House, with Neville at his side. They did not head towards the Astronomy Wing, where Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons were usually held. Instead, the professor led them back towards the professors' tower.

---

Professor Quirrell's office was situated directly opposite their room, which made perfect sense given his new role. They stepped into the relatively tidy office, lined with numerous bookshelves.

"I must admit, my appointment rather took me by surprise," he began, settling himself behind the desk.

With a wave of his hand, he invited them to sit down across from him.

"Professor Dumbledore gave me a copy of the Apprentice's Guide, teacher's edition, by Rowena Ravenclaw. Your role is quite fascinating, and we held an extraordinary meeting last night to discuss how best to manage your studies."

He pulled two books from his drawer and handed them over. They were identical, both student editions. Harry examined the book with interest, aware of the precious knowledge it contained. After all, it wasn't every day one held a work written by Rowena Ravenclaw herself.

"First of all," Professor Quirrell continued, "before we go over the contents and your timetables, I want you to know that I am always at your disposal. Even though I will be teaching, I remain available."

He gestured around the room.

"This office is connected to me by a presence alert charm. The moment you step inside, I am immediately notified and will make sure to join you," he explained, raising a finger. "However, you should know that apart from you two, the Headmaster and the Deputy Headmistress, no one else is permitted to enter. It is one of the privileges of being an apprentice."

Harry glanced at Neville, who gave a nod. They understood that they wouldn't be able to invite anyone else in, but that didn't bother them.

"The books here are freely accessible to you. To avoid summoning me unnecessarily, there is a bell you can use. This will let me know you wish to see me," Quirrell added, indicating a golden bell on the desk.

Harry studied the object with interest. The bell was clearly old, its gold dulled with age. Inscribed in Latin were the words Scientia non habet terminum — Knowledge knows no bounds.

A faint smile touched Harry's lips as he read the inscription. The maxim resonated strangely with the path that seemed to be opening before him.

"I would advise you not to overuse the bell, unless it's an emergency," Quirrell added, with a hint of humour in his tone, as if already anticipating a few sleepless nights.

"Only if it's important, Professor. We know how to behave," Neville replied with a grin.

"Very good. You can also find me, if you prefer, in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. My departmental office is there, along with Professors Rowle and Blackthorn."

"You're head of the Defence Against the Dark Arts department?" Harry asked, sounding mildly surprised.

He hadn't heard this from Sirius — likely a recent appointment. Quirrell gave a small nod, puffing his chest slightly with pride.

"I was indeed awarded the post, thanks to my discovery of the origin of the curse that plagued the professors of this subject. A plaque in the Trophy Room had been cursed. I'd encountered a similar enchantment during my travels in Guatemala."

Harry frowned at the revelation.

"Whose plaque was it?" he asked.

The professor's expression grew more serious.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

The young wizard nodded slowly, understanding the significance. Judging by the professor's tone, he had recognised the true name of Voldemort. A few years earlier, Rita Skeeter had published the story of Voldemort, exposing his false claim to be Slytherin's heir, as he had been disinherited — a fact provided by Arcturus. It was now common knowledge that he was in fact a half-blood from a murderous lineage, a patricide himself.

Indeed, that very revelation, supported by Dumbledore, had helped to revise Hagrid's status and allowed him to complete his education. He had since become a professor in the Care of Magical Creatures department, under the guidance of Silvanus Kettleburn.

"It is time to discuss your rights and privileges as apprentices," Quirrell continued, opening his book.

Neville and Harry opened their copies to the same page.

"First and foremost, apprentices are not subject to the points system. Should you breach the rules, your punishment will be determined by your supervising professor."

"Makes sense," Harry said, as Neville nodded in agreement.

"Indeed," Quirrell smiled, before going on. "Apprentices are granted access to the restricted sections of the libraries, including the professors' library. Therefore, you are permitted to enter the staff room. If you do, please try not to disturb the professors — it is, after all, our haven."

Neville raised an eyebrow.

"When you say access to the sections, do you mean all sections?"

"Indeed. This includes unpublished works and manuscripts, ongoing research, and the archives, in addition to the Restricted Section of the main library," Quirrell confirmed.

He continued to read from the book.

"Apprentices are not subject to rules established after the publication of this code. This code can only be updated by a majority consensus of the Founders."

"A majority consensus? That would require three heirs…" Harry remarked.

Quirrell nodded.

"And that hasn't happened in over eight hundred years. However, the rules have changed very little, so I will explain which ones no longer apply to you."

He retrieved a scroll from a drawer and carefully unrolled it.

"You are not bound by the restrictions on magic outside of lessons. The decree of 1972, which limited all excursions beyond the castle grounds to Hogsmeade, does not concern you, nor does the 1973 decree forbidding first- and second-year students from leaving the grounds."

Neville's eyes widened slightly.

"Before 1973, all students could go to Hogsmeade? No one ever told me that."

Quirrell allowed himself a small smile.

"Indeed. I finished my schooling in 1970, and I can assure you, there were no age or location restrictions at the time. However, leaving the grounds during the week was prohibited — we were only allowed out at weekends. It meant we could explore the Hogwarts Valley — I used to visit my parents at weekends in the village of Feldcroft."

He paused for a moment, his smile turning a touch more mischievous.

"The valley is full of paths even Filch has never mapped," he added with a hint of playfulness.

Neville chuckled softly, and even Harry allowed himself a subtle smile.

Quirrell then set the scroll aside and resumed reading from the book.

"As apprentices, you are granted full access to the entire establishment. Consequently, you are not subject to curfew. You are effectively considered special prefects."

Both Neville and Harry sat up straighter at this. Noticing their interest, Quirrell produced two badges from his pocket and slid them across the desk. The metal badges bore a stylised A entwined with a deep crimson S.

"These badges officially confirm your status," he explained. "They grant you the same authority as house prefects, with a few distinctions."

He turned his own badge between his fingers, looking thoughtful.

"You hold authority over other students in matters of daily discipline. You may, for example, reprimand a student breaking the rules, deduct house points if necessary, award points when deserved, and assign detentions. All such actions are recorded in a ledger kept by the Deputy Headmistress."

A faint smile played on his lips.

"But more importantly, this badge is also a key. It opens certain rooms reserved for prefects, such as meeting chambers, but it also grants you access to areas strictly forbidden to students and prefects alike, including the staff room."

Harry turned his badge over in his hand, studying the surface of the metal, where the A and S pulsed gently, as though lit from within by some quiet magic.

"Is it… enchanted?" he asked.

"Excellent question," Quirrell replied, clearly pleased. "Yes, each of these badges is magically bound to its bearer. It serves as identification for restricted access, and it can even activate certain protective measures within the castle if you find yourselves in danger."

Neville raised his eyebrows.

"Like an emergency signal?"

"Precisely. In the event of a serious problem, you need only press the badge firmly and speak your call for help. The badge will relay an alert to all professors and prefects within the castle."

He paused, his tone turning more serious.

"Do not abuse this privilege. The alarm is designed for situations of utmost urgency. But it is essential that you know this option exists."

Harry gave a slow nod, appreciating the precaution.

"Understood, Professor."

Quirrell continued:

"In addition, you will be invited to attend prefects' meetings if required, though your role extends beyond that of an ordinary prefect. Let's say you are privileged observers of the school's inner workings."

He gestured to the book still open before them.

"Rowena Ravenclaw believed that the Apprentice should not only learn magic, but also understand the mechanisms of wizarding society. And Hogwarts provides an excellent training ground."

Neville exchanged a glance with Harry, a spark of understanding in his eyes.

"So… we're not just here to learn spells," Neville murmured.

Quirrell gave a faint, almost enigmatic smile.

"No, Mr Longbottom. You are here to learn how to build the future of our world."

He paused for a brief moment, before continuing, his tone deepening, becoming more formal:

"Understand this: your status places you much closer to the professors than to the other students. In the eyes of the Schoolboard, you are considered apprentice-teachers, practitioners in training. As such, the professors are your mentors, and you are their apprentices… but also their potential future colleagues."

His gaze settled on them with intensity.

"This means you will be bound by duties of confidentiality regarding what you learn in internal meetings, and you will be expected to uphold exemplary conduct — conduct befitting those who may one day sit amongst the Hogwarts faculty. Naturally, you are under no obligation to become teachers, but know that it is an excellent springboard for your career, adding great distinction to your path."

Harry nodded, recognising the weight of their status. A wave of satisfaction rose within him, appreciating how well everything was structured, how ordered it all felt. Yes, this was as it should be.

Neville, too, seemed to fully grasp the significance of the revelation.

"We will honour this status, Professor," he answered gravely.

Quirrell inclined his head slowly, as if sealing a silent pact between them.

"You should also know that, as apprentices — and if you are willing and able — the professors may call upon you to assist as substitute teachers or classroom aides."

The two boys accepted this information, understanding that they might indeed be called upon to teach. Harry felt a flicker of excitement at the prospect. Passing on knowledge, becoming part of the great chain of learning… it felt right.

"But before anything else, we must assess your current level of knowledge. To ensure you attend the classes best suited to you, you will be evaluated over the course of this week in every subject taught at Hogwarts."

Harry's eyes brightened at the news.

"When you say every subject, does that include electives and clubs as well?"

Neville swallowed hard as he realised the implication.

"Indeed. However, once the assessments are complete, you will be free to choose whether or not to pursue optional subjects. No one will force you to take Magical Arts or Enchanted Music, for instance."

Neville's shoulders relaxed at this, reassured that he wouldn't be buried under a mountain of lessons. Harry gave him a quick wink, which made the young man blush. He knew Neville, though diligent, had little interest in the arts, preferring his beloved plants.

"Should you happen to excel across all fields," Quirrell added, casting a look at Harry, "the professors will tailor your curriculum to your strengths. After all, we each hold the equivalent of Muggle doctorates in our disciplines. Professor Flitwick is a perfect example — an international duelling champion, with doctorates in charms, advanced combat, duelling, and applied magical research."

"I wonder which professor has the most doctorates," Neville mused aloud.

"Professor Flitwick, followed by Professors McGonagall and Thakkar," Quirrell replied.

"And Professor Dumbledore is in a league of his own," he added with a small smile. "His doctorates are so numerous that even the magical registries struggle to keep track."

Quirrell closed the book carefully, then raised his eyes to meet theirs.

"This week will be intense — I'd rather you knew that in advance. But it will also be decisive. It is not only about assessing your abilities… but about helping you to shape what you wish to become."

Harry nodded, his resolve hardening. Yes, he could feel it: this week would be foundational.

Beside him, Neville clenched his fists on his knees. He too was determined to do honour to the title of Apprentice, no matter what it might cost him.

Chapter 8: Flamel – or How to Ruin a Proper English Supper!

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

Staff Room – Hogwarts
September 10th, 1991

It was a rather crowded evening in the staff room, summoned for an extraordinary meeting. The long walnut table stretched nearly the full length of the chamber, and the bulk of the teaching staff were present. Only the deputy Heads of House were missing, duty-bound to remain near the dormitories in case any pupils needed them.

"Thank you all for coming," said Dumbledore calmly, settling himself at the head of the table. "We have much to discuss."

Chairs scraped and shuffled around the heavy table as everyone took their seats. Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Slughorn, Sprout, Quirrell, Vector, Trelawney, Sinistra, Thakkar, Burnroot, Babbling, Franklin, Hooch — even Madam Pince had abandoned her beloved library for the occasion. A parchment was passed round the table, still warm from the quill of Griselda Marchbanks.

"I suggest we begin with the assessment results," Minerva McGonagall resumed, casting a quick glance at Dumbledore, who nodded.

She unrolled a scroll sealed with the golden mark of the Magical Examiners' Guild.

"Harry Potter," she began, "achieved full marks in every single subject. Not a single exception. Theory, practicals, oral presentations, Mastery modules, tests of focus, channelling, duelling, magical reading, rune composition... He even exceeded standard thresholds in several disciplines."

She looked up at the assembled staff.

"Charms, Transfiguration, Ritual Magic, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, non-verbal spellwork, Arithmancy, Astronomy, Advanced Divination, Elemental Alchemy, transmutation of living matter, artefact analysis, magical cryptography, acoustic sorcery, enchanted painting, comparative magical traditions, magical history... And that's not even counting the optional subjects: study of ghouls, vampires, wandering spirits, living runes, constellation magic, enchanted music, ritual pottery, and rare herbology."

The silence in the room was almost eerie.

"He improvised a chromatic modulation charm on a harpsichord," McGonagall continued. "Sang in ancient runic to reawaken a dormant symbol. He even corrected a flaw in the official definition of Tilwin's Astroglyph. And I haven't even mentioned his portable enchantments — he animated his own parchment to respond to the examiners."

"He's only eleven?" breathed Bathsheda Babbling, gobsmacked.

"He's a bleedin' child!" croaked Silvanus Burnroot. "What on earth are we supposed to teach the lad?"

"Perhaps it's more a matter of what he might teach us," murmured Quirrell, still staring at his notes.

McGonagall nodded, then raised her voice slightly:

"I should add — that wasn't the end of it. Due to Hogwarts' contract with the Ministry of Magic, the examiners were obliged to test our two apprentices in every domain for which qualified experts or rating grids exist."

Several professors exchanged surprised looks.

"The Magical Examiners' Guild mobilised their entire faculty. And when I say entire... I mean everything — classical, advanced, obscure, esoteric, even... restricted."

"What do you mean by 'restricted'?" Dumbledore asked softly, though the amused twinkle in his eye suggested he already knew the answer.

"Necromancy, Dark Magic, mindwork, shamanic rites, druidic practices, ancient rituals, entity summoning, astral alignment magic, bloodcraft, living symbology, cartomancy... the list goes on. He was tested in it all. Even hybrid wild magics once used by Highland clans. Marchbanks told me she had to dig up rating charts that hadn't seen daylight in two hundred years."

A stunned silence — broken only by a muttered "bloody hell" from Burnroot.

"And the most astonishing part," McGonagall went on, pointing to a line in the file, "is that he didn't just pass. He corrected the examiners at times. Redefined some spell structures as though they were outdated. In ritual cryptomancy, he devised a runic encoding model never seen before. In shamanism, he summoned a fifth-tier ancestral spirit — with no protective circle."

"He... he did that? At eleven?" whispered Sinistra.

"He bypassed the mental wards of a trained Legilimens," added Quirrell. "And apologised afterwards."

"He modified a carnivorous plant to grow edible berries," said Pomona, still wide-eyed. "And it thanked me."

Slughorn folded his arms.

"He brewed a Master-level temporal stabilisation draught... without a recipe."

"He improvised a polyphonic choir using four crystal resonators," added Babbling. "Then tuned them to the ambient magic. Just for fun."

McGonagall was still poring over the report, rereading the final note from the Director of the Magical Examiners' Guild.

"Griselda Marchbanks called his file 'unclassifiable', and Tofty wanted to offer him an honorary chair at the Guild. He declined."

Dumbledore smiled gently, his hands folded before him.
"I daresay many of us will find his education something of a challenge. As you've all gathered, Harry is no ordinary student — not even an ordinary apprentice."

"But what can we possibly teach him?" asked Septima Vector, her tone a mixture of resignation and disbelief. "He knows as much as we do — more, in some cases."

Dumbledore's smile widened, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
"Then we must step off the beaten path. Teach him what we know, not merely what's on the syllabus. Each of us has knowledge, rare talents, degrees in obscure fields, spells and theorems of our own devising, often kept to ourselves."

He noticed the sudden spark of interest around the table.

"More than that, this is an opportunity for dialogue — for true academic exchange. This apprentice is extraordinary. He performs magic seen only in legend and old tales. For us, this is a chance to learn, to grow. Do not forget — apprentices are considered part of the teaching faculty, not pupils."

The professors — and other staff present — could hardly contain their anticipation. Harry was already known to have invented spells, including the famed Portal. Dumbledore was right. This was a rare opportunity to encounter a different kind of magic — and to broaden their own horizons.

McGonagall gently closed the hefty file on Harry. A hush fell over the room, charged with awe. Then, taking up a second scroll — thinner this time — she continued.

"Let us move on to Neville Longbottom."

She paused briefly.

"He is not cut from the same cloth as Harry — and that's no criticism. He is neither a catalyst nor a startling prodigy. But he is a diligent young wizard, with strong magic, albeit more volatile. Nevertheless… his record is most impressive, and the Examining Board acknowledged as much."

She unrolled the parchment and went on:

"Outstanding marks in Herbology. It's clearly his natural affinity — he works with soil, seeds, roots, with an ease that demands respect. Pomona?"

Pomona Sprout nodded enthusiastically.

"He grew a patch of monkshood right there in the exam chamber. In five minutes flat. Channelled the magic through the floor — no wand. I've only seen that done twice in my life. And the first time… it was me."

A few smiles were exchanged across the table.

"He also scored highly in Potions," McGonagall continued, "particularly in healing brews, stabilisation draughts, and emotional grounding infusions. Strong results in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms as well, though he tends to hesitate a bit at first."

Horace Slughorn gave a curt nod.

"Lacks confidence, yes, but he's precise. Careful. I'd take him over half my third-years any day."

"He has a slow-burning magic," added Quirrell. "Not flashy. But steady. Anchored. Rare."

"In Divination, however…" McGonagall raised an eyebrow in Trelawney's direction.

The Divination professor, swathed in her usual assortment of shawls, nodded solemnly.

"He's as blind as my cat — but at least he doesn't fabricate nonsense. That, in itself, is commendable."

A few muffled chuckles rippled through the room.

"He performed less well in History, Arithmancy, and Astronomy," McGonagall went on. "And he chose not to pursue esoteric studies. He approached them respectfully, but didn't engage. They're simply not his path."

Sophronia Franklin, the elderly professor of Ancient Studies, spoke up in her calm, deliberate voice.

"And rightly so. Some disciplines do not tolerate dabbling. But he asked good questions. Intelligent. Cautious. He reminded me of the old northern druids — those who preferred to know the ground beneath their feet before lifting their eyes to the stars."

"A grounded soul," Dumbledore mused aloud.

Amit Thakkar, who had remained quiet until now, slowly looked up from his notes.

"You know… Harry reminds me of an old friend I met in fifth year."

All eyes turned to him.

"I can't quite remember his name, oddly enough," he said, brow furrowed. "But he was a prodigy. Encouraged my thirst for knowledge — even helped me sneak out to stargaze at ancient sites. Dangerous business back then, what with the Rannrok Rebellion and the poachers running about."

Several nodded, having heard tales of that troubled time.

"Anyway, this lad supposedly mastered some sort of ancient magic. I didn't believe it at first — until the day he turned a troll loose in Hogsmeade into a cockroach… and squashed it under his boot. Hard to remain a sceptic after that. And yet…" He trailed off, thoughtful. "I can't shake the feeling that if he ever duelled Harry, he'd lose — and badly."

"Who would lose, exactly?" asked Quirrell, his curiosity clearly piqued.

Thakkar gave him a slight smile.
"My friend, of course."

A weighted silence followed, each professor deep in their own thoughts.

"There is one thing, though," McGonagall murmured, folding her arms. "Something that keeps coming back to me — especially since the start of term."

Everyone turned to her once more.

"You all know I've kept a close eye on Harry for years, as have many of you. He was a curious boy — eager, sometimes too much so. Ambitious… but also dreamy, distracted — swept up by his own hunger for discovery."

She paused, her gaze thoughtful.

"That's no longer the case," McGonagall said quietly. "Since the start of term, he's… rigid. Impeccable. Every movement calculated, every word weighed. He leaves nothing to chance."

"He reminded me of Bartemius Crouch," she added in a murmur.

Several frowned at that.

"Same posture. Same tone. Same way of controlling every detail. And the same obsession with order and conformity."

"That sort of self-discipline at eleven… it's almost unsettling," commented Vector.

"And yet," Flitwick cut in, "he doesn't lose himself to it. Now and again, there's this sudden spark — a flicker of mischief, of sheer, dazzling magic. Almost… joyful."

"I saw his wand trace circles of fire in mid-air just to illustrate a rhetorical point," said Babbling. "Utterly gratuitous… and absolutely flawless."

"He gave an apple to a mountain troll," grunted Burnroot. "Troll sat down. Then asked for another."

"My cat follows him," said Madam Pince sharply. "Follows no one — not even me. Ignores everyone. But Harry? Greets him with a meow."

"Creatures feel it," whispered Sprout. "It's in his aura. No fear, no tension. Just… presence."

"He's more adult than the others," McGonagall said thoughtfully, "and more instinctive, too. One day he imposes a glacial sort of rigour… the next, he's reinventing a rhythmic chant to make crows dance in the courtyard."

"He's simply… confounding," admitted Quirrell. "And fascinating."

Dumbledore was quiet for a long moment before murmuring:

"We shall have to learn to follow his lead… even if we didn't mark the path ourselves."

A throat cleared in the corner of the room. Heads turned.

Argus Filch, who never attended staff meetings, was standing stiffly in the shadows, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

"Mrs Norris adores him," he said flatly.

The silence that followed was laced with surprise.

"She won't leave him when he's in the corridors. Sleeps on his things when she gets the chance. She even refused to bite a Hufflepuff who laughed at him. That's… not like her."

Several professors exchanged curious glances.

"And you, Argus?" Dumbledore asked with a small smile. "Do you like him?"

Filch hesitated, then shrugged.

"He respects me. Listens. Asked me once how I maintain the locking charms on the South Dungeon gates. Even helped me fix a cursed latch. Didn't mock me. That's worth more than all the House points in the world, far as I'm concerned."

He immediately looked uncomfortable, folding his arms more tightly.

Flitwick gave a light laugh.

"If he's won over Mrs Norris… I'd believe he could disarm a dragon with verse."

"There's something else," said Filch, more quietly this time.

He hesitated — then, unexpectedly, went on. His voice was lower, slower now, as though stepping over a line he'd drawn long ago.

"He… made me an offer."

The room fell utterly silent.

