A man fills out a CYOA to become a seer. He ends up as Blaise Zabini, the *other* blank slate Slytherin. Definitely not a serious story, mostly written to murder some of my plot bunnies.
Troll in the Dungeon! (Harry Potter)
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1. Worst Day Ever
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Preface
Look! I made a distraction!
This is easily the darkest introduction I've ever written. Might be the darkest single scene I've ever written. You've been warned.
I present to you, Troll in the Dungeon!
Chapter 1: Worst Day Ever
Unknown Location
"AHHHHHH!" I screamed out in agony as I startled to consciousness. It felt like every nerve in my body was on fire and my bone marrow was being extracted through a straw wrapped in sandpaper.
There was a popping noise as my muscles contracted involuntarily and made my spine contort in ways it wasn't meant to. I thrashed and swung at anything and everything around me, only to backhand the hard floor with enough force to bruise. I didn't know anything could hurt this much.
When I was eight, my cousin and I were horsing around, pretending to be WWE Wrestlemania superstars. He jumped off the couch and frog-splashed onto me but landed knee-first onto my forearm, splitting the two bones wide apart and ripping the ligaments in my elbow like a piece of string cheese. That was the prelude to eight weeks of agonizing recovery and physical therapy. For months, just balling a fist or holding a fork was an exercise in patience.
It didn't even come close to what I felt now.
I screamed myself hoarse until I tasted iron with every breath and kept going. My own screams drowned out everything else but I thought I could hear the delirious cackle of someone laughing in the distance.
My vision was blurry with tears. I could make nothing out in the haze of my own suffering save a crimson light that taunted me with promises of even greater pain.
I felt my spine convulse and slam my head against the hard ground. I saw stars and my vision went black for a moment. Even that was better than going through this pain, at least a concussion would daze me for a time.
And then, when the pain reached a new crescendo, I mercifully lost consciousness.
X
Again.
And again.
I didn't know how many times I awoke to this burning. It could have been five minutes. It could have been five years. So great was this unending agony that time itself lost meaning. I could only assume that I'd died and gone to Hell.
And then it lessened.
It was not a kindness. Now, blissful unconsciousness eluded me. I screamed and screamed until I could make no more sounds, until my own voice rubbed my throat raw and the taste of blood overwhelmed my senses.
"Finally got the power right. Wouldn't want you to pass out too often now. I want you to savor this, sweetie," came a woman's voice. I hadn't been dreaming of the cackling after all. I felt a cold, trembling hand caress my face, utterly at odds with the maniacal laughter that had filled the room until now. "You poor thing. You did nothing wrong. You don't deserve this. You just happen to be unlucky enough to have popped out of that whore's cunt. But as the French say, c'est la vie."
My whole body shook with the tremors of whatever the fuck this bitch did to me. Through bleary eyes, I saw her.
She looked bat-shit insane. She bore haunted, hollow eyes that might have once been a dazzling blue. Her cheeks were sunken as though she only ate once every few days. Wispy brown hair framed a face that could have once been pretty.
"W-Who are you?" I stammered. I hated how young I sounded. I hated how my voice trembled and how I had to gnaw on my gums just to keep from hearing the clatter of teeth. "W-Why are you doing this?"
"Why? Why? No, I suppose you don't know what your murderous whore of a mother's been up to, do you?"
"N-No. You've got the wrong guy."
"I assure you I don't, Blaise," she cooed, almost affectionately. "You're exactly who I'm looking for."
My name was Corbin, I wanted to shout. My mother died of breast cancer when I was twenty-six. I cremated and buried her. I was the executor of her will. Who the fuck was this bitch?
And yet, there was a niggling sense of doubt, the tiniest spark of recognition. There was a part of me that said I should know exactly what she was talking about, that, as absurd as this situation was, it should make sense to me.
I wanted to kill her. I wanted to choke her and watch the light leave her eyes. For speaking ill of my mother, five years dead. For torturing some random stranger. For the fiery pangs of agony that swept through my body like aftershocks from an earthquake. Maybe even to put the crazy bitch out of her misery.
Then the torture began again.
This time, I saw something that started to jog my memories, like two pieces of a puzzle crashing into place with the force of a train wreck. She picked up a stick I'd ignored until now and shrieked, "Crucio!"
I had a split second to recognize the word, to finally connect the dots that formed the picture to this shit-tastic day, then the crimson light struck me and my eyes rolled up into my skull as my world became pain.
She kept it up for what felt like hours but had to be several minutes at most. I stopped trying to gauge time long ago and instead ended up measuring her stamina. Who was this witch? Why was she torturing me? What did she have against my supposed mother? Was she as powerful as Bellatrix Lestrange?
God, I hoped not.
She wasn't very creative. Cruicio seemed to be all she knew. I wished she could be more inventive with her torture methods; then at least I'd have relief from this pain. I screamed and screamed until I would have gnawed off my own arm to escape the pain.
I promised everything. I didn't know what fell out of my mouth but it didn't matter. Between the blood and vomit, I promised her the world. I promised her prophecies and secrets that could make her the most wanted woman on earth. I promised the Dark Lord's horcruxes, the Deathly Hallows, the Sword of Gryffindor, the Chamber of Secrets. The philosopher's stone. All that I knew about the series fell from my lips like a raging river as I searched for anything, everything, that could possibly tempt her to stop.
It didn't matter; all I got for my babbling was her mocking laughter. Of course she didn't believe me. I hadn't even begun Hogwarts; what secrets could I possibly know? What treasures could I have? In the first place, all she wanted was to make me suffer for no fault of my own.
Until finally, it ended.
She was panting now. Her wispy, brown hair hung in matted streaks down her face, making her look all the more like some kind of skeletal wraith. The orange light of the sole lamp in the room cast eerie shadows over her face. She breathed heavily and I thought I could see a slight shiver run along her hand.
'Magical exhaustion,' the part of me that was foreign recognized. Crucio could not have been an easy curse to cast. Perhaps my suffering was at an end.
"When I'm done with you, I'm going to send her the memory. Maybe pieces of you too," she giggled madly.
I took huge gulps of air. Even the breath passing through my lungs sent fresh waves of pain through me. More and more of my memories pieced themselves together. I was Corbin Silva, just a no-name college librarian and lover of folk tales. I filled out a CYOA. I died doing… something…
I remembered my choices. I'd picked them out on a lazy evening at the campus library, a what-if character designed more for amusement than anything else. It sure as hell wasn't funny now.
I was Blaise Zabini. That name… my "mother"... That… That certainly explained quite a bit.
Memories of my life in this world came rushing to the fore: Blaise Zabini was born the only son of Dante Zabini, an old pureblood who used to be an acolyte of Grindelwald's back in the 30s. He married the black widow I called mother in 1976 and died in 1978. He was the first of her victims.
I remembered growing up in this life. I remembered slowly maturing and realizing just what happened to all my "fathers," just what a maneater mother was. I remembered wondering why she continued to let me live, if I'd serve some unknown purpose then have an "accident" like all the rest. Suffice to say, Blaise Zabini did not have healthy coping mechanisms.
Unbidden, I began to giggle. The giggling turned into deranged laughter. I couldn't help it; it was honestly funny and humor was all I had left. "Hehehe… Hahahahahaha!"
"What are you laughing at?"
"You. Me. Everything. You must be an Espinoza."
"Don't you say his name! Your murderous whore mother killed him! He was the only family I had-"
"And I'm the only family she has," I croaked. It still hurt to talk but it didn't hurt as much as a crucio so I kept talking. "That's where you're wrong."
"What are you yammering about?"
"Not the only one bit. The family bit. Valencia Zabini doesn't have family. That'd require she give a fuck about someone who isn't her."
"Shut up. Shut up."
"You think the black widow of seven murdered husbands cares about anyone? You think she's capable of that?" I laughed. There was real bitterness in my voice, not just from being in this mess. It was the pain of a young boy who grew up too fast, who unwittingly stumbled upon the cooling corpse of more than one step-father.
"Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!"
"You're just doing her work for her, you know, step-aunt number seven. Heh, she might even thank you for the convenience. Single mothers aren't as sexy as unattached women."
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH! CRUCIO!"
I had the briefest moment of satisfaction knowing I'd gotten to her, knowing I'd shared just a bit of my pain, then I began to drown again in my agony.