"A solution. A way, he said, to fix my condition."

McGonagall frowned.

"Your condition?"

Filch looked up, jaw clenched.

"You all know it. I'm a Squib."

The reaction was immediate.

"Impossible," gasped Slughorn. "There's no known procedure. No treatment. Not even Dark Magic has ever—"

"It wasn't a treatment," Filch interrupted, voice steady. "He didn't speak of a cure or a ritual. He said… he could restore the natural order. Said my condition wasn't real — that I am magical."

Flitwick leaned forward, small hands pressed to the table for balance.

"What did he mean by 'magical'?"

"He said I've got everything needed to be a wizard like anyone else. Stronger than most, even. Spoke of flows, nerves, knots — all tangled up. He told me the whole thing was a mess."

Filch looked around the room, meeting each stunned face. Dumbledore's expression had lost all trace of its earlier amusement — it was solemn now, thoughtful.

"Did he say where this came from?" the Headmaster asked quietly. "How he knows all this?"

"He just said: 'I see things as they should be.'"

A shiver rippled through the room. Even Trelawney had stopped fiddling with her bracelets.

Filch still stared at the table, visibly shaken. Then, as though pulled back to the memory, he continued — slower now, almost reverently.

"He looked me in the eye and said: 'Because the order of things can be restored.'"

The silence was absolute.

"And then he added… 'A balanced world shouldn't leave someone like you behind. It doesn't make sense.'"

Minerva narrowed her eyes.

"He actually said that?"

"Word for word," Filch confirmed. "No anger. No pity, either. Just… as though it were obvious."

Slughorn shifted back in his chair, brows furrowed.

"That's not the way a child thinks."

"That's not the way anyone thinks," murmured Vector.

Pomona Sprout shook her head slowly.

"It's not about being kind," she said. "He doesn't want to do good… he wants everything to make sense. As though it were a matter of logic — not feeling."

Flitwick spoke barely above a whisper.

"He's always been clever. But this… this is something else. That kind of thinking doesn't come from a child. Not even from most adults."

"He thinks in systems," said Quirrell. "Structures. Gears and workings. He doesn't try to understand feelings… he tries to fix what doesn't work."

McGonagall pressed her lips together, visibly shaken.
"And what if he starts deciding what does or doesn't work?"

Dumbledore said nothing. He gazed slowly around the room, taking in the troubled faces, then leaned back gently into his chair.

"Perhaps it's not our place to guide him as we would a student. Perhaps, this time… our role is to understand him."

"And how exactly is their apprenticeship meant to work?" asked Horace.

Quirinus drew out the thick, weathered handbook from under his robes.
"The guide is quite clear: Neville Longbottom will attend adapted classes in subjects where he still needs grounding, while undertaking specialised training with Professor Sprout — should she be willing."

"Absolutely!" declared Pomona, beaming, to a round of warm chuckles.

"Of course. Given his results in Charms, Defence, Potions and Herbology, he will also serve as an assistant instructor in those subjects."

"That won't go amiss in Potions," Horace added with a smirk. "First-years especially — all elbows and accidents. Two pairs of eyes are better than one."

Several heads nodded, but their attention was clearly straying — all eyes now watched for news of the other apprentice.

"For our second apprentice," Quirrell went on, consulting the page again, "things are rather more… unconventional."

Professors leaned forward; even Filch and Madam Pince took a step closer, curiosity clear on their faces.

"Given his mastery across all subjects, Harry will be treated as both trainee professor and assistant instructor in all classes. He has accepted to take part in the full range of subjects and activities offered at Hogwarts — though he is not bound by any attendance requirements. A fortunate provision… sparing us the use of a Time-Turner."

There was a brief, stunned pause before the smiles began to spread.

"Given his level," Quirrell continued, "I suggest he attend fifth and seventh-year classes — it would help pupils preparing for their OWLs and NEWTs."

McGonagall and Dumbledore nodded in quiet agreement. A sensible proposal.

"And how does one complete an apprenticeship at Hogwarts?" asked Bathsheda Babbling. "I imagine it's different from the usual seven-year track — they're not following the standard curriculum, after all."

Quirrell turned to her with a charming smile that made her blush despite herself.

"Indeed. Apprentices may request to sit their NEWTs at any time. They may even petition to appear before the Boards and Colleges of Peers to sit for Mastery. In essence, apprentices are the only students at Hogwarts without a set academic duration. Historically, one apprentice remained at Hogwarts for over thirty years before sitting his final examinations."

A hush settled over the room. No one had expected that. There was no upper limit to an apprenticeship — it could last three months… or three hundred years.

Dumbledore, for his part, simply smiled to himself. Something told him Harry would remain for quite some time — not to learn, necessarily, but to avoid politics as long as humanly possible. He loathed all that nonsense, and wasn't in any hurry to reach his seventeenth birthday.

He chuckled into his beard, helping himself to a lemon sherbet from a small tin he produced with a flick of his wand.

Minerva's expression soured the moment she spotted it.

She detested those sweets — something Dumbledore had never quite managed to understand.

To his mind, nothing beat the sharp sting of a good lemon sherbet.

---

Great Hall – Hogwarts
6th October 1991

The Great Hall was abuzz with its usual dinnertime clamour — the cheerful racket of clinking cutlery, laughter at the day's tales, and the warm, flickering glow of floating candles casting dancing shadows across tables piled high with food.

Harry, seated quietly opposite Neville at their usual spot, was deep in thought.

Following the assessments, he'd had a meeting with his Head of House, who informed him of his exceptional results and how his apprenticeship would unfold. It hadn't taken long for Harry to realise that — Herbology aside — he wouldn't be sharing any classes with his best friend.

The difference in level was simply too great. Still, he adapted quickly, and grew fond of this new way of learning — of honing his understanding and refining his magic. He soon discovered that each professor had truly earned their place at Hogwarts.

Filius Flitwick introduced him to duelling techniques that combined divination and speed — giving Harry the edge to anticipate his opponent's every move. His peculiar condition — that uncanny sense of the "order of things" — only deepened under Flitwick's guidance.

Minerva McGonagall, meanwhile, began passing down her knowledge of combat transfiguration, honed during her time with the Wand Brigade. She could be downright terrifying — turning shoes into ravenous badgers, robes into constrictor boas, and necklaces into strangling vines with the flick of a wand.

The other professors were no less fascinating, each revealing hidden depths.
Amit Thakkar, for instance, possessed a flair for Astromancy — a branch of magic that drew power from the constellations to bolster one's abilities.
Sophronia Franklin led Harry into a forgotten room within the castle — Herodiana's Hall — a secret chamber filled with puzzles that tested logic and spellwork through clever use of attraction and repulsion charms.

Calliope Thorne, head of the Department of Magical Arts, taught him painting techniques that could breathe life into portraits. And Selene Blackthorn, one of the Defence Against the Dark Arts professors, revealed herself to be a master strategist and a formidable chess player.

Each teacher had something to offer him — however small. And in return, Harry shared his own knowledge freely, delighted to teach adults who could better follow his line of thought.

Ignatius Warrington, professor of Magical History and Intercommunity Relations in Magical Law, showed particular enthusiasm for the Blink spell — a short-range teleportation charm that could leap through obstacles as long as the destination was in sight.

Isadora Crane, professor of Transfiguration, quickly picked up on his protective enchantments — some clearly inspired by the Muggle game Dungeons & Dragons.

In short, things were going remarkably well for Harry. He relished learning at their side.

Only one thing nagged at him: Argus Filch had yet to respond regarding… his condition. If things dragged on much longer, Harry would act without permission. After all, the order of things must—

Harry's train of thought was cut off abruptly.

---

With a metallic crash fit for a blacksmith's forge, the great oak doors burst open.

Silence fell, swift and complete, like a mass Stupefy had been cast over the room.

Framed in the doorway stood a man leaning on a cane every bit as eccentric as its owner. He wore a deep blue cloak embroidered with golden constellations—no doubt pilfered straight from the night sky itself. A smile hovered on his lips, somewhere between arrogance and amusement, and his eyes sparkled with a kind of energy that really had no business belonging to a man his age.

Nicolas Flamel had arrived. And judging by the way he looked, he fully intended to be noticed.

"Well then," he murmured, glancing up, "so many candles… and still so little light. Good to see British tradition hasn't moved on since the Dark Ages."

A pointed throat-clearing came from the staff table. Professor Minerva McGonagall, thoroughly immune to the old man's theatrics, raised a disapproving eyebrow.

"Nicolas," she said in her usual clipped tones, "we weren't expecting you."

Flamel studied her with a glint in his eye.
"Minerva, ever loyal to your tartan. Is that a tribute to my grandmother's drawing room, or simply your way of challenging taste itself?"

A few students stifled sniggers. Minerva's lips thinned, though a faint spark danced behind her steely gaze.

"Better a traditional tartan than a magician's cloak fit for a circus, Monsieur Flamel," she retorted, crisply.

The alchemist's smile widened, as though he'd been waiting years for that exact line. His cane struck the stone floor with a theatrical crack, the sound echoing through the Hall.

"Ah, that famous Scottish wit," he sighed. "Sturdy as your haggis—and just as difficult to swallow."

"The haggis is a national treasure!" piped up a blushing Gryffindor girl, outraged.

Flamel turned to her with mock tenderness, his head tilted just so, like a grown-up humouring a particularly earnest child.

"My dear, if your culinary identity hinges on stuffing sheep's stomachs, I'm starting to understand a good many of your country's foreign policy decisions."

Laughter erupted across the Hall, muffled behind sleeves and serviettes. The girl scowled, but her neighbour gave her a consoling pat on the arm.

At the staff table, Horace Slughorn straightened like a buoy squeezed too tightly.

"Nicolas, always one for insulting the local fare… Yet I've not heard much about your research lately. Unless claret and old tales now qualify as academic disciplines?"

Flamel's eyes lit up with mischief.

"Horace… if your progress matched your appetite, I could've stayed in my lab with a good book and a bottle of red. But alas. Here I am, wrestling puddings, half-baked sarcasm, and false modesty."

This time, even some of the professors chuckled. Dumbledore watched the whole exchange with quiet amusement, hands folded as if enjoying a play he'd seen a dozen times but still found delightful.

Flamel continued his stroll into the Hall, eyes roving, a sly grin playing about his lips.

"I was told Hogwarts was the pinnacle of British magical education. Thus far, I'm mostly impressed by your unwavering commitment to puddings."

A plucky Hufflepuff, beetroot red, half-stood.

"We're very proud of our culture and cuisine!"

Flamel gave him a gentle nod, mock-affectionate.

"How lovely. It always takes courage to defend the indefensible. Seems to be in your blood."

More chuckles rippled through the room, some stifled in sleeves, others not even trying. Fred Weasley leaned over to his twin.

"He's nicking our act," he whispered.

"Or giving us a masterclass in classy insults," George murmured back. "I'm taking notes."

Flamel tapped his cane once against the stone. The sound rang out like a bell—and silence followed, as crisp and effortless as a charm.

"I've come to see Harry Potter," he announced, voice clear and commanding. "It's been a long time since I encountered a mind that sharp… and frankly, I wasn't expecting to find one in England."

Gasps fluttered around the room. Even Slughorn looked affronted, as though Flamel had just insulted his beetroot jam.

Every eye turned to the Apprentices' table. Harry sat upright on the bench, his gaze locked on the alchemist. He didn't look shocked or annoyed—just… focused.

"And I'd very much like to speak with him," Flamel added. "Before he absorbs too many of your local habits."

At the staff table, Dumbledore laughed out loud for the first time that evening.

"Nicolas, you're a hurricane in a teacup. Should we fortify the castle walls, or will you be content with merely slapping our national pride?"

Flamel raised his cane as though toasting the universe.

"Come now, Albus… I'm French. If I can't bring a little taste and critique to this lukewarm jamboree, what's the point of living six centuries?"

The Great Hall erupted with laughter. Even McGonagall, arms crossed, couldn't stop a snort escaping her nose.

Flamel made his way to the Apprentices. When he reached Harry, he stopped dead, planted his cane with a soft clack, and spoke more quietly—but the gleam in his eyes never dimmed.

"There are questions I've had for two hundred years. And you're the first one I've wanted to hear from."

Harry didn't blink.

"Then ask them."

Flamel's smile turned wolfish.

"I see you've got some bite. I like that. We're going to get on famously."

But Harry wasn't smiling.

He could always sense the order of things—the threads, the rifts, the dissonance.

And standing before Nicolas Flamel, a man who was supposed to have sidestepped death itself…

Everything felt perfectly in order.

Too perfectly.

Chapter 9: From Cure-All to Cock-Up: How the Greatest Magical Breakthrough in History Was Sparked by Chronic Fatigue and a Wonky Circle!

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

Great Hall – Hogwarts
Octobre 06th, 1991

The meal had only just finished, and the last bursts of laughter still echoed between the stone walls of the Great Hall. As the students drifted off in small groups, a tight-knit cluster of professors had naturally gravitated towards Dumbledore, Harry in the centre.

Flamel was dabbing his lips with a linen napkin, wearing the expression of a man resigned to his fate.

"I should've listened to Perenelle," he muttered darkly. "She said, 'Eat beforehand – they'll serve you that stew again, the one that tastes like damp cellar wall.'"

He raised an eyebrow at Slughorn.

"And I didn't have the heart to tell her she was wrong. Strategic blunder, that."

Behind him, McGonagall sighed with a certain refined weariness.

"You did just polish off three glasses of wine and two full plates."

"Pure survival instinct, madam. One must drown the pain somehow."

Dumbledore smiled silently. He looked about to speak, then thought better of it, as though he already knew what was coming.

"Since you wish to speak with us," he said at last, "might I suggest we head up to my office?"

"Your office, yes," Flamel replied with a grimace, as though tasting a word far too sharp. "That hushed little room of yours, full of dodgy trinkets, creaky staircases and judgemental portraits? No thank you, Albus. Been there, suffered that."

With a flourish that bordered on theatrical, he turned smartly on his cane.

"I've got a far better idea. Come along."

A slight hesitation followed this declaration. Flamel gave them no time to object. He was already descending the steps of the Great Hall with the metronomic tap of his cane echoing in his wake.

Several professors rose in unison, surprised, intrigued, perhaps even flattered to be included.

But Flamel, already halfway to the doors, halted abruptly. He turned on the spot, eyes gleaming as he fixed the small crowd forming behind him.

"No. Just Harry, Albus, Minerva… and whoever's heading the Apprentices' House."

A stiff silence took hold.

Septima Vector cleared her throat delicately.

"Excuse me, but I do believe this matter may concerne—"

"No," Flamel cut in, not even glancing her way. "If it did, you'd have been invited. And fair warning: I may be old, but if anyone else tries to follow, I shan't hesitate to hand out a few well-earned clouts."

He slowly drew his wand – slender, pale, and clearly kept in immaculate condition.

"And my muscle memory is absolutely top-notch."

A shocked silence fell. Then, one by one, the professors quietly stepped back – some without a word, others coughing pointedly to save face.

"There we are," Flamel muttered as they scattered. "The English cowards in all their glory. Always up for a good debate—until a wand gets raised."

He glanced at Slughorn, who was attempting a dignified retreat, though his cloak had tangled with a chair leg.

"Horace, do me a favour. When you flee, at least do it in a straight line. Your girth turns a tactical withdrawal into a slapstick routine."

A student sneezed loudly to cover his laughter. Slughorn, crimson with embarrassment, vanished without another word.

McGonagall rolled her eyes skywards. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was smiling openly now, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

"You've not changed a bit," he murmured.

"Oh, I have," Flamel replied with a sideways grin. "I'm more patient these days. Haven't knocked anyone out in—what? At least a week."

He gave a small nod to Harry and to Professor Quirrell, then turned smartly down the corridor.

"Come on. Let's go somewhere that doesn't smell of parchment dust and overripe melon."

They walked through the Hogwarts corridors, Flamel's footsteps marked by the rhythmic tap-tap of his cane on the flagstones. They were heading for the seventh floor, with no explanation given. Dumbledore, for once, simply followed in silence. Even Harry—usually ahead of the curve—was now staring at Flamel's back with genuine curiosity.

"So, still living in Beaune?" asked Dumbledore, hands loosely clasped.

"Alas, yes. Neighbour's still there too. I keep lobbing boules into his vegetable patch. Still hasn't figured out where they're coming from. Called in an exorcist the day one of his gnomes started speaking with a Marseilles accent."

McGonagall raised a disapproving eyebrow. Quirrell stifled a laugh, and Harry looked torn between chuckling and taking notes.

"So your days are now spent terrorising the locals?"

"Oh, I do other things," Flamel replied breezily. "I run the local Alcoholics Anonymous group."

"Well, that's commendable," said Quirrell.

"I serve wine, of course."

McGonagall stopped dead.

"You… serve wine to—"

"Not just any wine! Clos des Philosophes, 1523 vintage. They come back every month. The stories have got much more interesting since."

"You are utterly impossible," Dumbledore muttered, eyes twinkling.

"I'm old, Albus. Sooner or later, you stop asking for permission and start embracing your legacy as a bloody nuisance."

He turned to Harry with a wink.

"Don't grow up too fast, lad. The world's dull enough as it is."

"And Perenelle?" Dumbledore asked, curious.

Flamel's face softened.

"Still as brilliant as ever. She's developed a new magical method for dating artefacts. Swears she's found a fragment of the Library of Alexandria in a ruined temple in Niger. Last time, she nearly woke an astral priest-spirit. But nothing a good broth and a sturdy wand couldn't sort out."

"She's a magical archaeologist?" asked Harry.

"Has been for a century or two, give or take. She claims ancient magical layers are more reliable than geology. And I've no reason to doubt her—she's always known where to dig… including in my contradictions."

They stopped at the corner leading to the seventh-floor corridor.

"You'll see," said Flamel, coming to a sudden halt. "This castle still holds secrets… even from its owners."

They climbed a few more steps, and Harry, without knowing why, began to slow his pace. Something here was… off.

The corridor looked ordinary enough, and yet—something didn't quite fit.

He stopped opposite a huge tapestry of trolls in tutus, apparently caught in a tragic ballet. But it wasn't the tapestry that held his gaze. It was the wall opposite. It seemed to vibrate—ever so slightly.

"There's something wrong here," he murmured.

Flamel, walking ahead, stopped at once and turned his head slowly, eyes twinkling.

"Ah."

He raised his cane and pointed it at the wall.

"That confirms what I've always thought about you, lad. You don't try to open doors. You notice when they haven't yet decided to exist."

He then turned to the wall, entirely at ease, and began pacing back and forth.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Honestly," he muttered, "some days I regret not asking the headmaster for a user manual."

And at the end of the third pass, an elegant door materialised in the wall, as though it had been waiting there all along.

"There we are," he announced, beaming. "Hogwarts isn't so much about passwords as it is about personality."

He opened the door and stepped aside with a mock-formal bow.

"After you, my dear sceptics."

They stepped inside.

Harry had expected an empty room, or a dusty space filled with old, useless furniture. He was not prepared.

The room was bathed in golden, mellow light, filtering through tall glass windows that looked out over a perfectly kept garden—roses, lavender, warm flagstones and fruit trees. A circle of deep leather armchairs surrounded a low table, upon which sat, with no trace of shame, a generous spread of hot and cold drinks, a dish of macarons, and a carafe of amber wine. The air smelled of fresh mint and fig tart.

An enchanted conservatory, styled like a Provençal summer parlour, suspended in serene stillness.

Flamel stepped forward as if returning to his own drawing room.

"The Room always delivers," he said, sinking into an armchair. "And tonight, I needed a little slice of Provence—no mosquitoes, no Ministry officials."

McGonagall stood stiffly, arms crossed.

"It's… charming."

"It's French," Flamel corrected. "Big difference."

Dumbledore chuckled quietly and settled into a finely carved wicker chair.

Harry wandered towards the window, entranced.

"Is the garden real?"

"As real as you need it to be," Flamel replied, hands resting atop his cane.
"But it's got taste, hasn't it? Perenelle designed it. And trust me, she left nothing to chance. Not even the shadows."

Quirrell, who had been lingering at the back, finally took a seat, wordless.

Flamel poured a glass of wine for Dumbledore, tea for McGonagall, and a peach cordial for Harry (the Room clearly had a sense of humour), then straightened up.

"Right then. Now that we're all settled… time we had that little chat."

---

As Flamel poured Quirrell a second cup of tea, a curious silence had settled over the room. Dumbledore watched him closely, fingertips resting lightly against his lips.

"Nicolas," he said at last, "how do you know about this room?"

Flamel didn't look up. He simply shrugged.

"I taught at Hogwarts for many years, Albus. In another life. Back when people were still interested in the roots of magic—not just how to blow up a cauldron without singeing their eyebrows."

He raised his teacup with a wry little gesture.

"This room was known. No dramatic name back then. It existed. People used it. And it responded."

McGonagall's brow furrowed slightly.

"Known by whom?"

"By professors. By the more observant students. By those who asked questions of the walls and actually listened for answers. It wasn't hidden—it was... available."

Dumbledore allowed himself a small, almost sheepish smile.

"Now that you mention it... I do believe I've been in here once."

All eyes turned to him.

"A long time ago. I urgently needed a room with chamber pots. I was running about like mad, and… well, here it was."

Flamel let out a hearty laugh.

"There you are, Albus. Even the Room recognised the gravity of the situation."

Harry looked up at Dumbledore, somewhere between amusement and fascination.

"And you never went back?"

"In my defence," said the Headmaster with a regretful smile, "I was fifteen, had a reputation to uphold, and trousers in peril. I didn't stop to analyse the experience."

Quirrell smothered a laugh, and McGonagall rolled her eyes.

Flamel nodded slowly, as though all of it confirmed some long-standing theory.

"That's what happens when people forget the castle is alive. It only responds to those who speak its language."

He patted the arm of his chair.

"Now that the memories are sorted… let's get to the point."

He turned to Harry.

"Tell me, Harry. Do you trust the three people in this room?"

Harry froze for a second. It wasn't a question he'd expected.

McGonagall sat up straighter, bristling.

"I beg your pardon?"

Flamel, still not facing her, gave a casual shrug.

"Oh, don't panic, Minerva. It's not an accusation. Just a proper question."

Harry looked around at the faces. Dumbledore was watching him calmly, Quirrell remained impassive, and McGonagall was clearly affronted.

"I think… yes. I trust them. But…"

He frowned.

"How far?" he asked quietly.

Flamel chuckled, a warm, genuine sound.

"Ah, now that's a proper answer. Not a naïve 'yes'. Not a defensive 'no'. A real question. Well done."

He stood slowly, tapped his cane once on the floor, and with his free hand drew a complex symbol in the air. The light in the room seemed to pause. The air grew subtly denser, as if every word from here on would carry weight.

"Nothing said in this room will leave it," he declared. "Not through the walls, not through memory, not on the wings of nosey owls."

A golden circle shimmered gently into being around them—delicate, precise, and unmistakably magical. A soft vibration passed through the air, then faded.

"Old spell," said Flamel. "First cast during a rather dicey dinner with Merlin, a satyr, and two active political betrayals. It's... battle-tested."

There was a moment's pause. Then it was Dumbledore who spoke, voice low:

"Wait... you met Merlin?"

Even McGonagall raised an eyebrow—which, for her, was tantamount to a shout of astonishment.

Flamel gave a shrug, feigning modesty.

"Of course. Eccentric fellow. Wore robes more absurd than mine, which is saying something, and insisted goat cheese sharpened the intellect. Which, to be fair, isn't entirely wrong."

Harry opened his mouth but failed to make a sound.

"You… you mean that Merlin?" Quirrell stammered, visibly shaken. "The enchanter of legend, Arthur's advisor, the founder of the modern druidic order…?"

"The very one," Flamel confirmed. "One of the few Englishmen I've met with a wit nearly as sharp as mine. Claimed the Round Table was invented purely to stop Slytherins arguing over who sat near the wall."

A soft snort escaped Dumbledore, who hid behind his wine glass.

"Last I saw him must've been… oh, three hundred years ago?" Flamel added, thoughtful. "We had a bit of a row over a rigged chess tournament. He was cheating outrageously with bewitched pawns, so I enchanted his king to quote Molière every time it moved."

He sighed.

"He didn't take it well."

"He's still alive?" Harry asked, eyes wide.

"Oh, almost certainly. Somewhere. He had a knack for vanishing and an unsettling habit of appearing in restricted sections of libraries just when you least expected."

"Why doesn't anyone speak of him?" Quirrell asked, bewildered.

Flamel clicked his tongue.

"Because magic's never cared for people who understand it too well. It quietly erases them. Turns them into legends. Much easier for the rest of the world to sleep at night."

He sat again, resting his cane against the arm of the chair. His face, usually full of laughter, had grown more sombre.

Harry was still staring at him, the question burning behind his eyes.

"If Merlin's still alive… why has he never stepped in?"

He paused.

"There've been Dark Lords. Several. Voldemort wasn't the first. There've been other threats, other wars. Why stay hidden?"

---

Flamel studied him for a moment, then sighed, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

"Because, lad… after a while, you simply grow tired."

He raised a hand before anyone could interrupt.

"It's not cowardice. It's exhaustion."

He gave a faint, melancholy smile.

"Merlin sees things the way I do: people need to learn to manage on their own. Every generation thinks its crisis is new, that its monster is unique. And every generation rediscovers fear. We just see the same tale—new cloaks, different names."

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly, clearly deep in thought.

"I've made that mistake myself," he admitted.

"We all do," Flamel replied. "The only difference is that some of us come to realise we're not here to correct history—but to let it make its own mistakes."

He poured himself a little more wine, unhurried.

"You know, Harry, I tried to change things too. In my own way. Back in France."

He raised a finger, as if making a toast.

"I helped found the Ministry of Magic after the Revolution. Wrote charters, moderated debates—even translated goblin laws to avoid a few diplomatic bloodbaths."

"And now?" asked Harry.

Flamel smiled, though there was no joy in it.

"Now I avoid politicians like Doxies dodge holy water."

He sank back into his chair with theatrical weariness.

"You wouldn't believe how many times they've tried to rope me in—honorary positions, reform commissions, or—Merlin help us—'representing alchemical wisdom' on the European Council. I even got an invitation to chair a committee on the ethics of contraceptive potions."

He rolled his eyes skyward.

"Since that day, I keep my invisibility cloak within arm's reach at all times."

"And you refused all of it?" asked McGonagall, not especially surprised.

"I'd rather lob boules into my neighbour's rose bushes and invent charms that make my wine sing when it's too young to drink."

He shrugged.

"At some point, you realise that saving the world mostly leads to being old, lonely, and surrounded by idiots congratulating themselves."

The silence that followed lingered a moment longer than usual. Then Flamel sat forward slightly in his chair, his eyes locking onto Harry's.

"So, Harry… do you know why I came to see you?"

The boy hesitated, but answered plainly:

"No, sir."

The alchemist nodded slowly, as though pleased by the honesty.

He leaned in a little, his tone quieter now, though his gaze remained bright.

"You know, Harry… when an eleven-year-old manages to cause a magical outage in Ollivander's shop, it tends to get noticed."

Harry said nothing, but his shoulders tensed.

"I've got my sources, of course. But even without them—the echo you left behind was loud enough to raise an eyebrow. And at my age, raising anything at all is a significant effort."

He settled back into his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and spoke with a casualness that somehow made it more unsettling:

"Let's just say… I'm aware. Of what you summoned."

He looked him straight in the eye.

"The Æon. And the Azata."

Harry's eyes widened—this time, he couldn't hide it.

"Oh yes, I've seen that before. You're not the first, don't worry."

Harry slowly looked up at him.

"What do you mean… you've seen it before?"

Flamel held his gaze a moment, as if weighing the weight of the truth. Then he gave the smallest of shrugs.

"I mean… I've seen it—because it was me."

---

A silence fell—thick, almost tangible.

Flamel sank deeper into his chair, fingers absent-mindedly tapping the top of his cane.

"You know, Harry… people love to say I found the Stone after a lifetime of rigorous research, deep meditation, disciplined study…"

He pulled a face.

"The truth is, I spent years fiddling with unstable mixtures, carving off-kilter runes, and desperately hoping the ceiling wouldn't collapse on me."

He raised a finger.

"And then, one night, at three in the morning, after a week without sleep and a diet consisting entirely of mulled wine and stale bread—I made a mistake."

Harry blinked.

"A mistake?"

"An elemental invocation."

He sighed.

"The idea was sound enough, mind you—summon a fire or earth spirit, hoping it might reveal a hidden truth from the primordial planes."

He held up both hands.

"Runes. Pentagram. Arcane stabilisation. All perfectly arranged."

A beat.

"Except I swapped two glyphs. Fatigue. Carelessness… and a truly heroic dose of pride."

McGonagall's eyebrow had risen. Quirrell sat utterly motionless, captivated.

"What happened next doesn't really have a name. There was an explosion—purple, if I recall. The floor melted into a spiral. The door turned into a cloud of marshmallow, and my owl began reciting verse in ancient Troll dialect."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

"And in the middle of the circle," Flamel went on, "something appeared. Not a demon. Not a being of light. No."

He smiled, almost fondly.

"A rather eccentric fellow. Dressed ridiculously. He wore a cloak stitched together from scraps of parchment, and his spectacles looked like inverted hourglasses. He was whistling."

Dumbledore let out a short burst of laughter.

"He looked at me," Flamel continued, "and said, word for word:
'You nearly took off my beard with that shoddy summoning. You want a proper hand or just planning to set fire to your limbs out of pride?'"

Harry's eyes widened.

"And you…?"

"I told him I was open to suggestions, but I'd rather keep my eyebrows."

He raised a finger again.

"So he handed me a book. Thick, ancient, glowing. I read it. Full of formulae, alchemical structures… but with a clarity you wouldn't believe."

"And him?" asked Quirrell, almost in a whisper.

"He vanished in a burst of confetti. Just like that. I imagine he returned to his plane. Or his dimension. Or maybe just his favourite café—who knows?"

Harry stared at him, utterly engrossed.

"What was he? Who?"

Flamel shrugged, looking honestly mystified.

"No idea. A being from another world. A traveller, perhaps. Or a lunatic. Possibly both. He found me amusing. That's probably what saved me."

Dumbledore, who had been listening in silence, tilted his head with interest.

"This book… do you still have it?"

Flamel looked at him, then gave a short, dry laugh.

"Albus, really. You know me. I read the whole thing in one sitting—memorised every symbol, every structure, every formula. And when I turned the last page…"

He raised a hand with theatrical flair.

"The book turned into chocolate."

Silence.

"A bar?"

"A bar," Flamel confirmed solemnly. "Dark. Eighty-four percent. A hint of ginger and salt. Quite a masterpiece, honestly."

Dumbledore raised a hand to his mouth, somewhere between appalled and delighted.

"You didn't…"

"Oh, I absolutely did. Savoured it. Slowly. Square by square."

He closed his eyes for a second, as if reliving the flavour.

"It would've been a crime to let it melt into nothing. And besides, I didn't want to risk it turning into something worse—like a talking poem or an existential toad. I took the edible route."

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. Quirrell stifled a laugh behind his teacup. Harry was staring at Flamel as though unsure whether he was mad or brilliant.

"And you remember it all?" he asked.

"Every bit. The taste of the chocolate helps—it sealed the memory."

He leaned forward slightly, a sly smile on his lips.

"Some knowledge isn't meant to be read. You absorb it."

Flamel straightened up, setting his empty cup on the low table.

"What that book contained… it wasn't a recipe. Not some miraculous formula. It was a mirror. A complete reflection of what magic could be—if we dared to look."

He looked around at each of them in turn, his tone now calm, almost professorial.

"Everything in that book spoke of possibility. Of paths that magic knows but doesn't show—like it's waiting for us to figure out how to look."

He folded his arms.

"Immortality, for example. Everyone says it's unnatural. A theft. A defiance of life's laws. But what I read taught me something far more troubling."

---

He looked straight at Harry.

"For us wizards, lad, death isn't a necessity. It's… the default setting."

McGonagall frowned.

"Explain yourself."

"Two paths," said Flamel. "We're born with two potential branches. Two latent frameworks in our magic. One is simple, stable, worn smooth by millennia: mortality.
The other is more complex, dormant, discordant: continuity. Not eternity as a burden… but uninterrupted being, if supported, aligned, balanced."

He paused, gaze still locked on Harry.

"In fact, what struck me right away was that you, Harry…"

He hesitated.

"You didn't need the Stone."

Harry froze. His fingers tightened slightly around the arm of the chair, but he said nothing.

The three adults exchanged glances. McGonagall frowned deeper, Quirrell stiffened. Dumbledore, meanwhile, gently set down his teacup.

"You're sure about this?" he asked quietly.

"As sure as I can be," Flamel replied. "He's got that… fluidity. That strange inner balance."

He nodded towards Harry.

"He hasn't tried to extend his life. He's just… built differently."

Harry didn't move. He kept his eyes on Flamel, but his entire body was taut with tension.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, turned to him, and asked in a soft voice:

"Harry… is there something you'd like to tell us?"

Harry finally looked away. He inhaled deeply but didn't answer straightaway.

Flamel said nothing either, though the look in his eyes made it clear: he already knew. And he was simply waiting to see what the boy would choose to share.

Harry stayed silent.

His gaze drifted from Dumbledore, to McGonagall, then back to Flamel… but his lips remained shut.

The silence lingered a moment longer, until Dumbledore inclined his head gently.

"Very well," he said simply. "Now's not the time."

McGonagall sat straighter, clearly unconvinced, but said nothing. Quirrell watched Harry with a thoughtful expression.

Flamel, for his part, only shrugged, his tone free of any disappointment.

"You don't have to say everything. This isn't an interrogation."

He leaned in slightly, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"But I am curious. Very curious."

Harry stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden childlike tone.

"Those summons of yours… the Æon, the Azata, all that…"

He raised both hands.

"How did you do it? Was it a ritual? A vision? Did you whack your head on a banned grimoire?"

McGonagall made a noise that sounded like a polite protest, but Flamel ploughed on undeterred.

"And the portals! Ollivander nearly passed out telling me what you did. A portal with no anchor?! Seriously? There are ritual masters who spend two decades just trying to stabilise a basic circle—and you're flinging them down corridors like breadsticks!"

Harry's mouth fell open slightly.

"I…"

"No, no, not now!" Flamel interrupted, delighted. "I want to know everything—but in your own time."

He drummed his fingers excitedly on the table.

"Do you keep notes? Logs? A journal? A portable library? Something?"

Dumbledore was smiling softly. McGonagall looked out of her depth. For once, Quirrell seemed amused.

"You want me to… talk about my research?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Your research, your instincts, your mistakes, your flashes of inspiration, your method!" Flamel burst out. "You're redrawing the lines of what magic is, Harry—and that's rare. I want to understand how you think. How you feel it. I want to see the world through your eyes."

He leaned closer still, eyes sparkling.

"I've spent six centuries looking for what you're discovering without asking permission. And I've never been so eager to learn."

Harry sat in silence for a moment, studying the alchemist with a new kind of attention.

"You want me to show you what I do… just like that?"

"Not just like that," Flamel replied, with a wink. "I'm proposing an exchange."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced.

"You show me how you sense magic. Tell me what you've figured out—even if the words aren't perfect. And in return…"

He paused.

"I'll teach you alchemy. The real kind."

---

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Hogwarts' version doesn't quite do it for you?"

"Oh, it's charming," Flamel replied with a grimace. "Very academic. Very tidy. You learn to turn a button into a coin, make silver from iron, soften vinegar…"

He shook his head.

"But that's not alchemy. That's a… reduction."

"And the real thing?" asked Harry.

Flamel smiled—more quietly this time, almost wistfully.

"Real alchemy is about understanding what comes before form. What connects matter to meaning. It's about touching what's possible, and sometimes… what should have been."

His eyes shone again as he fixed them on Harry.

He leaned further back into his chair, fingers steepled, gaze steady.

"You're the first person I've offered this to in… eighty years."

Then he turned his head slightly, a sly smile tugging at his lips, and nodded towards Dumbledore.

"This was my last student."

A silence fell like a soft spell. McGonagall arched an eyebrow. Quirrell remained utterly still. Even Dumbledore looked—ever so slightly—caught off guard.

"I wasn't the most obedient of pupils," the Headmaster admitted, clearing his throat.

"No," Flamel agreed. "But brilliant. And infuriating."

He raised a hand, as if in concession.

"Which, I must say, is an excellent profile for an alchemist."

Harry looked between the two men, visibly impressed this time. He hesitated—then, finally, a faint smile crept across his face.

"All right," he said. "Deal."

Flamel raised his cup—now empty—as though to offer an invisible toast.

"To our exchange, then. And to the worlds we're going to turn upside down."

A pleasant silence settled over the room, thick with promises and half-forgotten tales.

Then McGonagall's voice rang out—crisp, bone-dry, and unmistakably barbed:

"I'm beginning to understand… Albus's wardrobe."

Harry turned, startled. Dumbledore frowned, clearly affronted.

"My wardrobe?"

"That blend of eccentricity and suspicious solemnity," she said coolly. "I always wondered where it came from. Now it's all quite clear."

Flamel burst out laughing.

"Oh yes, that's me. I take full responsibility."

"Absolutely not," Dumbledore retorted. "I was already wearing purple socks when I met Nicolas."

"And I told you they were a mistake," Flamel shot back. "To which you replied: 'They're comfortable, and that's all that matters.'"

Harry stifled a laugh. Quirrell gazed at the ceiling, lips pursed.

McGonagall, meanwhile, nodded slowly.

"There it is. Centuries of questionable taste, passed down like a cursed heirloom."

The two wizards turned to her, mock-offended.

"Minerva!" they protested in unison.

"Oh, do spare me," she sighed. "Let's leave before this room decides to turn us all into animated tapestries."

And with that, laughter followed the echo of their footsteps, already heading toward the enchanted exit.

Chapter 10: Same old routine!

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

Faculty Tower – Hogwarts
Octobre 28th, 1991 - morning

The discreet clock nestled into the enchanted panelling read six forty-two when Harry opened his eyes again—wide awake, no alarm, no charm required. The ceiling still lay cloaked in a bluish gloom, but already, from the nearby corridors, came the faint sounds of soft footsteps, teacups meeting saucers, murmured voices. The Professors' Tower wasn't waking up; it was coming to order, just like every morning.

Perched on the edge of his bed—large, crisply made, white linen sheets drawn tight—Harry unrolled the parchment he'd been given at the start of the week. His timetable changed every Monday, given his rather unique situation. He read through the day's schedule without hurry, eyes alert yet calm, his index finger idly tracing an invisible line as he took it in.

Today's Timetable — Seventh Years
Potions: 9:00 — Potions Lab No. 7
Transfiguration: 11:15 — Transfiguration Room 01
Charms: 15:45 — Advanced Charms Classroom

Three seventh-year classes. Three core subjects. But more importantly, as McGonagall had put it, three opportunities to "apply his broader perspective and non-academic skills." A polite way of saying he'd be teaching as much as learning.

Neville, still buried beneath his thick woollen blanket, was slowly surfacing from sleep. He groped for his glasses on the bedside table, knocked over a stack of parchment in the process, then sat up halfway, looking thoroughly dazed.

"Already working?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Just checking the schedule," Harry replied, without looking up.

"You do know you're eleven, not thirty."

Harry said nothing. He folded the parchment carefully, slid it into a folder, and started pulling on his boots. With a flick of his hand, the laces tightened of their own accord. He took great care with his appearance—understandable, seeing as he now held something akin to a teaching post. As his grandfather Arcturus would have said, a certain level of decorum was only proper.

"You seen who's got you today?" Neville went on, blinking at the ceiling. "McGonagall, Slughorn… Flitwick to finish. No rest for the wicked."

"They're seventh years," Harry said. "They've got to meet the requirements for their NEWTs. I suppose it helps having someone around who's already studied the material. And maybe it gives them a bit of a push—reminds them a kid's already managed it, so they can too."

Neville gave a vague nod. He was trying to put on his socks—inside out. He gave up.

From her brass perch in the corner, Hedwig stretched lazily, then fixed Harry with a critical stare.

"You could at least pretend to be tired. You look like you recharge overnight like some blasted automaton."

A few weeks earlier, Harry had developed an enchantment that allowed magically conscious animals to be understood effortlessly, a bit like tuning an instrument. Since then, Hedwig wore a small ring on each leg, etched with fine runes—barely visible—that worked as expression relays.

It not only let magical creatures and familiars be understood, it also spared Harry from looking like he'd lost the plot. After all, he wasn't the only one hearing them anymore.

"I do sleep. I'm just… efficient."

"That's what all the well-organised sociopaths say."

Neville chuckled. Harry, meanwhile, reached for his tie, adjusted it neatly, and pulled on his uniform robes. Sewn into the collar in fine silver thread was the Apprentice insignia—simple, understated, but unmistakable. He slipped his wand into the left sleeve, as always.

"You're really invigilating the Transfiguration exam?" Neville asked.

"Yep."

"And what if someone cheats?"

"I'll do what the rules say."

Neville didn't reply. He just looked at his friend for a moment, then looked away. He recognised that tone. Not cold. Not cruel. Just final. The sort of answer you got from someone who followed the rules because they were right—not because they were pleasant.

A gentle chime rang through the room—the signal that breakfast was being served in the staff common room. A rare privilege, one shared only by Apprentices and the faculty. Hedwig hopped from her perch and landed on Harry's shoulder.

"Bacon. Two rashers. And tea this time."

"Not fancying pumpkin juice for once?"

"I'd rather not choke to death in a back-to-school cliché. Tea."

Harry smiled faintly, opened the door, and let Neville go first. The corridors of the Professors' Tower were quiet. The air still held the scents of old wood, grimoire leather, and fresh ink. An atmosphere of work and ritual—more grown-up, more serious.

"You know," Neville said as they walked side by side, "you could ask to switch your schedule. Three classes in one day's a bit much."

"Exactly. Keeps my mind off other things."

"What other things?"

Harry paused, then said, "Bit of a long story."

Neville, ever careful, didn't push it. They descended the spiral staircase in silence, Hedwig—for once—holding her tongue, as if sensing the moment no longer called for commentary.

In the softly lit staff common room, a few cups floated gently towards the tables, and a breakfast buffet had been laid out. The air was thick with the smell of warm bread, bacon, coffee, and jam. Slughorn was yawning noisily over a pile of notes, while McGonagall read The Daily Prophet without lifting her eyes.

Harry gave a polite nod, took his seat, and poured a cup of tea for Hedwig.

The day had begun.

---

Potions Lab No. 7 — 9:00am

The room was thick with damp, sharp-smelling fumes and that peculiar tension unique to Slughorn's classes whenever he let his students "create". Far from being liberating, these sessions induced a quiet panic among the seventh-years—a flurry of glances at the shelves, hesitant movements, and murmured exchanges. No instructions, no recipes, no safety net.

Harry had arrived silently, greeted Slughorn with measured respect, and taken his place at the auxiliary workbench to the left of the desk. His case was closed, his notebook open to a blank page. He had no intention of taking the initiative. Not yet.

"Well, well, well!" Slughorn boomed. "My little prodigies of peril and perfume, today you've free rein to express yourselves. I want intuition, originality—maybe a touch of brilliance. Only one rule: no unintentional explosions. Or at least, no stupid ones."

There were nervous chuckles, but genuine ones. The students began to move, each in their own style—some carefully methodical, others already violating the basic logic of measurement.