X
I was awake for it all but awake and lucid were two different matters altogether. Crucio was the single most excruciating thing I'd ever felt. It had a way of consuming you, of devouring every last thought until the only thing in existence was you and the curse, until pain was all there was, is, or could be.
It was also monotonous. It was one-dimensional. In a detached corner of my mind, I likened it to the desensitization of too much cologne, something you got used to if given enough time.
It wasn't like that of course. The pain was magical. The curse existed for torture and no other purpose. The curse wouldn't let its victim go, not this soon, not unless I left my sanity behind. I refused; I wasn't that far gone yet.
Still, I eventually sank into a semi-conscious state of perpetual suffering. If there was a purgatory, I suspected it'd feel a bit like this.
That subjective eternity eventually came to an end. The bitch couldn't go on forever after all. She could only fuel herself with misplaced hatred for so long; even she had to eat. More importantly, she was magically exhausted.
I wished I could stand but I could barely twitch in place.
"That was satisfying," she said with false cheer. She headed up to a staircase. "You'll stay down here for me, won't you, Blaise? Not that you have a choice. You don't even have your wand yet, do you?"
She laughed cruelly as she closed the door behind her.
I allowed myself a minute to tremble and sob but I couldn't afford to wallow long. I didn't know when she'd be back. I took stock of where I was and what I had.
The basement was an old wine cellar. There was a sturdy metal lamp hanging from a hook by the stairwell that cast a sickly orange glow through the room. Perhaps on another day, I might have wondered how wizards came to adopt light bulbs in some locales but remained so very backwards in others.
The floor was solid oak; my skull knew firsthand how sturdy the wood was. There was nothing else in the room save for a wall-mounted shelf with circular slots meant to hold wine bottles. I searched intently for even one bottle left, it could make for a passable shiv if movies taught me anything, but no, nothing.
I pushed against the floor and forced myself to sit despite the aching in my body. I had to. I had to believe I had a shot at escape. The CYOA was both my curse and my only hope. If I filled it out, it surely meant there was a way out too. Past-Corbin was a fucking asshole but even I wouldn't think a single day of torture-porn was funny. This couldn't be the end of my story.
Then something on my hand scraped against the oak.
I looked down to see a golden ring. I hadn't noticed before but she'd clearly not bothered with taking any of my belongings. Why would she? She wasn't looking for trinkets to rob. She only wanted to see me hurt and I didn't have a wand to take in the first place.
But I knew better. I knew what this was: a spell ring, a unique item enchanted to perform one, predetermined spell.
I wracked my memories but came up disappointed. No, of course it wasn't the AK, blasting curse, or anything to defend myself. Not even Fiendfyre so I could take the bitch with me. Then I realized what was in it and kissed my hand with the delirious joy of the dying.
"Episkey," I whispered as a gentle, green light washed over me. Relief, pure, unadulterated relief filled me and I knew I'd promise the devil my firstborn to feel this again.
The pain wasn't gone, the strongest torture curse couldn't be undone that easily, but the healing spell undid some of the damage I'd done to myself in my thrashing and banished the fog that lingered in my mind. It pushed the pain far back enough that I could think properly again.
'What do you have, Corbin? What do you know? What can you use?' I asked myself. Those three questions became my mantra as I went over everything the CYOA promised me.
I paled as I realized just what was happening here: Worst Day Ever.
It was a drawback, one of those that gave you a hefty dose of points for taking it. In exchange, it placed you on Fate's shitlist, because Fate was apparently a conscious force here. It made Fate take notice of you and ensured you were tested to see if you belonged in this world, to see if you had the right to exist.
For one day, you had to survive at all cost in a setting that would spell death for most: stranded in a forest chased by werewolves, ground zero of a territorial dispute between a nundu and a dragon, that sort of deal. Kidnapped, wandless, and mid-crucio in some undisclosed basement with a torturer who could not be bribed nor negotiated with certainly qualified. The perks, innate abilities, and magical affinities purchased through the CYOA were nerfed into the ground during this time.
It wouldn't be a test otherwise.
I slumped. It wasn't as though my perks were combat-focused anyway. No, no wandless magic, physical fitness, or the bloodline of some powerful magical beast. I went the seer-route. Past-Corbin thought it'd be funny to take every single perk and talent related to divination, up to and including Fate and Time affinities, all for the purpose of creating a competent seer who had some measure of control over his abilities.