They set to work, a mixture of caution and excitement in the air. Harry, for his part, picked up his notebook and wandered between benches. He stopped beside a pair of Hufflepuffs attempting to bind two plant-based concoctions without a catalyst. He watched for a few seconds, then asked, quite plainly:

"Have you got an organic binder planned? Or are you hoping for spontaneous reaction?"

The two exchanged a baffled look.

"Er… we thought ivy mucus would be enough…"

"It's too unstable in combination. Try monkshood sap. Just a trace."

They nodded silently and resumed their brewing with more care. Harry moved on.

He adjusted the flame beneath a blue fire that burned too hot, suggested a revised dilution method to a Gryffindor, spotted a miscalculation in dried tentacle extract by a Ravenclaw pair. He never raised his voice, never inserted himself between pupil and potion. He guided from a distance. As if he were issuing instructions to the surrounding magic itself—and it obeyed.

Then he reached a bench occupied by a single student.

"Bole," he observed coolly.

The Slytherin—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp—looked up with an irritated glare. He radiated hostility.

"Correcting everyone's mistakes, Potter? Playing quality control goblin, are you?"

Harry looked at him calmly.

"I help those who want to improve."

Lucian Bole tapped his wand against the edge of the bench.

"And how do you improve, then? What is it you do while the rest of us slog away trying to invent something? Take notes? Observe? Hand out marks? Do you enjoy playing teacher at your age?"

A silence fell.

Slughorn immediately stepped in, his large hand resting firmly on Bole's shoulder.

"Five points from Slytherin. I don't tolerate empty insolence. And for the record, Harry's under no obligation to intervene. He's here at my request, not his."

Harry remained still. With a simple motion, he summoned two vials from his case. They floated silently through the air and set themselves down upright, perfectly aligned, beside his cauldron. With a twitch of his fingers, a third vial rose—its label read Demiguise Essence. Another joined it—Thestral Hair Infusion—followed by a small lead box engraved with runes.

The room fell silent. Even Slughorn, not easily surprised, said nothing. Every eye was fixed on the eleven-year-old boy standing perfectly still, arms by his sides, conducting phials and ingredients as if orchestrating a ballet.

The empty cauldron shimmered open like an inky eye, and a thread of mandrake water poured in, releasing a white mist that stayed perfectly contained, as though held back by an unseen will.

"What's he making?" someone whispered.

Harry, focused, raised three fingers.

The Thestral infusion drifted in, drop by drop, each one bursting into a soft violet spark before fading.

He then began heating the base. No fire. No wand. Just a silver circle forming beneath the cauldron, floating inches from the stone floor, the air humming gently—alchemy of pure heat, held together by magic.

Next came the demiguise essence, pearly and viscous. It formed a floating layer, which he stirred gently with a flick of his wrist—without touching. It fused with the base in a near-inaudible hiss.

Harry lifted a small knife, now hovering, and directed it silently towards a sealed phial capped in black wax.

"Crystallised hippogriff blood," Slughorn murmured, eyes wide.

The wax melted with a quiet flash. Harry extracted precisely three tears' worth of solidified blood, let them fall into a mother-of-pearl dish, then ground them magically to shimmering powder, which he sprinkled in a slow, even rain over the centre of the brew.

Lastly, he opened the lead box. Inside: Jobberknoll feathers. Three, perfectly preserved.

He took just one, placed it gently on the now-clear liquid. It floated briefly, then was drawn down in a soft pulse, and the cauldron turned entirely silver, shot through with opalescent swirls.

Harry stepped back. He hadn't spoken a word. He'd barely moved. But everything had been precise. Exact. Effortless.

"Minor Soul-Shift Potion," he announced calmly. "Temporary transformation into an animal, based on the subject's dominant emotional state. Duration: three minutes. Fully reversible. No memory retention."

Silence. Then a brief, almost nervous laugh from Slughorn.

"Well… That certainly smacks of a rather… unconventional mind."

"In Potions, imagination matters," Harry replied simply.

The professor was left speechless, clearly at a loss for words.

Lucian Bole, arms folded, stood stewing in silence. He stared at the vial Harry had filled and set down in front of him. It shimmered with a gentle glow—almost inviting.

"Fancy trying it?" Harry offered, without a trace of sarcasm.

Bole looked away.

Harry slipped the vial back into his case, cleaned his workbench with a smooth wave of his hand—all residue vanished on contact. Then he resumed his rounds without another word.

Slughorn drew a deep breath, as if regaining his composure.

"My dear pupils… that is what we call a demonstration. Carry on with your experiments. And if any of you are tempted to outdo your Assistant Professor… do pick an opponent in your weight class."

The lesson resumed. But no eyes held doubt anymore—only a bit more caution, and a touch more humility on a few brows.

---

Transfiguration Classroom 01 — 11:45am

The calm that reigned over the Transfiguration classroom had nothing to do with the usual morning stupor. Nor was it the hush of studious focus or comfortable silence. It was something subtler—woven from anticipation, attention, and a touch of apprehension.

The seventh-years were all in place, quills poised, eyes fixed on the blank parchment in front of them, wands carefully stowed, bags tucked beneath the benches. The instructions had been clear: a written assessment for continuous coursework—an intricate set of questions on the foundations, theory, limits, and risks of localised human transformations. No charms. No spells. No words. Just mind and quill.

Harry stood at the back of the room, arms folded behind him, saying nothing.

He didn't pace the aisles. He didn't correct. He didn't interrupt. He simply watched.

Every flicker of the eyes, every twitch of the hand, every hesitation of the wrist—he saw them. He didn't need to prowl the room like an ordinary invigilator. He stood there, a fixed presence—yet it felt as if he saw everything, perceived everything, understood more than he let on.

The first thirty minutes passed without incident. A few students were sweating more than others; some cursed inwardly at the convoluted phrasing of one question; others wrote methodically, seasoned to this kind of pressure. Nothing moved.

Then—barely perceptible—a tiny misstep. A Gryffindor girl in the third row glanced at her quill, then slid her right hand under the table with a slowness that seemed almost rehearsed. She believed she was subtle. She believed a child's vigilance couldn't match a seasoned teacher's.

She was wrong.

Harry made no dramatic gesture. He merely lifted two fingers, and with a perfectly silent swish, a thin line of blue light traced along the central aisle, rose behind her bench, and snapped up a concealed pocket mirror from beneath the wooden slat.

The shock wasn't in the action—but in the precision.

The entire room froze.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Harry said calmly. "And detention with Madam Pince. One hour a day, three days."

The student, pale-faced, offered no protest.

Another movement, left side. A Ravenclaw, clearly agitated, had slipped a marked-up scroll into his robe sleeve. Harry raised his hand ever so slightly, and the scroll was extracted in an instant, unrolling mid-air and suspended in a glowing stasis above the desk.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw. And two weeks' detention with Hagrid."

No more. No less.

He didn't shout. He didn't shame. But he punished—with such clarity, such cold method, that a few students unconsciously straightened up in their seats, as if to distance themselves from their own potential guilt.

McGonagall, seated behind her desk, hadn't moved an inch since the exam began. She was leafing through a few documents without looking up, but the faintest twitch of her lips appeared—a controlled, near-invisible expression, but unmistakably pleased.

She didn't need to watch. She knew Harry was doing it for her—and in a manner even she wouldn't have dared attempt with such quiet authority.

The rest of the exam passed in utter silence—almost liturgical in nature.

When time was up, Harry snapped his fingers once. All quills stopped writing. All parchments rolled themselves neatly. And the students understood, without being told, that the exercise was over.

They filed up to the designated table and placed their work in silence. No whispers. No sighs. No jokes. Even those who hadn't tried to cheat seemed caught in a strange sort of discomfort—or perhaps respect. Hard to tell.

When the last scroll was set down, Harry looked toward McGonagall.

"The group performed adequately. Four attempts at cheating detected. Two intercepted. Two likely prepared but never executed. I believe I discouraged them."

McGonagall gave a small nod, her lips pressed in what, by her standards, was something close to a smile—discreet, restrained, but undoubtedly positive.

"Perfectly observed," she said. "And well noted. I was planning to begin marking this afternoon, but… as long as you're here, we might as well put that analytical mind to good use. If you're willing to lend a hand, of course."

She gestured to the stack of exam scrolls on the corner of her desk, bound with a faintly glowing purple ribbon and still faintly warm from fresh ink. A scent of magical ink and exam sweat rose from them.

Harry gave a slight nod, without a moment's hesitation.

"With pleasure, Professor."

She seemed to expect him to pull up a chair, take a quill, perhaps glance at the marking rubric pinned to the folder. But Harry didn't move. He remained standing, hands behind his back, eyes on the stack—as if assessing not its contents, but its function.

Without a word, he slowly extended two fingers toward the pile.

The ribbon came undone with a near-imperceptible shiver, and the parchments rose, one by one, into the air. They unfurled and aligned themselves before him like the spokes of a fan—suspended, as if held by some invisible, unwavering force.

McGonagall froze, her quill halfway to the inkwell. What she witnessed next wasn't a gesture. It was pure action.

A current of energy—contained, mathematical—seemed to radiate from Harry. Cold. Precise. Silent. The scrolls trembled slightly, then began to scroll past at a speed that, for any normal person, would have bordered on the ludicrous. Every line was read, analysed, measured. Answers were compared. Deviations assessed. Wording interpreted with a rigour that allowed for neither emotion nor approximation.

In less than a minute, all the scrolls were marked.

Each parchment sealed itself with a soft rune of blue validation and sorted itself into six neat piles: Outstanding, Exceeds Expectations, Acceptable, Poor, Dreadful, and Troll.

McGonagall blinked—impressed, but also reflective.

She stepped forward, took the top paper from the Outstanding pile, and unrolled it slowly. The markings were crisp, unmarred, annotated with brief but precise comments in a standardised, almost mechanical script.

She read silently, her brow furrowing—not in disagreement, but in concentration. When she reached the final line, she looked up at Harry.

"You used your eidetic memory… and comparative logic. But that's not all. There's structure in the way you process—error hierarchy, implied weighting… It's more than efficient."

Harry inclined his head.

"I simply followed your assessment criteria from last year, adjusted to reflect the revised standards issued by the Wizarding Examinations Authority."

McGonagall let out a soft breath that could almost have passed for a laugh.

"Well then. It's official. You've just saved me at least two hours' work."

She folded the scroll, set it down on the validated pile, and turned to him with that rare look she reserved for pupils she truly respected: calm, clear-eyed, and entirely devoid of condescension.

"I fully intend to requisition you again for future marking. By any chance, have you developed a spell for corrections?"

Harry gave a small nod—the sort that conveyed polite recognition rather than any false modesty.

"Such an enchantment is theoretically feasible. If you wish, I can look into it."

McGonagall remained still for a moment, one hand resting on the pile of scrolls, as though caught in a moment where her deputy-headmistress rationality was briefly at war with a hope both absurd and intoxicating.

Then she exhaled softly—almost silently—but her face had lightened.

"If you manage that, Mr Potter… you'll be the personal hero of the entire teaching staff. Myself included."

She meant it.

And that, perhaps, was what left the compliment hanging in the air a moment longer than expected.

---

Advanced Charms Classroom — 3:45pm

The room was bathed in a warm, diffused light—the kind of gentle afternoon glow that made concentration feel like it hung in the air. The enchanted walls softened sound, deepened silence, and every pupil, wand in hand, stood poised to tackle a challenge few had truly anticipated.

At the centre, Flitwick stood atop his little platform, gesturing animatedly, his voice crisp and rhythmic like a well-cast incantation.

"Today, we'll be tackling a pair of advanced charms that require not only magical control, but also a certain… interpretative finesse. First, the non-verbal Disillusionment—pure will, no incantation. Then its counter-charm: the Superior Revelation, capable of piercing even the most refined invisibility enchantments."

Harry, leaning against a column near the window, watched the class with careful eyes. Flitwick gave him an encouraging nod.

"Feel free to join in, Mr Potter. Carte blanche."

He didn't need telling twice.

As the students began their attempts—trying to channel magic without speaking—the first results were, predictably, shaky. Trembling fingers, overdone gestures, intent scattered in all directions. One boy vanished halfway—literally: his torso gone, his legs still there, wobbling under the strain.

Harry stepped in.

"You're breathing too fast," he said simply. "The spell follows your life rhythm. If you want stability, start with your breath."

The student nodded, refocused, inhaled slowly… and this time, the Disillusionment was clean. Not flawless, but smooth.

Nearby, a Slytherin girl was grimacing, trying to vanish through sheer willpower.

"This isn't a duel," said Harry. "You don't force disappearance. You… stop wanting to be here. Let your magic drift from you, like mist."

"Stop wanting to be here?"

"Just for a moment. Not running. Just… slipping away."

She tried again—and dissolved into the air with a grace she hadn't known she possessed.

Flitwick watched, delighted, but silent.

Harry turned to a Ravenclaw pair whose spells were clashing mid-air.

"Try casting at the same time. Not to hide from each other—but to… synchronise. Camouflage holds better when intentions are in harmony."

They nodded, and on their third try, they vanished almost completely—only their wands remained, dangling like two question marks.

"Splendid," Flitwick chirped, bouncing on the spot. "Now let's see if you can find each other. The Superior Revelation charm. Non-verbal again. Don't rely on your eyes. You're looking for a disturbance—a dissonance in the magical field."

A murmur of uncertainty passed through the room.

Harry approached a student who stood hesitating, wand raised but unmoving.

"Don't look for what's missing. Look for what's lying. Disillusionment doesn't make people invisible. It convinces the air there's nothing to reveal. Listen for what sounds false."

The boy frowned, tried—and his neighbour's face flickered into view, startled.

Another student struggled, straining without success.

"Don't force it. Take a step back. Relax your magical field. Don't look. Feel."

She closed her eyes. The blurry shape before her trembled—and the spell broke in a shimmering silver pulse.

Gradually, the classroom turned into a shifting dance of half-disappearances, glowing reveals, quiet failures, and unpredictable triumphs.

Flitwick clapped softly, visibly delighted.

"Marvellous. The elegance of contained chaos. A proper magical choir!"

He turned to Harry.

"And now, Mr Potter, your turn."

A respectful hush fell over the room. Some students had already stepped aside, curious, even a little uneasy. Even those who'd doubted Harry earlier in the day now knew this moment wouldn't be like the others.

Harry gave the smallest of nods—and without the slightest motion, without moving a muscle, he vanished.

Not like the others.

No shimmer, no flicker of light, no visual cue.

He simply… wasn't there.

Even Flitwick, who had seen hundreds of Disillusionment spells in his career, blinked. He rubbed his chin, then stepped cautiously toward the space now empty.

"Very well. Let's see, shall we?"

He raised his wand, made a graceful, silent arc through the air.

A Superior Revelation charm flashed silver—then dispersed, untouched.

He frowned, tried again—adjusting the movement, pushing more magical force into it.

Still nothing.

A third attempt, broader, sweeping the area where Harry had stood. The air shimmered. Students stepped back. Some murmured.

Nothing.

No trace. No glint. No hint.

Flitwick stepped back, visibly puzzled, wand half-lowered.

"Perhaps he… left the room?" ventured a student.

But at that precise moment, a soft breeze swept through the classroom.

Flitwick's hat—his ceremonial cap with the embroidered trim—rose gently into the air, levitated by unseen magic. It spun slowly, then descended—landing neatly on his head… upside down.

A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the class.

Flitwick looked up, startled—and there stood Harry, reappeared just inches away, arms folded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"You were so focused on what you could see… you forgot to listen."

Flitwick gaped for a second. Then burst into pure, delighted laughter—ringing through the room like a charmed bell.

"Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. A perfect Disillusionment—stable, silent… and interactive! With a sense of humour, no less! My boy, you are a walking riddle."

Harry dipped his head slightly, offering no reply.

Flitwick regained his breath and turned to the class.

"What you've just seen—or rather, not seen—is what I call high-level mastery. Don't be discouraged. Let it inspire you."

And in the eyes of several students, there was both respect, envy… and a glimmer of new determination.

---

Faculty Tower — 6:47pm

The door shut behind them with that soft, steady sound the Faculty Tower seemed to have woven into its walls—a cushioned sort of announcement that the day was over, or at the very least, polite enough to offer them a break.

Neville chucked his bag into a corner, let out a groan that could've dented an armchair, and collapsed onto his bed, boots and all.

"I'm telling you, if Selene sends me off to babysit fifth-years like I'm some Auror intern one more time, I'll start teaching them spells she'd really rather they didn't know."

Harry calmly slid the latch, hung his robes on the stand, and sat down at his desk like he'd just come back from a civil meeting.

"She stuck you on theory again?"

"No—worse. Mental illusion drills. Three Hufflepuffs panicked, one Ravenclaw started screaming he was being chased by a troll, and by the end one of them called me a Death Eater. Top-notch atmosphere."

Harry nodded, saying nothing. He opened a notebook, flicked through it, then shut it with precise finality.

Neville propped himself up on his elbows, more curious than annoyed now.

"What about you, then? Transfiguration, Potions, Charms. How'd it go?"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Transfiguration: four cheaters and a confiscated pocket mirror. McGonagall was delighted. Let me mark the lot… wants help with the next batch, too."

Neville looked impressed.

"Did you show her your correction routine? The one where you don't even have to write?"

"I just read the papers. Followed her marking scheme. It's not rocket science."

"Technically, it's actual magic."

Harry didn't reply. He stood, brushed his hand along the bookshelf, and nudged a misaligned volume back into place.

Neville carried on:

"And Potions? Slughorn bore you with that vampire party story again? What's his name—Sangu… Sanga…"

"Sanguini. And no, he spared me today. Let me assist the students. Then Lucian Bole tried to act clever."

Neville winced.

"The Quidditch beater? He can read now?"

"He challenged me—openly. Slughorn put him in his place. I… improvised an animal transformation potion to prove he was wrong about my skills."

Neville blinked.

"Without being an Animagus?"

Harry nodded.

"Temporary potion, keyed to emotional state and inner affinity. Kind of a pre-Animagus primer—it helps a wizard know if the full transformation's worth attempting."

Neville sighed.

"You do know there are researchers who spend their lives failing at that?"

"I wasn't doing it for the challenge. It was just… today's inspiration."

"Right. Mental note: never provoke you in a lab. You'd probably whip up a carnivorous, magic-resistant monstrosity just to make a point."

Harry gave him an amused smile. Neville rolled his eyes.

"And Flitwick?"

"He asked me to demonstrate. I disillusioned myself. He tried the revelation charm. Three times."

Neville frowned.

"And?"

Harry turned with a small smile.

"I stole his hat."

Neville burst into uncontrollable laughter, nearly falling off the bed.

"You stole his hat?!"

"I gave it back. Upside down."

Neville sat up, wiping tears from his eyes.

"You're not just bending the rules. You're like… a Boggart with a teaching degree."

Hedwig, from her perch, opened one eye.

"No. He's just a living nightmare who happens to like both order and chaos. Don't ask me how he stays upright."

Harry ignored her, silently promising to dock her bacon rations for a week. She was getting a bit too heavy lately anyway—soon she wouldn't be able to fly.

Neville stared at the ceiling, thoughtful.

"D'you reckon any of this'll ever feel normal? Being an assistant, marking, inventing, teaching… while everyone else's still getting their heads round Wingardium Leviosa?"

"No. And that's exactly how it should be."

Neville smiled again.

"Yeah. I suppose you weren't born to be ordinary."

"Neither were you."

They said nothing more.

Evening light streamed through the window, casting golden stripes across the floorboards. Calm returned, gently, like a blanket settling on their shoulders.

The day had been long—but it wasn't over. Supper still awaited in the Great Hall. And tomorrow, Harry knew, would be longer still: Nicolas Flamel was due to return.

The old man had left after their impromptu meeting in the Room of Requirement—so named by the elves, apparently—to sort a few things. He'd said he didn't want to deprive his neighbour of his charming company… which likely meant he'd enchanted the boules to keep landing in the poor man's garden.

But either way, he was coming back—and Harry's true lessons in alchemy were finally about to begin.

Chapter 11: Bonus Chapter 1 : The Daily Prophet – Special Edition July 28th, 1991

Hello, I'm back on Ao3 it seems :)

By the way, Book 2 is already finished, and I'm currently starting Book 3.

Here's the 1st bonus chapter that I wrote in May.

Just so you know, you can follow me on Tumblr.

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The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

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The Daily Prophet – Special Edition July 28^th, 1991

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🗞️ EXCLUSIVE: WONDER ALLEY REVEALED
By Rita Skeeter, Star Reporter

The magical event of the decade has unfolded before your very eyes—or rather, before mine. Yesterday, 27th July, the wizarding world was let in on a secret jealously guarded by the powerful: Wonder Alley, a brand-new, spellbound avenue of marvels and elegance, whose very existence had been kept utterly hush-hush—until now.

This dazzling district, newly paved in shimmering marble and flanked by shops at the forefront of magical innovation, is already being hailed as the “Magical Renaissance”. And behind this eruption of splendour and modernity lies a name few would’ve linked with property or finance...

Harry Potter.

Our national hero. The wonder child who survived You-Know-Who, who stunned the magical world with his unprecedented spellwork—particularly those now-legendary instant-travel portals—is no longer simply a beacon of magical might.

He builds. He creates. He transforms.

At only eleven years old, Harry Potter has stepped beyond his legend as the Boy Who Lived. He’s now the architect of a new magical era.

The grand opening, staged in strict secrecy, began with the arrival of three grand carriages drawn by Ethonans—those majestic winged horses native to our own fair isles. Alighting from them were some of the most powerful figures in wizarding Britain: Minister for Magic Bartemius Crouch, Head of Magical Law Enforcement Amelia Bones, the famed Auror captain Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, and naturally, the inescapable Sirius Black. But it was Harry Potter himself who stilled the crowd with nothing more than his presence.

Then, with a gesture of sheer command—and without a wand, mark you—he addressed the gathering in a clear, confident voice:
“I invite you to discover these wonders… and who knows? Perhaps we’ll meet in one of the shops.”

What followed would rival any World Cup final—pandemonium. Shops were swarmed. Autographs snatched up. Displays stripped bare. Articles written—like the one you’re reading right now.

Rumour has it that every merchant along Wonder Alley was handpicked, and that all funds came directly from the vast, unmeasured Black family fortune. Wonder Alley isn’t just a real estate venture—it’s a statement.

Magic blended with modernity. Openness to Muggle technology. Full integration of Muggle-borns into magical commerce. It’s everything the Conservatives loathe—and the Progressives cheer.

“An alley for tomorrow, stewarded by the boy who built it,” whispered Arcturus Black, eyes gleaming.

As Diagon Alley gathers dust and Knockturn Alley remains steeped in shadows, Wonder Alley emerges as the crowning jewel of a magical world hurtling into its future.

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🧓 “THIS PLACE, IT’S BETTER THAN DIAGON ALLEY,” SAYS ARCTURUS BLACK
Continuing coverage of Wonder Alley
By Rita Skeeter – Star Reporter

The mood was nothing short of jubilant that morning in the newly unveiled Wonder Alley, yet one figure among the guests commanded attention not through spectacle, but through sheer quiet authority: Arcturus Black, leader of the Traditionalist bloc in the Wizengamot and patriarch of one of the most powerful pure-blood families in Britain.

Dignified and reserved, he cut a striking figure in a robe of black velvet trimmed with silver thread, leaning on his signature cane with its raven-shaped handle. His presence was no coincidence—for behind the thunderous launch of this remarkable avenue lies the hand of House Black. And true to form, Arcturus did not shy away from speaking his mind.

“Diagon Alley had its golden age. But now? It’s stagnant. Congested. Outdated. This new alley was designed to grow. Built to last.”

Sharp words, spoken as his distant cousin Narcissa Malfoy perused a colour-shifting gown at Camelo-Satin. Yes, dear readers—you read that correctly. The Malfoys, long known for their disdain of innovation and all things Muggle, were in attendance. And by all accounts, thoroughly intrigued.

But what appeared at first to be a family-backed venture quickly revealed itself to be something far grander in scope. Sources close to Gringotts suggest that Arcturus, through a network of discreet proxies, has quietly acquired no fewer than thirty-two commercial units now housed within Wonder Alley. A subtle manoeuvre—until today.

“Magic must adapt to a changing world,” he remarked, gesturing towards a shopfront featuring books that project moving images.

“Wonder Alley is a place where innovation isn’t punished—it’s celebrated.”

And what of Harry Potter, often cited as the public face of this bold new venture?

A faint smile crossed Arcturus’s lips—just for a moment.

“Harry has a mind made for this century. I merely gave him a playground worthy of it.”

Beneath the stern exterior lies a mentor, a strategist—perhaps even a visionary. For what’s unfolding here goes far beyond a merchant’s competition.

It’s a redefinition of magical power.

And once again, the Black family leads the way in shaping the wizarding world. One can only hope, dear readers, that it heralds a brighter, more thrilling future.

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🏛️ Page 3 – MINISTER BARTEMIUS CROUCH RISE IN THE POLLS WITH HELP OF THE BOY-WHO-LIVED
By Rita Skeeter – Political Correspondent & Revelation Specialist

Once deemed stern, authoritarian—even worn down by the weight of duty—Bartemius Crouch, Minister for Magic these past ten years, is now enjoying a startling resurgence in popularity. The reason? Two simple words: Harry Potter.

All it took was one appearance—carefully staged (though conveniently passed off as coincidence, of course)—alongside the young hero at the unveiling of Wonder Alley, for the public to see the Minister in a new light.

“Watching him laugh with the children, clink glasses with Sirius Black, and toast the success of shopkeepers… it was a breath of fresh air,” confided one middle-class witch from Hogsmeade.

This new tone is no accident. Long accused of ruling by unpopular decree, Crouch is now appearing more approachable, more human—more grandfather than executioner, as one Daily Prophet columnist poetically put it over lunch.

But don’t be fooled: behind the smile, the strategist remains.

For while the Minister did indeed ease the magical planning permissions required for Wonder Alley, it wasn’t done out of pure goodwill. The Potter/Black venture has allowed the Ministry to polish its public image—without risking a single Knut of political capital.

And the results speak for themselves. Since that bit of well-timed publicity, the Minister’s approval rating has soared by 27%, according to the latest polling from the Wizarding Communications Bureau—a record high since the war’s end.

“The public no longer wants a Minister who merely stands firm. They want one who understands symbols,” says a Wizengamot analyst who requested anonymity.

And Harry Potter, without question, is the most powerful symbol of our age.

The only question now: will this newfound popularity be enough for Crouch to cling to power, especially with the Ministry’s younger generation rising fast… or with ambitious challengers circling like hawks? (Yes, Cornelius Fudge, we know you're reading.)

But for now?

A Minister and a Survivor, standing side by side.
Power, it seems, is now written with four hands.

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🔮 Page 4 – HARRY POTTER REVEALS HIS ALLEY: A NEW PLACE FOR NEW MAGIC!
By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent at Wonder Alley

At the age when most young wizards are still learning how to stay upright on a broomstick or turn a button into a beetle, Harry Potter is busy launching an entire district.

But what, exactly, does Wonder Alley mean for our magical society? And more intriguingly… what does it reveal about the boy behind the legend?

A Vision… at Eleven?

Officially, Harry Potter has only just stepped into his first year of magical education. Unofficially, he is now the primary financier, visionary, and public face of the most ambitious project since the reconstruction of Hogwarts following the Great Avalon Gorge Rebellion of 1759.

According to well-placed sources, Harry didn’t merely give his blessing to the project. He laid its very foundations:
– Full access for Muggle-borns and marginalised witches and wizards;
– Shops turned away by the gatekeepers of Diagon Alley;
– Elements inspired by foreign magical cultures—and even Muggle design.

“Magic doesn’t belong to those who inherit it, but to those who practise it.”
This line is said to have been spoken by young Potter himself over a private dinner with Gringotts investors.

The Black Hand?

Of course, one cannot ignore the unmistakable presence of Arcturus Black behind the scenes. And yet, eyewitnesses confirm it was Harry who insisted on bypassing traditional commercial agents in favour of young craftsmen and inventors—many without bloodline prestige, but overflowing with raw talent.

The message is clear: in today’s magical world, blood is no longer currency. Skill is.

A Political Model?

But what if Wonder Alley isn’t just a shopping district… but a social blueprint?

Some analysts now speak openly of an ideological counter-project—a space where old families must rub shoulders with half-bloods, Muggle-borns, independents… where equality isn’t declared, but lived.

A utopia? Perhaps.

But a utopia paved in marble, trimmed in gold, and shielded by enchantments certified by the Department of Mysteries.

“He’s managed to blend idealism with pragmatism… something even Dumbledore occasionally failed to do,” whispered a senior Wizengamot official.

What Comes Next?

Whispers are already circulating of a proposed independent magical campus, a support fund for orphaned apprentice wizards, and—brace yourselves—a Council of Magical Artisans that may one day rival the Wizarding Chamber of Commerce.

Fanciful? Maybe.
Or perhaps a glimpse of what’s to come.

One thing is certain: Harry Potter is no longer just surviving.
He’s building.

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⚖️ Page 6 – UNDERSTANDING THE WIZENGAMOT AND OUR GOVERNMENT
By Basil Lawcaster, Professor of Wizarding Law at Witten-Wand and Legal Columnist for The Daily Prophet

At a time when the Black family is reshaping the magical world with bold ventures like Wonder Alley, many witches and wizards are asking: who really governs magical Britain?

The answer, though seemingly simple, is far more intricate in practice: it lies with the Wizengamot, the beating heart of wizarding power in the United Kingdom.

🏛️ The Wizengamot: Political and Judicial Centrepiece

Established in the 11th century, the Wizengamot wields three core powers:

• Legislative, by voting on magical laws;
• Judicial, by presiding over major cases (Dark Arts, magical crimes, bloodline disputes);
• Institutional, by confirming appointments, approving budgets, and setting the Ministry’s overall direction.

It currently comprises 88 seats, though only 75 are active—with 13 lying dormant due to lack of legitimate or recognised heirs. The number of seats may change with Order of Merlin’s nominations.

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📊 Seat Distribution

Seats are divided as follows:

• 58 hereditary seats (13 inactive);
• 12 ministerial seats, held by department heads and senior officials;
• 10 nominated seats, voted in by the Wizengamot for prominent figures;
• 8 Order of Merlin seats, awarded for life to recipients of the First-Class Order.

⚠️ Seats may be held concurrently.
Thus, a single witch or wizard can represent multiple votes depending on their titles, posts, or honours.

👑 The Wizengamot’s Power Players

Here are the five most influential current members:

Wizard	Seats Held	Affiliation
Sirius Black (proxy for Harry Potter)	7 (hereditary + Merlin)	Head of the Progressives
Arcturus Black	4 (hereditary + Merlin)	Head of the Traditionalists
Alastor Moody	3 (hereditary + ministerial)	Co-leader, Progressives
Albus Dumbledore	2 (ministerial + Merlin)	Independent Progressive
Damocles Rowle	2 (hereditary + nominated)	Head of the Conservatives

---

🧮 The Three Major Political Factions

The Wizengamot is not a partisan parliament in the Muggle sense, but rather a council where three broad factions vie for the country’s future:

🔷 Progressives – 32 seats, 20 members
Led by Sirius Black, co-led by Alastor Moody.
They support modernisation, inclusion of half-bloods and Muggle-borns, and reform of archaic laws.

🔶 Traditionalists – 29 seats, 23 members
Led by Arcturus Black, co-led by Tiberius Ogden.
They favour heritage, family prestige, and slow, considered reform.

🔴 Conservatives – 14 seats, 11 members
Led by Damocles Rowle, co-led by Norbert Avery.
They advocate a return to purist traditions, ancient texts, and inherited authority.

⚖️ Faction leadership is not elected. Whoever holds the most seats assumes control.

---

🧙‍⚖️ Leadership of the Wizengamot: The Chief Warlock

Presiding over every full session of the Wizengamot is the Chief Warlock, a figure of authority and balance within the highest governing body of wizarding Britain.

The Chief Warlock’s responsibilities include:
• Setting the agenda and overseeing the conduct of debates;
• Enforcing procedural rules, with the authority to grant or withdraw speaking rights;
• And, in the event of a tied vote, casting the deciding ballot.

The title of Chief Warlock is considered a ministerial seat in its own right, complete with official compensation and an independent vote.

The role is filled through election by the active members of the Wizengamot, with no fixed term, though a re-election may be triggered at any time by an absolute majority.

The current Chief Warlock is Professor Albus Dumbledore, elected shortly after the defeat of Gellert Grindelwald, following the award of his First-Class Order of Merlin.

He currently holds two seats: one as a Merlin honouree, the other by virtue of his office as Chief Warlock.

⚠️ Note: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is not represented in the Wizengamot—its Headmasters do not sit by virtue of their educational post.

Dumbledore also serves as the United Kingdom’s representative to the International Confederation of Wizards, where he was unanimously elected Supreme Mugwump. This grants him a powerful voice on the global diplomatic stage.

A figure of balance between wisdom and influence, Dumbledore shapes the rhythm and scope of the Wizengamot’s proceedings—without engaging directly in party politics.

---

🗳️ A Dynastic Power Structure

Powerful families like the Blacks, Bones, Malfoys, and Crouches hold not just seats—but overlapping alliances that create near-total dominance.

As of today, the Black family and its direct allies (by blood, marriage, or political loyalty) control over 80% of active seats. It is an open hegemony, fortified by generations of strategic marriages, honours, and tightly managed appointments.

---

📚 In Conclusion

The Wizengamot is less a modern parliament than a dynastic council, where seats are inherited, traded, and—on occasion—reclaimed.

And right now, no one commands this arena like the Blacks.

Whether one welcomes it or not, magical Britain is being shaped by those who understand the power of legacy, manoeuvre, and vision.

Yet aspiring witches and wizards should not lose heart: there remain three open paths to one day claim a seat at this ancient table:

• Rise through the Ministry ranks: every department head gains a ministerial seat.
• Become a notable figure: influential witches and wizards may be nominated.
• Achieve a magical feat of renown: recipients of the First-Class Order of Merlin gain a lifelong seat.

For while power may be inherited, greatness is still earned.

Chapter 12: The Return of the Alchemist

✒️ Quill-snaps from Rita Skeeter :

"My dear readers! ✨

It seems the French invasion is still a thing, and Nicolas Flamel is quite the invader.

If you wish to keep an eye on the whispers and quill-snaps between updates, you can find me fluttering about on Tumblr.

Now, off you go — before someone catches you reading this under the table again!"

 

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

 

Great Hall – Hogwarts
Octobre 29th, 1991 - morning

The following morning, our young hero found himself, as usual, in the Great Hall for breakfast. However, unlike usual, he was seated at the staff table. This recent change had come about after a request from the professors, who rather felt Harry belonged more among the teaching staff than the students. Not that Harry was fooled—he knew full well they merely wanted to sit near him to chat about spells, techniques, and ideas they might pick up for themselves. Still, it wasn't exactly bothersome.

After some fairly spirited wrangling with Dumbledore—most of it coming from the professors' side—it had been agreed that Harry would take his place at the staff table three times a week. As for Neville, he now sat alongside Professor Sprout, acting as her apprentice.

Naturally, the pupils' reactions had been mixed, though most barely batted an eyelid. After all, if they were going to behave like professors in class, it seemed only logical they should sit with them at meals.

That particular morning, the Great Hall was even livelier than usual. Wednesdays generally brought a heartier breakfast—a bit of a pick-me-up before the long afternoon stretch of lessons.

And today, the house-elves had clearly decided to go the whole hog with a proper British spread.

In front of every diner sat the essentials of a full English breakfast: crispy rashers of bacon, plump smoked sausages, creamy scrambled eggs, baked beans simmered in rich tomato sauce, buttery fried mushrooms, and slow-roasted tomatoes, just beginning to caramelise at the edges. Toasted slices were stacked high in great wicker baskets, served with butter, jam, and thick-cut marmalade. Pots of piping hot tea and coffee made their rounds, while jugs of pumpkin and apple juice were swiftly emptied and refilled.

Even at the staff table, plates were generously laden. Some professors helped themselves with restraint, others with unabashed gusto. Harry, for his part, had loaded his plate without a second thought—two rashers of bacon, a scrambled egg, a few mushrooms, and a savoury Yorkshire pudding, which he'd recently discovered was sometimes served at Hogwarts breakfasts. He found it surprisingly effective at keeping hunger at bay.

Neville, seated further along, was wrestling with his plate—Professor Sprout having heaped on a double helping of beans and tomatoes without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Eat up, lad, it'll see you through till supper," she said firmly, brooking no argument.

Neville, resigned to his fate, began picking at his beans in small, cautious mouthfuls, while the usual morning hum of chatter filled the Great Hall—Quidditch gossip, homework woes, and the latest whispers from around the school.

But the general din soon gave way as a familiar figure swooped into view.

Hedwig.

Harry's famed snowy owl, now perched squarely on his shoulder, had just finished her morning rounds. The enchanted bangles around her talons gave off a soft clinking sound with every movement, casting a faint bluish glow. Thanks to those bangles, everyone could clearly hear her thoughts, spoken aloud as words.

And, as ever, Hedwig had but one thing on her mind.

"Bacon. I want bacon. Now," she demanded briskly, fixing her unblinking gaze upon Harry's plate.

Harry rolled his eyes heavenwards, clearly well used to this sort of scene.

"You've only just got back. You could at least say hello before demanding breakfast," he grumbled, without even lowering his fork.

"Hello," she replied crisply, not bothering to sound remotely polite. "Now, bacon."

Professor Flitwick, seated nearby, let out a delighted chuckle.

"My word! Such authority! I've never seen an owl with such nerve," he remarked, sneaking a slice of bacon her way.

Without hesitation, Hedwig snatched the offering in her talons and settled herself neatly on the back of Harry's chair, tearing into her prize with shameless relish.

"Thank you, Professor Flitwick. At last, a man who understands the important things in life," she declared, still chewing.

A ripple of laughter ran along the staff table. Even Professor McGonagall, known for her stern composure, allowed herself the faintest of smiles.

"You're encouraging her far too much, Filius," she remarked dryly.

"Oh, she's honest, I'll give her that," Flitwick replied, shrugging cheerfully.

Hedwig, meanwhile, was already polishing off the last of her bacon, before announcing in an unimpressed tone:

"Another. That portion was barely acceptable. You call that a breakfast? Honestly, where's your sense of hospitality?"

Harry let out a long, weary sigh, still not looking up.

"One of these days, your greed's going to catch up with you, you know."

"I pay my way—in charm and services rendered," she shot back smartly, her bangles twinkling as she spoke.

Neville, still battling his beans, stifled a chuckle.

"She's got some cheek, hasn't she…"

"And an appetite to match," Harry muttered, sounding thoroughly resigned.

But before Hedwig could wrangle another slice of bacon, a strange sound rose above the hubbub—a low, unsettling noise that crept through the bustle of breakfast.

She froze instantly, feathers ruffling.

"What's that racket now?" she grumbled, talons still gripping Harry's plate. "Can't even have a quiet meal in this madhouse, can we?"

Harry glanced up at her, deadpan.

"I think it's safe to say," he muttered, "peace and quiet are well and truly over."

The sound grew louder, sharper now. A piano. Then, almost at once, a violin joined in, weaving a bright, sprightly tune around the melody. The music was light-hearted, cheerful… far too jaunty to be accidental.

Hedwig swivelled sharply, glaring up at the enchanted ceiling, where the music seemed to be drifting down from.

"Oh, for heaven's sake—who drags out a piano in the middle of the morning?!" she hissed, thoroughly scandalised.

Professor Flitwick, clearly amused, leaned towards her with a wry smile.

"I must say, Miss Hedwig, for an owl, you do have a rather impeccable sense of priorities."

She shot him a fierce glare, her bangles flashing with irritated light.

"You don't need to be an owl to know there's NO excuse for interrupting a meal. Least of all for some blasted concert!"

Around them, the Hall was already stirring. Pupils were rising from their seats, craning their necks in search of the source of the music. Some crowded near the windows, others whispering excitedly between themselves.

The violin grew more insistent, notes bounding off the walls, the piano galloping alongside it in a frantic duet.

Neville, still clutching his fork, muttered uncertainly under his breath, looking quite lost:

"Er… is this normal? Do we… do this sort of thing here?"

Harry, utterly unruffled, calmly reached for his napkin and dabbed his hands.

"Let's just say some visitors have their own ideas about what counts as subtle," he replied dryly.

Beside him, Hedwig was still grumbling under her breath.

"If it's another one of those crackpots who thinks making a racket's the way to get noticed, I swear I'll pinch their lunch," she growled darkly.

Flitwick chuckled aloud this time.

"I must admit, I'd be half tempted to let her," he said, nearly wheezing with laughter.

But the music only swelled further.

Then, as if on cue, the great doors swung open with a dramatic crash, and a breathless student burst in, clearly in a state of near-panic.

"There's a carriage! A huge one! It's coming down from the sky!" he gasped, eyes wide as saucers.

Pandemonium erupted at once.

The pupils surged towards the doors and windows, abandoning their breakfasts without a second thought.

Hedwig, meanwhile, fixed the open doors with a thunderous scowl.

"There, that's it. Officially no respect left for the sanctity of mealtimes in this castle," she muttered, then cast Harry a dark look. "And I warn you—if this turns into some kind of musical disaster, I'm resigning."

Harry rose at last, unhurried, as though this was nothing more than another tedious chore on a long list.

"You can send in your resignation by owl post," he remarked drily, before strolling out himself, Hedwig still perched on his shoulder, grumbling loudly about "performers with no sense of timing".

And the music, relentless and bright, kept playing on.

---

Outside, the courtyard was packed with students, every face turned skywards.

The giant, pearly-white carriage continued its slow descent, borne by a dozen winged Abraxans whose vast wings beat the air with steady, thunderous strokes. But that wasn't what had everyone staring.

Seated comfortably atop the carriage, behind a grand piano of all things, an old man played with deliberate, unhurried flair, his long braided beard swaying gently in the breeze. Beside him stood an elegant woman, unfazed by the wind or dizzying height, playing the violin with her eyes closed as if none of it were remotely unusual.

"Blimey…" Neville muttered, utterly transfixed.

"Mm," Harry confirmed, sounding resigned. "Flamel."

Hedwig, perched on his shoulder, feathers bristling in disbelief, let out a sharp, withering snort.

"Oh, you've got to be joking. What is this—an opera? While I'm starving to death down here!"

She kept grumbling under her breath, more to herself than anyone else, muttering darkly about "people with egos bigger than their flying carriages".

Then, quite suddenly, a calm, slightly amused voice spoke up right beside her.

"Still as sharp-tongued as ever, dear Hedwig. Quite refreshing, really."

Hedwig gave such a start that she nearly toppled off Harry's shoulder, flapping wildly to steady herself, eyes wide in shock.

"FLAMING FEATHERS!" she squawked. "Where in Merlin's name did he spring from?!"

She spun about, glaring in all directions, clearly baffled by how Dumbledore had appeared right beside them, silent as a ghost.

Harry didn't so much as flinch. He merely raised an eyebrow, his expression as jaded as ever.

Saw him coming. You always can. The very air goes strange when he's near. Like the world itself shuffles aside to make room for him.

Dumbledore, hands tucked calmly into his long sleeves, gazed up at the descending carriage with a small, knowing smile, clearly enjoying the spectacle—both of the students' amazement and poor Hedwig's indignation.

"I can't stand him," the owl muttered furiously, her feathers still fluffed up in outrage. "He appears out of thin air like some blasted poltergeist, and worse, he enjoys it—the old menace."