Fuck…
The bright side was, if I survived this, Fate would acknowledge my right to exist in this world, providing me with a vial of enhanced felix felicis as a reward, or perhaps a peace offering.
I cast another dose of episkey on myself and closed my eyes. I had to try. Divination was one of the few talents that didn't require a wand. Crystal balls. Tea leaves. Bone fragments. Tarot cards. Zodiac signs and birth gems. Sometimes just someone's palms. Sometimes none of those things.
Would I survive? Would I be rescued? I had to know. I had to try. Anything was better than this.
Just twenty-four hours. If I could hold out that long, the drawback mandated Fate would pull back its bitchfest. Worst Day Ever ended with the holder of the drawback fainting, which implied survival or rescue. It meant my chances of survival in the long run would rise dramatically. If I couldn't… Surely I could ram my head hard enough against the wall to end it…
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I tried to look within myself, to find something, anything, that could hint at the Sight. Innate talents were greatly weakened while Worst Day Ever was active but weakened didn't mean gone… right…? It wasn't impossible to know.
"Come on, Fate, you bitch, give me this," I begged, my voice a raspy whisper.
I had no idea what I was searching for. Needless to say, Corbin came from a world without magic. Blaise wasn't exactly a studious prodigy. It was a hail mary, a desperate attempt to grasp at straws. All I knew was that Blaise Zabini was definitely a wizard and so it should theoretically be possible.
I didn't know how long I tried to find my magic. Seconds seemed to stretch on forever. And then, I heard the door creak open.
My heart fell through my stomach as my eyes flickered towards the stairwell, only to find it was still shut. She hadn't returned yet.
One second. Two… Three…
There was that creak again.
"I'm back~" she sang like a third rate horror movie villain. I wanted to call her on it but the promise of drowning right back in that ocean of pain strangled the words in my throat. She skipped down the stairs. I didn't know if she went to eat or sleep or whatever but she was back and ready to make me regret breathing again.
I blinked as she repeated the motions. The dissonance in time was just wide enough for me to notice. Taking a deep breath, I counted again.
Three seconds. Three. Fucking. Seconds. What the hell was this bullshit? I knew my powers would be dimminished here but what the fuck, Fate?
The torture began again and molten lead flooded my veins. I screamed and laughed in abject hysteria. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't some shonen hero who could make three seconds work for him. I wasn't motherfucking Monkey D. Luffy! Three seconds was fuck all!
I bent and contorted myself, howling in agony. Her curse struck, then struck again as reality caught up with my Sight. The Sight was worse than useless; it forced me to see it coming twice over. What little vitality I managed to recover thanks to my spell ring was undone in moments.
I coughed, spitting blood onto the oaken floor. It looked a lot like spilt wine in the orange light.
"Sweetheart, we're just getting started."
X
After an eternity of this, she was tiring again. Or maybe she was getting bored. No matter how obsessive she was, there had to be a limit, right? Ever so slowly, the rate of her crucios was trickling to a stop. My Sight made me obsess over time, counting the seconds until reality rubber-banded and caught up to my visions. The time between each curse ticked up, second by second, and I could think again.
'I have to make my move,' I realized. If I did nothing, she really would kill me. Or I'd go insane like the Longbottoms. It didn't matter; as far as I was concerned, true death and death of identity were one and the same.
She paused to catch her breath and leaned against the wall. I used those precious seconds to think of a plan. It was risky, but what wasn't at this point?
She had been arrogant, thinking that a boy who hadn't even gotten to Hogwarts couldn't' possibly be a threat. She hadn't bothered to tie my wrists or search me for weapons, not that I had any.
But I did have my ring. A crazy plan began to take shape.
When she returned to her torture, I brought my right fist to my mouth and did my level best to swallow it whole. I felt the ripping of flesh and the warmth of blood as my teeth bit down uncontrollably.
"Argghhhh," I screamed into my fist.
She paused to laugh at me. "Aww, you've screamed enough, don't you think, Blaise? There's no need to muffle your screams now. Or are you trying to be a big man?"
I ignored her. My blood hid my ring as I tugged it off with my teeth. I tasted metal, though whether blood or gold I couldn't say. I tucked it beneath my tongue and waited for the right moment. Three seconds. I'd get a mere three second's warning.