Dumbledore turned towards her then, his eyes twinkling brightly behind his half-moon spectacles.

"That's hardly fair, Hedwig," he replied, mock-innocent. "I merely walk… very quietly."

"QUIETLY?!" she squawked, scandalised. "I nearly fell off, you—you moth-eaten old scarecrow!"

Flitwick, who'd been watching the whole scene, doubled over in laughter, clutching his sides.

"She's got you there, Albus!" he wheezed between fits of giggles.

Dumbledore, entirely unruffled, merely chuckled and replied, still with that infuriatingly serene tone:

"I've always had a soft spot for plain-speaking birds."

Still ruffled, Hedwig shot Harry a murderous glance.

"I swear, one day I'll have him stuffed and mounted in my owlery," she muttered darkly.

Harry didn't even bother looking at her, his gaze still locked on the descending carriage as he replied in his usual deadpan:

"Best of luck fitting him in a cage. That'd be a job and a half."

"Pff. I'll find a way," Hedwig grumbled, sulking.

"That's what they used to say about certain owls," Dumbledore remarked, still feigning innocence, his eyes never leaving the scene unfolding before them. "But with enough patience, anything is possible."

Hedwig stiffened, her talons tightening ominously on Harry's shoulder.

"I swear, I'll rip that beard off and turn it into pillow stuffing, you mad old codger," she muttered through gritted beak.

Dumbledore beamed at her, as though she'd just paid him the highest compliment.

"Ever the charmer, Hedwig. Your diplomacy is quite the delight."

Harry, now grimacing slightly under the talon grip on his shoulder, let out a weary sigh.

"Can you save the threats for later? Because meanwhile, they're about to finish landing."

Before Hedwig could unleash another volley of colourful language, the carriage completed its descent. The Abraxans touched down with a resounding thud, kicking up a shimmering cloud of magical dust.

The music drifted to a graceful close on a final, perfectly timed chord.

---

A heavy silence fell over the courtyard.

Pernelle was the first to descend from the carriage roof, her every step carrying an almost otherworldly grace. She greeted the crowd with a delighted smile, as though she were simply popping out for a bit of shopping.

"Do forgive the little spectacle," she called out in a soft, lilting voice—gentle, yet loud enough to carry across the courtyard. "We did try to arrive discreetly, but I'm told simplicity's quite out of fashion these days."

Just behind her, Nicolas Flamel leapt nimbly from the roof, landing with an ease that was downright unsettling for a man rumoured to be well over a century old. A broad grin split his face.

He brushed himself off with casual nonchalance, as though he'd just hopped down from a stepstool, and cast a cheerful glance about.

"Ah, I've missed this," he declared, his enthusiasm anything but subtle. "Nothing quite like the chilly welcome of England. So wonderfully frosty, so delightfully stiff."

A few students exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether they ought to be insulted. Most of the teachers, however, simply sighed. They knew the drill by now—Flamel had already spent several weeks at Hogwarts before vanishing briefly to "tie up a few loose ends"—which, plainly translated, meant fetching his wife and arranging this latest dramatic return.

"Oh, how I've missed you all," Flamel continued, with a mockingly tender smile. "This dear old castle, the never-ending drizzle, and the… creative cuisine. Ah, England! Where one can scald their mouth on tea that's far too hot and die of boredom over a pudding that tastes of nothing."

He gave a satisfied click of his tongue, clearly chuffed with himself.

"Still as modest as ever," Dumbledore murmured behind him, a faint smirk on his face.

Flamel turned slightly, hands clasped behind his back.

"Oh, Albus, you know I simply speak the truth," he replied, utterly unrepentant. "Honestly, you should all be grateful that my dear wife and I have brought a touch of… musical sophistication to this backwater."

Hedwig, still perched on Harry's shoulder, gave a slow, exaggerated nod.

"Oh, absolutely," she remarked, dripping with sarcasm. "Pure sophistication. Thought I'd stumbled into a Muggle wedding on stilts."

Harry didn't so much as blink. He kept his gaze locked on Flamel, the picture of calm, as Hedwig added, even sharper now:

"And I'd bet good bacon he's invoiced the school for the performance."

Flamel, who could hear her perfectly thanks to her enchanted bangles, let out a booming laugh.

"Oh, what a razor-sharp tongue on this little creature!" he chortled, thoroughly delighted. "I was warned she was a one-off. Harry, you simply must lend her to me for dinner parties—she'd be the star of the show!"

"I only work for bacon," Hedwig shot back flatly, not missing a beat.

Nicolas roared with laughter, nodding as though he'd just struck the deal of the century.

"At last! A bit of honest negotiation in this castle. I rather like her."

Harry remained as impassive as ever, arms folded, watching Flamel draw closer with that ever-present grin.

"Somehow, I see you haven't changed," Harry remarked, his tone weary and unamused.

"Why would I?" Flamel replied, giving him a sly wink. "Once you've achieved perfection, all that's left is to enjoy it."

"He actually said that," Hedwig muttered, sounding half-scandalised, half-impressed. "Didn't even flinch. Incredible."

"That's why he's famous," Harry replied, his voice as flat and lifeless as his expression.

Dumbledore, watching the whole exchange with his trademark twinkle, added airily:

"Some people write books to be remembered. He prefers grand entrances and a piano on a flying carriage."

Flamel, absolutely revelling in the attention, flung his arms out wide in a grand, theatrical gesture.

"My dear Albus, books are old hat! I much prefer live performances. At least no one falls asleep halfway through my cover."

He let out another hearty laugh, thoroughly pleased with himself.

Hedwig, muttering darkly under her breath so only Harry could hear, added:

"Honestly, if I bit him right now, do you think I'd get away with it?"

Harry didn't answer, too busy watching the pair closely. Pernelle Flamel was striking—beautiful, even—with long white hair swept neatly back to reveal a face lined with age but alight with vitality and a playful glimmer in her blue eyes. Her blue robes flowed elegantly, the very picture of poise.

Clearly, she and Nicolas were cut from the same cloth. That fact alone sent a faint shiver down Harry's spine.

It was plain enough to see—those two were going to stir things up at Hogwarts.

And Harry didn't like that one bit.

---

Harry finally tore his gaze away, fixing his eyes back on Dumbledore, who looked as though he was savouring every moment of this charade, as if he were watching his favourite play.

"You can feel it too, can't you?" Hedwig muttered in his ear, her tone conspiratorial.

Harry didn't reply. He knew exactly what was coming.

Meanwhile, Nicolas was still greeting everyone with that ever-present smile of his. Then, quite suddenly, he spun back to face Harry, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Well now, enough time-wasting," he announced, his voice full of cheerful bravado. "I didn't come all this way just to tinkle the ivories on the rooftops—though, let's be honest, that ought to be a local tradition."

He strode forward, his boots clicking lightly on the flagstones.

"I'm here for him!" he declared loudly, jabbing a perfectly theatrical finger in Harry's direction.

A ripple of whispers swept through the crowd of students, all curious but none quite daring to speak up.

Harry rolled his eyes, utterly unimpressed.

"Oh, brilliant," he muttered.

Hedwig gave an indignant click of her beak.

"Fantastic. He's gone and marked his territory now. Just what we needed—a batty old owl staking a public claim on you."

Flamel, clearly delighted by the stir he was causing, threw Harry a roguish wink.

"Oh, don't pull that face, my boy. You should be honoured! You're about to receive knowledge that even the greatest wizards wouldn't dare to ask for."

"I'm guessing you count yourself among the 'greatest wizards', then?" Harry muttered, dry as dust.

"But of course," Nicolas replied, utterly shameless. "Modesty, my dear lad, is a luxury only the incompetent can afford."

A few of the professors—Slughorn and McGonagall among them—exchanged glances, part amused, part resigned. They were already realising the months ahead would feel very long indeed.

Dumbledore, for his part, watched the whole farce with the air of a man thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Come along, then," Flamel said, gesturing grandly. "Fresh air's lovely and all, but I hear your walls are rather more welcoming these days—or so your local bookworms would have me believe."

Hedwig gave a dry, rather cutting chuckle.

"If we could at least get inside so I can fetch my bacon, it might take the edge off this humiliation."

Harry, calm as ever, just let out a resigned sigh.

"Let's get on with it. We're going to end up stuck with him for hours either way."

"Exactly!" Nicolas chimed in cheerily, clearly having overheard. "And don't worry, young lady," he added to Hedwig, "there's always bacon wherever I go. I never travel without a decent cook."

Hedwig's eyes widened, suddenly intrigued.

"…I take it back. The man may have a scrap of sense after all."

Perenelle, amused, took her husband's arm gently, throwing Dumbledore a knowing look.

Without missing a beat, Nicolas turned towards the Headmaster again, still smiling but his tone suddenly all business:

"Albus, I trust everything's been sorted, of course. The classroom, the quarters, and my little… peculiarities."

The courtyard, which had started to settle down, fell into another wave of confused silence.

Dumbledore was already smiling, eyes twinkling.

"Of course, Nicolas, everything's ready. I've made sure your requests were followed to the letter."

But Nicolas, unfazed, pulled out a scroll from his pocket and began to unfurl it with great care.

"Forgive me if I double-check," he said smoothly. "You know me—stickler for details."

He kept unrolling the scroll, which seemed to go on forever. He was still at it when a few students began to pale visibly.

"First requirement," he began, calm as anything, as though listing ingredients for a potion, "black velvet blackout curtains in my quarters—to block out any stray sunlight during my work."

A few students exchanged glances, teetering between laughter and sheer bewilderment.

"Second—retractable ceiling in my classroom. Must be reinforced, naturally. Some reactions can be… lively."

The murmuring grew louder, the mood shifting towards a nervous sort of excitement.

"Third," he went on, deadpan, "a tea fountain in my quarters. I refuse to walk more than three paces for a proper cuppa."

At that, Hedwig leaned in close to Harry, muttering with a sharp, dry bite, eyes still fixed on the ever-unfurling scroll:

"I knew it. He's not an alchemist—he's a domestic tyrant."

Harry, deadpan, merely sighed:

"Wait. This is just the start."

Nicolas continued, entirely serious:

"Fourth demand—a flying carpet in my quarters. Armchairs are a barbaric invention. I prefer to float. And naturally, it must match the curtains. One must have standards, after all."

Several students now looked on the verge of fainting.

But Nicolas carried on, utterly relentless:

"Fifth requirement—flameless candles for lighting, powered by the castle's own magic. I can't abide harsh lighting; it ruins one's focus."

He looked up, as calm as ever.

"For now, those are merely my essential needs. I've a few other tweaks in mind, but we'll sort those out once I'm settled," he added, with a smile that sent a shiver down half the courtyard.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was laughing heartily, shoulders shaking with glee, utterly delighted.

"You haven't changed a bit, Nicolas," he chuckled, dabbing at his eye with the corner of his sleeve. "It's a real pleasure to have you back."

"Someone's enjoying themselves far too much," Hedwig muttered bitterly.

"He always enjoys himself too much," Harry replied, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Nicolas carefully folded up his scroll and shot Dumbledore a satisfied grin.

"Splendid. Glad to see the English—hapless lot that you are—can still manage a few simple requests."

A wave of shock rippled through the students, hovering between outrage and stunned disbelief. Several jaws dropped, particularly among the Gryffindors, some of whom looked about ready to draft a petition to have Flamel booted out immediately.

Hedwig nearly choked with laughter, shaking her wings in wicked amusement.

"Oh, he's not going to last the week before they're throwing bricks at him," she snickered gleefully.

Harry, still unruffled, gave a slight shrug.

"No. They'll never have the guts," he replied flatly. "They'll just grumble under their breath and keep their heads down. As usual."

Dumbledore let out another loud, unabashed laugh, utterly unbothered.

"Ah, Nicolas… ever the master of subtlety," he said fondly, polishing his spectacles on the corner of his robe.

Flamel, unbothered, flashed a grin like a cat that'd got the cream.

"I prefer honesty," he said coolly. "That's why you invited me, isn't it? To bring a bit of… modern thinking to this country that's been stuck in the Dark Ages."

"And perhaps a dash of modesty too," Perenelle added, rolling her eyes but smiling all the same.

"Oh, heavens no," he replied at once, mock-scandalised. "Modesty is for those who've still got something to prove."

A few students gasped audibly as Flamel turned to Harry, clearly delighted with the grand entrance he'd made.

"Come along, my boy. Time to see our classroom. Education above all else—even in this charming land of incompetents."

Hedwig shook her head, utterly dumbfounded.

"I think I've just found someone even more full of himself than Dumbledore," she muttered to Harry.

Harry let out a long, weary sigh, watching the Flamel couple with his usual glacial resignation.

"Yep. And I'm stuck with him for the whole year."

"We both are," Hedwig grumbled from her perch on his shoulder. "Though at least he's got bacon."

Dumbledore, who had clearly caught every word, gave one last laugh before calling out, with playful mischief:

"Well then, Nicolas, Hogwarts is in your capable hands once more. Just try not to frighten my pupils too much… at least not on the very first day."

"I'll do my best," Flamel replied with a grin far too innocent to be believed.

Under the still-stunned stares of the courtyard, the Flamel couple strolled off arm in arm, Harry trailing along behind—dragged into the madness whether he liked it or not—followed by Hedwig, still muttering away between threats of biting and grumbles about her missed bacon.

The crowd watched them vanish, frozen, unsure whether they ought to laugh, cry… or pray.

For what, though, not a soul could say.

The only certainty was that Hogwarts' peace had just come to a spectacular end.

And all to the tune of a most colourful duet.

Chapter 13: Interlude: Meanwhile in Albania and the Malfoys'

✒️ Quill-snaps from Rita Skeeter :

"My dear readers! ✨

It seems things are happening in Albania, and Lucius Malfoy is doing the right thing.

If you wish to keep an eye on the whispers and quill-snaps between updates, you can find me fluttering about on Tumblr.

Now, off you go — before someone catches you reading this under the table again!"

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

Vlorë – Albania
Novembre 19th 1991

He'd been trapped in this repugnant body of his for five months now. Some might have called it attractive — broad shoulders, square jaw, neatly trimmed beard — but not him.

And for good reason: however comely it might appear, it was still the body of a Muggle. And if there was one thing Voldemort loathed above all else, it was Muggles. And now, here he was — prisoner inside one.

Still, he wasn't blind to the stroke of luck it represented. For years, ever since that wretched night, he'd scraped by in the forests of Albania, leaping from beast to beast, a parasite clinging to whatever life he could find. Naturally, he favoured snakes — not just because they were his ancestor's emblem, but because they could go for days without feeding.

He'd thought a wizard would find him before long — someone, anyone. But the years dragged on, proving him wrong. Not a single human, let alone a magical creature, crossed his path in those cursed woods. Was it sheer bad luck? Or did magical beings somehow sense the darkness festering in his soul?

He didn't know. What he did know — what had become painfully clear — was that he could no longer bear existing like that. So when, by sheer dumb luck, he stumbled upon a Muggle splitting logs — he seized the chance.

That's how he took the man's body, snuffing out his consciousness like a candle and rifling through his memories as though they were his own.

His name was Besnik Kodra — a name as bland as the life it belonged to. A brickie by trade, barely literate, living well away from the village in an old stone house he tended with the obedience of a house-elf, minus the magic. His days were spent building other people's lives, patching up walls real men had knocked down. He believed in God, in honour, in his wife and children — in that pitiable order Muggles call dignity. He was nothing. And it was precisely for that reason he had been chosen.

Voldemort hadn't planned it. He didn't plan anything anymore. When survival becomes your only aim, you stop thinking in futures and hypotheticals. You live minute by minute, teeth bared. So when he'd seen him — alone, dressed in a worn jacket, axe in hand, bent over an old tree stump, breath short, eyes empty — he knew. Not because the man was weak. No. He knew because the body was still untouched by fear, the mind still pliable — smooth as parchment, ready to be inked. He'd slipped in with a whisper. No struggle. No resistance. Besnik's mind collapsed like rotted wood, leaving only a pathetic echo behind — a stifled scream, buried in the flesh.

And yet, as pathetic as it was, this body had its merits. Young. Sturdy. Well-built. The sort of look Muggles envy, and silly women swoon over. But that's all it was — a look. A shell. A ridiculous cage in which he now slithered, like a snake forced to wear the hide of an ox.

Magic didn't flow through these veins. Not truly. He'd tried, in those first days, to force his will through the unfamiliar flesh, but every part of him recoiled at the impurity. He could barely lift the simplest of objects, and each attempt brought a dull, grinding pain — as though the body itself was rebelling. He felt severed. Worse — he felt human. Nothing could be more degrading.

Besnik's wife was called Valmira. A forgettable blonde with tired eyes and a look of quiet surrender. She hadn't noticed the change. Or rather, she hadn't wanted to. Love — that blithering nonsense — had blinded her. She'd cupped his cheek — his cheek! — that evening when he'd come back, and smiled at him as though he were just a husband returning from a hard day's graft. The nausea had hit him at once. And when the children came — one clutching his leg, the other gurgling in her arms — he knew the charade had to end.

He killed them in their sleep.

Not out of fear that they'd uncover the truth. No. He killed them because their very existence offended him. Because they looked at him with trusting eyes, as if the thing he was could be loved, forgiven, touched. He killed them because he could. Because that power was still his — primal, absolute, wandless. He crushed the air from their lungs with a thought, squeezed their hearts with an unseen fist until silence fell.

He hadn't cleaned up. Hadn't even tried to hide it. Their bodies were still in the cellar, piled between the preserves and the garden tools. Their faces were taking on that ashen tinge Muggles dread. He didn't go down often, but now and then, in the dead of night, he'd lift the trapdoor and stare at his work. Not with joy — but with the cold satisfaction of a builder admiring the foundations of a house he intends to raze.

He hadn't left the house in weeks. Hadn't needed to. He kept up with the news on a dusty old wireless Besnik used to follow the footie scores. He read the local rags, delivered under a false name. And he waited.

But today was different. Something stirred in him. Instinct.

And when instinct calls, you answer. So he did — grabbing the car keys and heading into town.

---

He knew Albania. Far better than most of those ignorant wizards who simply Apparated across the Balkans without sparing a thought for the lands beneath their feet. He had survived here. Wandered its forests in shadow, in breath, in remnants of form. He knew its hidden folds, the places where magic had sunk deep, ancient and undisturbed. Even in a backwater city like Vlorë, he knew there existed — tucked between an abandoned hammam and a shop peddling fake Ottoman relics — a minor magical alleyway, barely wider than a prison corridor, where the local wizarding folk came to trade, to beg, to deal… or to forget.

He went there at dusk, still in Besnik's skin, clad in a worn woollen coat and topped with a filthy knit cap. No one spared him a glance. It was a trait Voldemort despised — the way Muggles could vanish into the grey of their own mediocrity — but tonight, it served him well.

The alley's entrance bore only a single weather-worn symbol carved into the stone: an inverted blade above a crescent moon — the long-forgotten sigil of the Night Regraters' Brotherhood. A relic of pre-Ministerial sorcery, left like a warning for those still foolish enough to think laws dictated the practice of magic.

Inside, everything mirrored the magic of these lands — raw, hushed, and steeped in old knowing. No dazzling window displays, no cheerful shopkeepers in bright robes. Just darkened stalls, watchful eyes, the scent of grease, burnt fur and mildewed parchment.

He made his way to an archway etched with Dwarvish runes — not the goblin scrawl one saw in Britain, but deep-carved sigils, alive in the stone. He stepped into a discreet outpost of a dwarven bank, unmistakable by its matte gold crest: an anvil struck by three interlocking hammers.

The dwarf behind the counter barely looked up. He wore a plaited beard, emerald spectacles, and a leather cuirass tooled with ancient symbols. No warmth in his manner — just the sharp efficiency of a tradition honed over centuries of hard coin and cold bargains.

Voldemort handed over a wad of Albanian banknotes he'd pilfered from Besnik — leks, pitiful scraps of currency, but enough for this part of the task. The dwarf weighed them, sent them clattering into a trapdoor, and in return, slid over a pouch of bezants — weighty, metallic, marked with universal runes and an old emblem: an eye set in a pyramid, the ancient sign of continental magical commerce.

"At last, a proper currency…"

He'd never understood the British obsession with Sickles and Knuts — coins with absurd names, relics of an insular, backwards system. Bezants, on the other hand, were accepted from Paris to Bucharest, Geneva to Durmstrang. They were used in the serious circles. Where real power was traded.

He cast a discerning eye around the inside of the counter, noting the walls cut from volcanic stone. The place reeked of permanence, quiet authority, old order.

And then, like a hiss in the dark, the thought struck him:

"Nothing like those Gringotts goblins…"

Snivelling degenerates, obsessed with treaties, property deeds, vault fees and endless clauses. Legalistic vermin, who'd demand an ancient dagger over a handful of overdue Knuts. Worse than Muggle bureaucrats. They thought themselves untouchable — safe behind neutrality. But neutrality is just a mask. And even the greediest creature can bleed.

Dwarves were different. Rarer. More discreet. More dignified, in their way. They didn't sell services — they forged pacts. And if they didn't like you, they'd tell you so plainly. With an axe in hand.

"A more honest breed in their savagery…"

Voldemort found himself almost admiring them, in his own fashion. He'd never sought to enslave them — not out of respect, he respected nothing — but because they posed no threat. They sought no dominion, no rule. They wanted to build, to weigh, to shape. That, he could understand.

He made his way towards the nearest magical kiosk — a squat wooden booth crammed between a herbarium and a potion-smuggler's front, where the owner was failing miserably to hide her illicit phials behind mouldy blue silk curtains. The place stank of old ink and silencing spells, but it had what he needed: stacks of newspapers, local and foreign, bound in self-sealing ribbons, sorted by language and continent.

Voldemort snatched up the latest editions with a curt gesture — The Central European Chronicle, The Rhenish Scroll, a copy of The Transylvanian Observer, and of course The Daily Prophet, English edition, with its ridiculous lilac banner and overly bold headline font. He dropped a few bezants onto the counter without a word, took the papers, and slipped away down a side alley.

He disliked reading in noise. He preferred silence. Solitude. A king's isolation. He settled on a damp stone step, back to a wall slick with rain, and opened the foreign papers first — out of habit more than anything. Nothing. Idle chatter. Bewitched weather forecasts, a column on tensions between Mahoutokoro and Beauxbatons, and a piece on a growing underground trade in Amortentia in southern Italy.

Then he unfurled The Daily Prophet.

And there it was.

Front page. In large block capitals:

HOGWARTS VALLEY TRANSFORMED INTO A LAND OF A THOUSAND COLOURS
by your ever-vigilant eye, your golden quill, and (dare I say?) a true friend to the great and the gifted

He sat frozen for several minutes, staring at the headline in disbelief.

What on earth…

Blinking hard, he began to read.

---

HOGWARTS VALLEY BECOMES A LAND OF A THOUSAND COLOURS
by Rita Skeeter — your ever-vigilant eye, your golden quill, and (dare I say?) a true friend to the great and the gifted

Dear readers, mark this day — history has just taken a dazzling turn, and believe me, "dazzling" is putting it mildly.

It was precisely 8:47 a.m. (yes, I always check my watch — even during magical phenomena) when an explosion of radiant light echoed across the usually tranquil Hogwarts Valley. What did I witness? A shimmering magical wave bursting above the castle towers, painting the sky in rippling cascades of living colour. Solar violet, marbled crimson, throbbing green — a spectacle so astonishing that even the goblins at the nearby currency exchange stood frozen, mouths agape (and believe me, that's saying something).

The cause? An advanced alchemical experiment conducted within the school walls by none other than Nicolas Flamel himself — yes, that Flamel — though not alone, I should add.

Assisting him was none other than my dear friend Harry Potter, ever modest despite his extraordinary brilliance. You all know my genuine affection for this truly exceptional young man (and no, it's not just because of those unforgettable eyes), but take it from me: this time, he quite literally lit up the world.

The result?

The entire valley — from quiet little Pitt-Upon-Ford to the craggy outcrops of Cragcroft — is now bathed in a permanent enchanted aura, a living tapestry of light that even the Aurors of the Department of Unexplained Phenomena have officially classified as "non-hostile but devilishly unpredictable".

But don't go imagining some dreadful catastrophe! On the contrary, everyone is delighted. I personally spoke to several students at the school — including one young Hufflepuff who told me through happy tears that she "cries with joy every morning watching the lake change colour with her mood". As for the teachers, even the sternest of them seem to be walking around with faintly dreamy smiles. Professor Sinistra is rumoured to have said (in a half-whisper, half-reverent hush):

"I believe the sky has become self-aware."

And our dear Nicolas Flamel? Still as enigmatic as ever. When I posed the rather direct question — "Master Flamel, is it dangerous?" — he responded only with a wink and these cryptic words:

"Alchemy only enlightens those who dare to burn their eyes."

(I shall have that engraved on my personal quill first thing tomorrow — mark my words.)

And naturally, the event has rippled through the higher echelons.

Arcturus Black — fearsome patriarch and towering figure of the Wizengamot — granted me an exclusive comment:

"What can I say? My grandson transcends rules. He was born to leave a mark. Today, it glows. Tomorrow… who's to say?"

Who indeed?

---

One thing is certain: the magical world has not seen the last tremor (or shimmer) caused by Harry Potter — and your ever-faithful columnist has no intention of looking away… whether he likes it or not.

Voldemort snapped the paper shut with a sharp flick, his fingers curled tightly around the still-warm edge of the parchment, eyes stung by what he had just read — as though the ink itself had scorched his vision. The content was absurd, insolent, utterly unacceptable. A living contradiction to everything he had held as truth.

What's Flamel doing at Hogwarts?

The question, deceptively simple, sank into his mind like a slow blade, stirring far more than passing doubt. The presence of the famed alchemist — a reclusive master known for his jealous solitude, his distaste for crowds, his disdain for both politics and pedagogy — within the very walls of Hogwarts, a place Voldemort himself once walked, was no trivial detail. It was a disruption. A signal. One he could not afford to ignore.

Flamel, long thought to be all but withdrawn from the world, half a whisper of a man, protected only by the shadows of his legend, was now sharing the very stones, the towers, the corridors of that castle… and not for a ceremonial visit, not as some honoured guest on a school tour — but deliberately, intentionally, and for some time.

And to make matters worse, the ancient fool had taken a shine to the boy — the very one who, eleven years ago, had brought about his downfall. The boy who, unknowingly, had turned Voldemort's own curse back upon him. That boy — Harry Potter — still a child, still in training, and yet already too brilliant, too present in the public's mouth, in the press, in the world.

He still didn't understand — even after years spent brooding in the shadows — how that curse, his curse, had failed. Perfectly cast. Precisely aimed. Yet somehow broken, rebounded, twisted. And as he re-read the gaudy words of that wretched Rita Skeeter, a slow realisation took hold: perhaps it hadn't been a fluke. Perhaps it wasn't a twist of fate. Perhaps it was proof — cold, ancient, inevitable — of true power. Of destiny.

If, at eleven, he can already wield magic at Flamel's side… then yes, it's certain now. It's him. He's the child of the prophecy. The one set against me. The one whose very existence denies my supremacy. The one who must one day destroy me.

His breath shallowed, but his face remained calm. Expressionless. Fixed in the borrowed mask of that worthless Muggle, while inside, his thoughts spun in tight, frigid circles — deliberate, controlled.

Without a word, and without so much as a glance at the world around him, he turned back. His steps quick and measured, echoing faintly on the damp stones of the alleyway, he retraced his path to the kiosk where he'd bought the Prophet just minutes before. He ignored the weary passers-by — to him, they were little more than dust motes in a world far too slow for what he was preparing to become again.

The vendor, still behind the counter, recognised him at once. His expression flickered — a blend of surprise and wary curiosity. He clearly hadn't expected the rough-looking man with the hard stare to return so soon.

"Looking for something else?" he asked, polite but clipped.

Voldemort returned the gaze with a measured look — one he had perfected long ago in the grey corridors of the orphanage where he'd grown up, before the world learned to fear the name he had chosen. A look that could soften, round its edges, hint at something affable when needed — like now. For he knew that raw fear didn't open every door. Sometimes, you had to charm. To coax. To let them believe.

He forced a smile. Just enough. Almost warm. And when he spoke, his voice was low, gentle, faintly weary — the tone of a man returning to the world after too long away.

"I've been somewhat… out of touch these past ten years," he said, his words drifting like mist between the shelves. "Might you have anything more on this boy… Harry Potter?"

The vendor lit up at once — a greedy smile spreading across his face like sunrise over a gold mine. He'd recognised it for what it was: not a question, but an opportunity. The chance to sell what he valued most — not in coin, but in curiosity, in the fever of the age. And Voldemort knew that smile well. Had seen it on the faces of traffickers, politicians, silver-tongued merchants — that smile which meant: I'm going to bleed you dry, but nicely.

He gave nothing away.

He knew some prices had to be paid. Not in gold, but in patience.

"And while you're at it," he added, his tone now light, almost offhand, "throw in anything you've got on British politics over the last decade. After all… I need to prepare for my return."

He didn't need to raise his voice to make the message land.

The threat, the promise, the certainty of it — all were etched in the cadence of his words, in the quiet inevitability of what he'd just said.

Yes, he would return.

But not with cries of vengeance.

He would return as a shadow — silent, unseen. As a strategist. A ghost in the blood of the world. A conqueror cloaked in patience.

He turned his head slowly, eyes settling on the shop window opposite, where a magical menagerie displayed creatures with twisted fur, twitching wings, and gleaming eyes. And in that still, suspended moment, he felt something stir — an ancient taste rising at the back of his tongue. The memory of old rites, forbidden incantations, sacrifices etched into flesh like keys in locks too old to open cleanly.

There were ways to reclaim a worthy body.

And many paths — dark, forbidden, buried under centuries of dust — that could lead back to Hogwarts.

And he… he knew every one of them.

---

English Countryside – Malfoy Manor
Meanwhile…

Lucius Malfoy was not especially fond of tea — not for himself, at least — but he always served it during his gatherings. Certain traditions, he knew, were like antique tapestries: their worth lay in the eyes of those who remembered them, and it would be unforgivable to neglect the symbolic comfort of a guest while receiving them at Malfoy Manor — a home designed not to please, but to impress without offence.

Truth be told, he much preferred wine — bold reds from the Aosta Valley, enchanted Burgundies that decanted to the sound of a harpsichord, or the peaty Highland whiskies introduced to him by Arcturus Black, who had once described them as "the only known cure for Gryffindor blather." A remark that had kept Lucius smiling for a fortnight.

Despite the glacial reputation that clung to his name like frost, Lucius got on exceedingly well with Arcturus — and almost as well with Sirius, though he considered the latter far too flamboyant for his own good. As for Mad-Eye Moody, he acknowledged the man's formidable tactical mind, the piercing eye beyond the mechanical one, and most of all, that rare ability to listen not just to what was said — but to what was left unsaid. A precious trait in a world where everyone seemed far keener to speak than to understand.

That day, it was Narcissa who had written the invitations — as always. Lucius understood that presentation was an art best left to a woman who, with a single glance, could make a diplomat question his orders.

The replies had come quickly — a mark of sincere interest, and shared esteem.

And yet, it was not for the pleasure of conversation that Lucius had brought them together. Behind this seemingly genteel gathering, there lay no scheming, no rallying of forces, not even a desire to shine. Lucius Malfoy, above all things, was a man who sensed danger long before it took shape.

And for several nights now, that danger had a shape.

A book.

Ancient.

Silent.

But very much alive.

A volume entrusted to him years earlier by the Dark Lord himself, offered in the name of a loyalty Lucius no longer claimed — not out of betrayal, but clarity. Bound in black leather, sealed with runes no curse, no revealing charm, not even fire had been able to touch.

He hadn't laid a finger on it in years. And yet recently, he felt it. Or rather, he felt something that watched from within its pages — a faint presence. A whisper skimming the edges of forgetting.

The temperature in the room where it was kept would shift without cause. Paintings on nearby walls trembled in their frames. The house-elves refused to clean there. And Lucius — not a man given to fanciful notions — had realised this was no longer a mere artefact of dark magic. It was something more. Perhaps… a residue of will.

And that, he could not ignore.

He no longer wanted to ignore it. For Lucius Malfoy possessed a rare trait among pure-blood wizards — the ability to recognise the precise moment when comfort ceased to be a luxury and became a dangerous distraction. When something in his own home — be it a stirring in the air or a closed page in a forgotten book — began to elude his control, he knew it was time to act.

The guests arrived a few minutes early — which, in the quiet language of ancient families, was a gesture of respect.

The first to cross the threshold was Arcturus: straight as a staff, clad in a black robe devoid of ornament — its cut alone a reminder that he had never truly left the halls of power, and that age, for him, had been no more than a patina over an unblunted blade.

Beside him stood Sirius, grinning, tie deliberately askew, eyes gleaming with the usual blend of mischief and challenge — and Lucius, who had known him long enough to care for him without ever relaxing around him, shook his hand with warmth untouched by intimacy.

Lastly came Moody — towering, weathered, with his magical eye whirring lazily in its socket like a distracted hawk. He said nothing, offered no real greeting, only a curt nod and the familiar grimace that passed, in his case, for civility.

Lucius led them into the smaller drawing room, where Narcissa had, as always, arranged things to perfection: deep armchairs, a rosewood table laid with sweet and savoury dainties, a porcelain tea service bearing the black and silver crest of the family, and at the centre, a bottle of 127-year-old whisky, opened with care — for he knew his guests, while tolerant of tea, preferred conversation steeped in smoke and oak.

He was about to suggest they sit when Dobby appeared with a panicked pop, arms overburdened by a tray far too large for him, balancing three full cups, an enchanted teapot, and a plate of ginger biscuits.

"M-Master Lucius! Dobby has brought the tea! Dobby is most duti—"

The rest was lost in the crash of porcelain, a scalding splash of tea, and a flurry of squeaks as the tray slipped from his grip, sending cups skidding across the three-century-old Anatolian carpet, where the tea soaked instantly into its golden thread.

Silence fell.

Lucius, his face motionless, felt a vein twitch at his temple.

"Dobby…" he said slowly, eyes closed as if warding off a migraine.

Sirius burst out laughing — a full, hearty laugh, boyish and unrestrained, loud enough to make the fire in the grate flicker.

"Oh Merlin, I love that blasted elf," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "At least he's got flair!"

Lucius turned to him with a look of icy irony.

"Then by all means, take him. I'll throw in the porcelain shards as a gift."

Sirius shrugged, still chuckling.

"I've already got Noddy, you know… and house-elves are like wands — you don't swap them lightly. Though I'll admit, yours is far more entertaining."

Lucius sighed. Long and deliberate — the kind of aristocratic exhale he reserved for moments of weary superiority, the sigh of a man entirely at home.

"Dibby!" he called out clearly.

A second elf appeared with a sharper pop, her arrival precise and practised. This one was female, with a pinched face, ears held perfectly upright, and the no-nonsense air of a Gringotts-born governess.

"His mother," Lucius remarked dryly, as one might speak of an inherited affliction. "See that he is… re-educated. Some semblance of standard, at the very least. He's beginning to look like an electrocuted barn owl."

Dibby nodded crisply, said nothing, and seized Dobby by the ear. The younger elf let out a meek whimper of shame, and with another pop, the pair vanished, leaving silence neatly restored.

Lucius sat back into his chair, crossed his legs, and studied the dark tea stains now blooming across the intricate threads of the carpet, its golden filigree soaked by centuries-old liquid shame. His mind drifted, for a moment, to what he would have done, once.

In the past, he would've punished Dobby.
Harshly.
Immediately.
Without a second thought.

But times had changed.

And Harry Potter — that surprisingly political boy, more dangerous in his earnestness than even in his growing power — had made it painfully clear: one could lose a great deal by humiliating one's own servants.

A wounded elf never forgot.

And in a world where old allegiances were crumbling, every loyal creature was worth more than a vault full of Galleons.

He reached for the whisky, poured it carefully, and handed out the glasses with the solemnity of a master of ceremonies at a state function.

"Well then, gentlemen," he said at last. "Now that the circus is over… I believe we have a more serious matter to attend to."

---

Lucius slowly swirled the whisky in his glass, savouring the padded silence of the drawing room — as though he were allowing himself just a few more moments of comfort before opening a door he'd long hoped never to approach. At last, he lifted his eyes to the three men seated around him — men he respected, in his own way, and with whom he knew he could speak without pretense.

"I need your opinion," he said finally, in a calm, almost detached tone. "There's an object… a book, to be precise. Not an ordinary volume. It was entrusted to me some time ago. By… You-Know-Who."

He didn't need to say the name. In this room, they all knew exactly who he meant.

Arcturus fixed him with that quiet, judicial intensity of his, hands resting on the silver head of his cane, waiting not with suspicion, but expectation. Then, after a few moments:

"And why have you never mentioned it?"

Lucius lowered his gaze, letting it drift to the whisky's surface, where firelight danced faintly in the amber liquid.

"Because I kept forgetting," he said. "Every time I thought of it, every time I told myself I needed to deal with it, something else would intervene. I'd move on. The thought would vanish. And only recently did I realise — it wasn't me. It wasn't natural."

Moody gave a low grunt, his magical eye locked onto Lucius, the other half-closed in thought.

"That bloody book's working on your mind. Playing with your defences. Like reverse Occlumency. Doesn't want to be noticed. Not uncommon with old cursed items… but it's a very, very bad sign."

Sirius, lounging against the back of his armchair with his glass in hand, furrowed his brow slightly.

"So what changed? What snapped you out of it this time?"

Lucius inhaled deeply. And for the first time since the start of the conversation, a flicker of unease passed over his otherwise composed features.

Arcturus had been watching him silently for some time now, that heavy stillness of his pressing down like lead — the way he always waited for the truth to reveal itself, seeping out like pus from a wound too long ignored.

"Is it here?" he asked at last, his tone quiet but unwavering.

Lucius gave a slow nod, the motion itself seeming to unearth the buried discomfort he'd spent weeks trying to suppress.

"Yes. I locked it away. Recently. Only a few days ago."

There was a pause. Then, lowering his voice — not for effect, but simply because the truth resisted being spoken aloud — he added:

"Sophrona nearly found it."

The others stiffened ever so slightly — not alarm, not panic, but that specific tension only fathers truly understood. Sirius straightened, brows knitted.

"She's what… three?"

"Three," Lucius confirmed. "And already too curious for her own good. She bypassed the first layer of enchantments on my library. Not the book's defences, of course. But she touched the cabinet. The wards reacted. That's when I realised what I should have seen long ago — the book didn't want to be touched. Not even by me."

Moody, still as stone, let out a low growl like a boiler reigniting.

"That thing's alive in there, Lucius. Old, dangerous. It's working on you. A proper cursed artefact doesn't need to be open to defend itself."

Sirius set his glass down and stood with an easy grace, glancing over his shoulder.

"Dibby!"

There was a sharp pop, and the house-elf appeared beside the hearth — ears upright, arms folded across her immaculate apron, eyes locked on Sirius with the poise of an elf who knew that, in this house, guests held real authority.

"Fetch the black chest — the one on your master's desk, in the private library."

Dibby nodded crisply, turned on the spot, and vanished without a sound.

The room fell still again. Thicker now. Even the fire in the grate seemed to crackle with restraint, as if the walls themselves were bracing for something.

Dibby returned less than a minute later.

In her arms she carried a rectangular chest — black, banded in dark metal, with no visible lock. A plain object, and yet one that exuded the unmistakable unease of something no one wanted to touch, though none could explain why.

She placed it carefully on the low table between the glasses, bowed without a word, and disappeared.

The box did not move. Did not hum or pulse. But it was there — and all of them, without speaking, felt it.

Lucius crossed his legs slowly, hands steepled before him.

"Since I locked it away," he said, "I've slept better."

A beat.

"But that's exactly what troubles me."

---

The chest remained still, perfectly sealed, as if simply being brought out of hiding wasn't enough to disturb it. It sat there, at the centre of the table, like a sleeping beast — waiting, patient, untouched.

Untouched by all… save for Moody.

Without asking, without so much as a glance for permission, he leaned forward and laid a calloused hand on the black wood. He muttered something — guttural, coarse — in a language Lucius barely recognised. Old Gobbledegook, twisted and crude, like the runes of a butchered dialect.

The lid snapped open with a muffled crack, like a breath that had been held too long.

Inside, the book lay still.

No glow. No hum. No perceptible ripple of magic. Just a presence — heavy, waiting.

Moody looked at it. Not for long. A few seconds, perhaps. His magical eye spun slowly across its surface, paused, shifted again. Then, with a sharp movement, he shut the lid.

He leaned back, took a sip of whisky, and said, almost casually:

"It's a Horcrux."

The word dropped into the room like a stone into icy water.

Lucius didn't react at first. He searched his memory — but the term slid off his mind like oil. It sounded wrong. Foreign. A riddle half-formed.

"A what?"

It was Arcturus who answered. His voice was lower than usual, his tone deliberate, as if the very explanation tasted bitter in his mouth.

"A Horcrux. One of the oldest forms of dark magic. The most vile, in my opinion. An artefact into which one hides a fragment of one's soul… after committing murder. A ritual that tears the self apart. It fractures the magic within. It's an abomination. And an utter betrayal of what we are."

Lucius froze. His fingers stopped halfway to his glass, now resting stiffly on his lap. He stared at the chest as if it had changed shape before his eyes — no longer an object, but an act. A profanation. An insult. A rupture.

"He… tore his soul?" he whispered, more to himself than to the others.

The silence that followed was confirmation enough.

Lucius looked away. He had known Voldemort. Had walked at his side. Believed in his vision, in his ambition — but he had never imagined this. Not this desecration. Not this filth.

"It's an offence against magic," he said at last.

His voice was calm — but it trembled faintly. Not with fear. With revulsion.

Sirius had said nothing since Moody's announcement. He stared at the chest, unfocused, as if something inside him had cracked soundlessly. His glass sat untouched on the arm of the chair — a rare and worrying sign in itself.

"Another Horcrux," he murmured, voice rough and strained.

"You mean… there are more?" Lucius asked, horrified — as if the thought were too foul to contemplate.

"The third," Sirius replied quietly. "If you count the one in Harry's scar… and the Peverell ring Garluk handed over."

There was no surprise in Arcturus or Moody's expression. No contradiction. Just grim confirmation. They already knew. Their silence wasn't ignorance — it was weight.

Moody shifted in his chair, leaned forward, and placed his cane against his knee. His magical eye narrowed.

"Tell me the truth, Lucius… do you remember anything else he might've given you? Anything odd he left behind? Something overprotected — too precious even for him?"

Lucius frowned, shook his head slightly, then paused.

"I can't be sure," he said slowly. "But… years ago, I overheard Bellatrix mentioning something. An object. Something she called 'sacred'. She claimed the Dark Lord had entrusted it to her. She boasted about it. Not to me, to Narcissa — but I was in the room. She spoke of her vault at Gringotts."

Sirius's head snapped up.

"Vault 777?"

Lucius nodded, and Sirius let out a grim groan.

"Oh, bloody hell. Isn't that the one you handed over to the Lestranges as compensation when you cut ties with Bella after the divorce?"

Arcturus, perfectly composed, spoke as if reciting a conclusion already known.

"Indeed. We'll need to contact the Lestranges and recover the object."

He didn't ask. He didn't suggest. He declared.

"If they're holding another fragment… it must be retrieved. As soon as possible."

Lucius watched the exchange, thoughtful.

"And what about this one?" he asked, nodding towards the box.

Moody offered a grin that was all teeth — the kind of grin that reminded everyone in the room why he was the most feared Auror since the Ministry's founding.

"Nothing a bit of Fiendfyre can't handle. You know the spell, don't you?"

Lucius gave a quiet, humourless chuckle. Oh, he knew it.

After all… it had been invented by the Malfoys.

Back in the days of the Roman Empire.

Chapter 14: A Most Unusual Christmas Eve Preparations

✒️ Quill-snaps from Rita Skeeter :

"My dear readers! ✨

Time for the Winter holidays and the preparations for a most unusual Christmas Eve.

If you wish to keep an eye on the whispers and quill-snaps between updates, you can find me fluttering about on Tumblr.

Now, off you go — before someone catches you reading this under the table again!"

---

The Mage – Book 2: First Year at a Magical School

---

Faculty Tower – Hogwarts
December 19th 1991

As usual, Harry was up at the crack of dawn. Morning light barely pierced the heavy curtains, yet there he stood, every inch of him immaculate. Not a Hogwarts robe in sight today, nor even one of his usual ceremonial cloaks. No, this time it was a charcoal three-piece suit with a discreet sheen to the fabric, each golden button finely etched and catching the first rays like a whisper of firelight. The collar was turned up smartly, a midnight-blue tie embroidered with the Black family crest in silver thread at his neck, and the stitching so precise it looked as though the Gringotts' fashion goblins had crafted it themselves.

The ensemble practically oozed elegance, wealth… and above all, Sirius Black's obsessive sense of style.

"You look sharp."

The voice came from Neville, still perched in the middle of his unmade bed. One side of his pyjama top had slipped off his shoulder, his hair stuck up like a startled thistle, and he bore all the signs of someone recently chased through dreamland by something deeply inconvenient.

Harry turned his head, raising a brow.

"You reckon? Feels a bit… odd, to be honest. I'm so used to robes or greatcoats… now I look like a retired bank manager who's just married his Muggle secretary."

He sighed, turning towards the mirror set into the wardrobe door.

"Sometimes I think Padfoot enjoys tormenting me from a distance. In the letter he sent with the parcel, he wrote—and I quote: 'This one's all the rage in Paris among status-starved half-bloods. You'll give the Malfoys conniptions.' I can't tell if I should be flattered or deeply concerned."

Neville gave a stifled snort.

"Last year, he sent me a plum-coloured suit with a leopard-print cape. Gran said it was 'bold'. I thought I might just evaporate from shame."

Harry allowed himself a grin.

"And did you wear it?"

"Once. To Hogsmeade. Result: three horrified stares, two fits of laughter, one traumatised owl."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft chirping of a small bird that had found shelter beneath the window ledge.

Neville rubbed his eyes.

"You heading back with the others on the train?"

Harry gave a slow shake of his head.

"Nope. Arcturus insisted. He's arranged an enchanted carriage for the trip. Escorted by Aurors, no less. With, and I quote again, 'anti-press wards'. He even threatened to petrify Rita Skeeter if she showed up near the gates. Wouldn't let me use my own portal either… said I needed to be seen. You know, flaunt the family clout."

Neville gave a wry smile.

"It'll take more than a hex to stop her, that one. But… you look a bit on edge. Is it the holidays? Black Manor?"

Harry hesitated, his fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket.

"Not exactly. It's… well, I've got guests this year."

"The Flamels, right?"

Harry looked up, surprised.

Neville shrugged.

"Everyone knows. They make a racket wherever they go. I saw them yesterday in Greenhouse Four, having a full-blown discussion with Professor Sprout about the nutritional value of mandrake leaves."

"How'd she take that?"

"Tried to whack them with a trowel. Flamel thought it was 'an educational exchange'."

Harry grimaced.

"Brilliant. And now Arcturus has to host them for an entire week… He'll love that."

"You mean, he'll have an aneurysm."

Harry gave a resigned nod. He walked slowly to the window, gazing out at the flurries now dancing in the cold morning air. Hogwarts had been blanketed in white overnight. The towers, staircases and arches stood in stark relief against a winter-grey sky, painted with a chill only December could conjure.

"They're unpredictable, Neville. Completely. Pernelle gave me an alchemical soap that turns water into lemonade bubbles, and Nicolas sent me an automaton that recites draconic poetry while you sleep."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was. He named it Norbert the Dreamer."

Neville burst into laughter, unable to help himself.

"Merlin, this Christmas is going to be something else. A feast at Black Manor, with Arcturus, Sirius, Amelia… and two manic Flamels. All we need now is a parlour troll and we've got ourselves a full-blown opera."

Harry sighed, though a smile played at his lips.

"This isn't Christmas. It's a high-voltage sociomagical experiment."

He gave one last glance at his reflection in the mirror.

"Right then. Carriage'll be here soon, and I'd like to stretch my legs before I'm locked in that deathtrap on wheels for an hour."

Neville chuckled again.

"Best of luck."

"I'll need it."

And with that, Harry left the room. He'd chosen to leave his trunk behind—nothing of real value in it anyway. No homework to worry about, not in his role as assistant professor, and anything else it held, the manor had in triplicate or better.

No, he brought only two things with him: his wand, and Hedwig. She, for her part, had already left Hogwarts and flown straight to the manor, claiming the food was better there.

---

Harry eventually left the castle, nodding to students and staff alike as he passed. Most were cheerful, delighted at the prospect of a few days' break, while others grumbled under the weight of their assignments. Chiefly the students, of course, who were groaning beneath the avalanche of homework. As for the professors? They radiated glee—and with good reason: Harry had, as promised to Professor McGonagall, developed a spell that marked written work automatically.

The result? A staggering amount of time saved for the teaching staff, who now only had to assess practical assignments by hand. Naturally, this led to an immediate surge in workload for the pupils: more essays, more daily tasks, and written exercises stretching to several feet long.

According to the staff, this was to keep the children from having "too much time on their hands"—a logic Harry fully understood, having witnessed far too many of Fred and George's more creative interpretations of free time.

He made his way down the steps of the main entrance, his footsteps crisp against the snow-covered stone. The Hogwarts courtyard lay before him—pure, untouched, almost dreamlike beneath the wintry light. Snowflakes drifted down in silence, settling on statues, benches and frozen fountains. The air was sharp and bracing, but charged with a peculiar sort of joy—the kind that comes with departures, reunions, and the promise of crackling hearths.

At the centre of the courtyard stood a couple who looked entirely out of place amidst such scholastic surroundings.

Pernelle Flamel, cloaked in deep violet velvet speckled with shimmering constellations, had thrust a sparkling parasol into the snow beside her, seemingly for no reason other than theatrical flair. At her side, Nicolas Flamel wore an ivory-white coat trimmed with dalmatian wolf fur, open over a blazing orange waistcoat stitched with shifting runes. He was absentmindedly tapping his pocket watch—which, naturally, took the form of a mechanical scarab.

"Ah, our little style prodigy has arrived!" Nicolas beamed, arms flung wide as though welcoming an old comrade.

Pernelle gave Harry an appraising look.

"That tie ages you by at least five years," she said, "but rather elegantly offsets your goody-two-shoes face. Sirius, for once, has decent taste."

Harry offered them a slightly weary smile.

"I'll pass that along to my godfather. He'll be thrilled to have your sartorial approval… although I suspect he couldn't care less about your standards."

"Quite right," said Pernelle, handing him a small lacquered box. "Seasonal gift. Just… don't open it indoors. Unless you fancy repainting the ceiling in airborne gooseberry."

Harry took the box cautiously.

"Er… thanks. I think."

At that precise moment, a sound emerged—faint at first, then growing clearer—the rhythmic clatter of enchanted hooves against stone. The ground gave a subtle tremor, flakes rose in swirling eddies, and from beneath the arch of the gate, the Black family's carriage appeared.

Drawn by four hippogriffs with feathers like steel and amber eyes, the vehicle bore no resemblance to Beauxbatons' elegant craft. This one was heavy, shadowy, adorned with silver filigree and ancient runes carved into blackened wood. Two Aurors flanked it on state-of-the-art brooms, cloaks billowing, wands at the ready, eyes scanning with practiced vigilance.

"Well now," muttered Nicolas, eyeing the scene. "Bit lacking in fireworks, but I suppose Arcturus prefers his pomp funereal."

Pernelle took a step closer.

"The crest on the door… that's the older seal of the Black lineage. Very rare. I didn't think he still had it engraved on his vehicles."

"Arcturus clings to his relics," Harry replied, opening the door. "And even more tightly to his sense of grandeur."

"At this stage, it's clinical," Pernelle murmured as she stepped up beside him.

They settled inside the opulent cabin, where deep leather cushions flanked a central table laid with steaming drinks, pre-enchanted parchments, and a bizarre chessboard—its pieces steadfastly refusing to harm one another.

The carriage lifted smoothly into the air, buoyed by ancient, well-rooted magic. Outside, Hogwarts began to shrink, slowly swallowed by curtains of falling snow.

Harry sat across from the Flamels, resting his wand against the window.

"You weren't joking about that box, were you? The gooseberry thing?"

"It's an alchemical scent bomb," Pernelle replied with studied innocence. "One of Nicolas's more mischievous innovations. The smell adapts to the mood of whoever opens it. Try it on Lucius Malfoy—I'd wager it would reek of pickled oysters."

"And you," added Nicolas with a grin, "would probably smell like lavender and gunpowder."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"This Christmas is going to be a disaster."

"This Christmas," Pernelle corrected him, "is going to be historic. There'll be tea, irritable guests, a bursting-at-the-seams Black Manor… and us. If that's not a recipe for chaos, I don't know what is."

Harry leaned back in his seat, casting one final glance at the distant outline of Hogwarts.

He exhaled softly.

"Christmas… or diplomatic crisis. Not much difference this year."

And the carriage soared onwards, devoured by the wintry sky.

---

Black Castle — United Kingdom
December 24th 1991 – morning

Five days had passed since their arrival at Black Manor. Five days… and that was quite enough to turn the noblest and most austere of ancestral homes into a veritable battleground—where tradition, eccentricity, frayed nerves and muffled laughter clashed in glorious disarray.

Christmas Eve was fast approaching, but the atmosphere in the manor was more akin to a theatre mid-dress rehearsal, with everyone determined to impose their own vision of the grand performance.

In the drawing room—normally silent and solemn—the decorations hung in delightful chaos. Bewitched garlands were nipping at one another near the ceiling. The Christmas tree, enormous and listing slightly to one side (no one could quite explain why), creaked occasionally, as if protesting its fate. Several attempts had been made to straighten it, all in vain—it clearly enjoyed being crooked.

Perenelle Flamel was issuing instructions to two harried-looking house-elves, who watched her with a mixture of dread and exhaustion. She wore a deep burgundy velvet gown, peppered with tiny golden bells that jingled every time she spun on the spot—which she did often, claiming it helped her "assess the visual balance of the room".

"No, no, no! Not the plates there, I've told you that a dozen times! The main dish goes in the centre, not between the blasted candelabra. And get rid of that hideous centrepiece! It looks like a toad skewered on a cushion!"

"It's an enchanted rose," Narcissa Malfoy snapped, standing a few feet away with her arms folded.

Clad in an elegant black gown with a high collar, she stared at Perenelle with all the frosty dignity she could muster.

"A rose, perhaps. But that thing has no business being on a festive table. It's morbid."

"And I could say the same about you."

Harry, seated in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, watched the exchange with a look of amused dismay. It felt like he was witnessing some kind of silent witchy duel in upper-class etiquette. And neither woman showed the slightest inclination to back down.

Across the room, Nicolas Flamel was demonstrating decorative table charms, making cutlery perform a graceful waltz above the tablecloth. Sirius was watching him with a grimace.

"Honestly, Nicolas, haven't you got anything better to do than teach forks to dance?"

"I think it's rather charming," Flamel replied without turning round. "Besides, it's a sight more useful than your comments about French wands, wouldn't you say?"

Sirius sighed. "All I said was that English wands are more powerful, that's all."

"You said: 'French wands are for stirring tea, not casting spells.' There's a nuance there, but it appears to have eluded you."

"And ever since, my coat speaks in bloody rhymes every time I touch it!"

"A mild revenge, believe me. I spared you the singing version."

Harry rubbed his temples. His brain felt permanently scrambled. In every laugh that was a bit too loud, every wayward charm tossed about, he sensed a kind of chaotic tension that set his orderly Æon mind on edge. He'd spent half an hour lining up the chairs in the dining room, only to see Nicolas send them spinning in a "test of festive circulatory flow".

And yet, a part of him—the Azata side he barely understood—was having the time of its life. He laughed when Sirius got caught by a talking biscuit, hung on Perenelle's every story (complete with sound effects), and even let his thoughts drift happily through the mayhem.

Arcturus, meanwhile, was watching the whole scene from his favourite armchair, a goblet of mead in hand, looking thoroughly entertained. He didn't get involved in the squabbles—he merely listened, mentally jotting down the choicest barbs for future use.

"You know," he murmured to Harry as he sidled over, "I've seen a century's worth of Christmases in this house. Thought I'd seen it all. But this… this is something else. We could almost patent this version of the holiday."

Harry looked up at him.

"I'm knackered, Arcturus. My brain gave up about an hour ago."

"And yet your face tells a different story. You're enjoying yourself."

Harry opened his mouth, hesitated, then couldn't help smiling.

"Maybe a little."

Arcturus gave a satisfied nod.

"Good lad. Sometimes you've got to learn not just to survive the chaos—but to ride it."

---

The drawing room door creaked open under a gust of icy wind, startling a house-elf who promptly upended a tray of glasses. A hulking figure limped in, snow clinging to the hem of his long coat. In one hand, he held a glass half-full of firewhisky; in the other, his battered hip flask, like an old comrade-in-arms.

"I hope there's still a chair going," growled Mad-Eye Moody, "and that no one's saved me a helping of magical black pudding—or anything else Nicolas has fiddled with since this morning."

"Alastor!" said Harry, clearly pleased. "I knew you'd manage to slip past the wards."

"Pfft. Convinced the watch-elf I was a one-eyed cousin from the Polish side. He wanted proof, so I showed him my leg. He backed down."

"Diplomatic, as ever," murmured Arcturus, gesturing towards a vacant armchair.

Moody slumped into it with a leathery creak, setting his glass down with care.

"So then, Harry… Tell me. How'd it really go at Hogwarts? And I don't mean the official version. I'm talking about the business with the recoloured valley. Whole region looked like a carnival fever dream for two weeks. Fluorescent snow, teal Christmas trees, lime-green grindylows… I even heard Flitwick's owl moulted pink."

Harry let out a sheepish but undeniably amused laugh.

"All right, fine. It's true. But I'll tell you what actually happened. Nicolas and Perenelle had this idea—a potion that gives you colourful wings for a few minutes. Nothing dangerous, just a bit of end-of-term magical fun."

Moody raised an eyebrow. "And you decided to do this… where, exactly? I was told Professor Sinistra's observatory dome was flashing violet for ten days."

"In the main courtyard at Hogwarts," Harry replied with a shrug. "Nicolas insisted. He said—and I quote—'I never conduct proper experiments indoors. Too much resonance, too many vapours, and it's a quick way to singe your eyebrows or reek of onion broth for a week.'"

"He's not entirely wrong," grunted Moody. "Go on."

"We had everything set. Ingredients lined up, safety circle drawn in gold chalk, containment spells in place. It was meant to be a demonstration for the Alchemy Club. Base of concentrated nectar, a few coloured powders, and an infusion of Jobberknoll feathers. But then…"

He glanced at Arcturus, who was now wearing an increasingly amused smirk.

"There were two phials side by side. One had fairy wing powder. The other… powdered Erumpent horn."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," murmured Arcturus.

"Perenelle handed Nicolas the first one she grabbed. He poured it straight into the cauldron without checking—completely confident. I didn't dare stop him, he was mid-monologue about 'celestial energy in iridescent combinations'. And then…"

"Explosion," Moody rumbled, leaning back as though picturing it.

"Not straight away. First, the liquid changed colour three times in ten seconds. Turquoise, then violet, then cherry red. Nicolas shouted, 'Perfectly normal!' Perenelle beamed like she'd just painted the Mona Lisa… and then it went splat."

Arcturus frowned. "That's not an explosion."

"No. It was a cloud. A massive, magical cloud. It rose into the air and burst above the courtyard. The wind carried it—into windows, down chimneys, along corridors…"

"…And repainted the whole valley," Moody finished.

"Exactly. The snow turned candyfloss pink. The Forbidden Forest trees went duck-egg blue. The lake shimmered like a cauldron of confetti. Even the Great Hall ceiling projected orange stars."

"And Hogwarts itself?" asked Arcturus.

"The entire castle changed colour depending on the time of day. Lavender in the morning, emerald green by evening. Even the exam parchments went all grid-patterned."

Moody stifled a chuckle into his glass. But after a few moments, his expression sobered.

"And the fainting spell?"

At his words, the atmosphere shifted. A few days after the incident, Harry had suffered what was technically his first real "faint"—though it hadn't been illness or a curse. Rather, it was as if the sheer disruption of magical order had shaken him to his core. These things happened all the time elsewhere, and normally didn't trouble him. But this was different.

"It wasn't exactly a faint," he said quietly. "More like… shock."

Arcturus straightened slowly in his seat, arms crossed, attentive.

"Shock from what?"

Harry shook his head.

"I don't know. That's the worst part. I don't know what it was. Just that… something was wrong. Not in a physical sense. Magically wrong. It hit me like a wave. As if everything around me had shifted. Not visibly. But the magic—it felt off."

"And did you tell anyone?" asked Moody, his jaw tight.

"Yes. Nicolas, Perenelle, Dumbledore… even Quirinus. They all reacted the same way. They think it's connected to me."

"Without knowing what it is?" Moody growled.

"Without knowing anything," Harry replied. "But one thing's certain—it wasn't nothing. I felt it like… like an alarm. Something waking up. Somewhere."

Arcturus exchanged a brief glance with Nicolas, then turned back to Harry.

"And that's when you turned to Divination."

Harry nodded. "Yes. We went to see Trelawney. I know what people say about her. But this time… it was different. She was already waiting for us, as though she'd known we'd come. She was in a trance—talking to herself, scribbling words onto scraps of parchment without stopping."

Moody grunted, still unconvinced.

"And what did she see, exactly?"

"A city. A city by the sea," Harry said, his brow furrowed. "She saw a burst of light… and then nothing."

He paused.

"Muggles are calling it a gas explosion. In Albania. But we… we know it wasn't that. We feel it wasn't that."

A long silence followed. Then Arcturus, very quietly:

"Do you know the name of the city?"

Harry nodded slowly.

"Vlorë."

Arcturus fell still for a few seconds. He froze, eyes locked on Harry like someone watching the last pieces of a puzzle fall into place. Slowly, he sat upright in his armchair, set down his goblet of mead on the side table, and folded his hands over his knees.

"Vlorë," he repeated under his breath, pensive. "Of course…"

Harry turned to him.

"You know it?"

"I know the name," Arcturus replied, not looking at him. His tone had dropped, more measured now. "I've heard things. Nothing official. Nothing written in black and white. Just… whispers. Reports that pass through very select circles. The sort you don't send by owl—the sort you murmur, checking no portraits are listening."

Moody, who had stayed quiet until now, nodded slowly.

"I've heard it too. But never anything concrete. Just that it was bad. Very bad."

Arcturus stared into the fire, the flames flickering in his grey eyes.

"It wasn't an accident, Harry. Not a gas leak. Not chance. Something was done there. Deliberately. There was a ritual. A powerful one. And dark. They found signs—ancient magical traces. A stone circle. Blood. Remnants of magical beasts."

Harry's stomach twisted.

"Magical beasts? What kind?"

"I don't know," Arcturus said, finally looking at him. "And I don't want to know. That kind of practice… you only hear about in tales you hope never come true. But they always do. Eventually."

A heavy silence settled over the room. Harry swallowed.

"And you think… it's connected to me?"

Moody exchanged a brief look with Arcturus, then turned to Harry.

"You said you felt it. You were rattled and didn't know why. It wasn't a spell. Wasn't a visible event. Just… a jolt. That's no small thing. That's a signal. And you—you're tuned into magic deep enough for that kind of thing to reach you."

"But if it is connected, then I've got a right to know," Harry insisted. "Grandfather… tell me what you suspect. Even if it's just fragments."

Arcturus didn't answer straight away. He studied Harry closely. His gaze wasn't hard, nor cold. Just… quietly sad. Like a man who had seen too many pieces fall, and was unsure whether to move another one.

"What we suspect," he said at last, voice low, "is nothing more than scattered fragments. Faded names. Symbols we recognise… but can't link. And if I told you what I think, without certainty, it wouldn't help you. It would only weigh you down. And right now, you're carrying enough for three lifetimes."

Harry pressed his lips together, swallowing his frustration.

"But I'm not a child."

"No. You're far more than that," Arcturus said, calm but firm. "You're my grandson. And sometimes, protecting means staying silent. It's not about treating you like a boy. It's about giving you space to breathe, while we make sure the monsters are real—and not just shadows."

Moody, beside him, remained silent but gave a slow nod.

"We'll tell you," he said. "But not yet. When we've got something solid. When it's certain."

Harry drew a long breath. He didn't like it. He hated being kept in the dark. But he understood. He saw the worry in their eyes—the restraint, the fear they wouldn't name. So he nodded, slowly.

"All right… Grandfather."

This time, the silence was gentler.

"But promise me I won't be left in the dark forever," Harry murmured.

"I promise," Arcturus replied. "Now, off you go and get ready. Your fiancée should be arriving any moment now."

Harry's face lit up suddenly, and he bolted upstairs without another word. Arcturus, meanwhile, turned to Alastor.

"Last we heard, his mind was still over there, wasn't it?"

The Auror Captain gave him a worried glance.

"My gut says it isn't anymore."

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of The Mage