"Does this fix anything?" I asked between ragged breaths.
"No, sweetie, but it does make me feel better," she replied with an unhinged smile. "Your whore of a mother started this. Blame her."
I hated what I had to do. I needed her to be pissed, absolutely livid. I needed her seeing red, so focused on hurting me that nothing else would register.
So, I cracked a bloody smile, I'd bitten down hard enough to fracture my own teeth at some point. "Don't worry, I do blame her for this bullshit. I'm jealous, you know?"
"What are you talking about?"
I shot her the most insufferable grin I could. "At least he got a good fuck in before he croaked."
"You shut your mouth! Crucio!"
I saw it coming in slow motion. I saw it coming twice, once as my power kicked in and another as reality caught up to my vision. The red bolt moved towards me and I had no way to avoid it. So, I didn't bother.
Instead, with what little strength I could muster, I spat my ring beneath her heel as she bolted to her feet. The magic ring caught itself between her foot and the oak floor. It skidded along the floor and took her right foot with it, causing her to collapse with a squawk of surprise. The first, predicted bolt struck my chest. The second struck the space to my left as her aim flew wide..
I'd look back on this moment as the very first prophecy I'd broken. It was barely anything, a mere three seconds, but those precious seconds were a matter of life and death for me.
Her yelp of surprise was cut off abruptly as she struck her head on the wall she had been leaning against. The force sent my ring rolling back towards me and I snatched it from the ground as fast as my trembling hands allowed.
I put the ring back on, made easier by the slick blood covering my hand, and called, "Episkey."
I groaned audibly in relief but I had no time to waste. Episkey wasn't a counter to the crucio, something so convenient didn't exist. All it could do was relieve the symptoms. Its soothing magic calmed the tremors and cleared my vision, just enough to fight back.
I scrambled to my feet. My muscles burned and rebelled with every motion. There was a large part of me that wanted to give in, to just let her have her petty revenge and go to sleep forever. I couldn't.
I did not lunge for her. I instead stumbled my way to the lamp hanging next to the stairwell and removed it from the wall-mounted hook. It was made of sturdy wrought-iron, heavy enough to make my weakened arms shake from the weight.
I paused and did my best to focus as reality twisted and expanded like a slinky. Then, time contracted like a rubber band as the present caught up to my vision. Three seconds. I knew where she would be. With a roar born more of desperation than courage, I lobbed the lantern at her head. And thanks to my vision, I struck true.
The lamp couldn't have been more than ten pounds but it was just enough to daze her. I saw her loosen her grip on her wand and dove for it before she could recover.
"No!" she cried as I snapped it over my knee. Feeling the wood splinter in my grip was the single most satisfying thing I'd ever done.
I collapsed to my knees; I couldn't stand any longer. The combination of relief and vindication struck me like a physical force. Still, I had to move. I doubted I could fight off a toddler the way I was now. If I allowed her to catch her breath, she'd strangle me to death.
So I crawled. I crawled over her until I straddled her chest and did my best to pin her arms beneath my knees. I wouldn't win any title belts anytime soon but I managed. That she was mildly concussed and possibly malnourished and sleep-deprived helped.
'It's her or me,' I told myself. I did the only thing I could think of: I shoved both halves of her wand through her eyes, splintered points first.
"Ahhh!" she shrieked. I learned that day that eyeballs were uncomfortably durable. Instead of piercing through, I felt the wand fragments skid along the sclera until they reached her tear ducts. Then they sank in with a squelching noise that made me wince.
Neither wound was deep enough, not with my flagging strength.
Her scream sent a blood-curdling chill down my spine. I'd been in a handful of scraps as Corbin, a bar fight that my idiot friend started back in college, a schoolyard scuffle in middle school, but nothing like this. I'd never really hurt anyone before, never intentionally maimed anyone before.
But I kept going. I had to do worse than this if I wanted to survive. I told myself that she deserved it. She kidnapped some kid for the express purpose of slowly torturing him to death. If there was unredeemable evil, this was it. Besides, this was nothing compared to the agony of the torture curse.
I hardened my heart and reached out for the lamp even as I dry-heaved. My hands shook so I cast another episkey on myself. Then I brought the lamp down on her head.
"No, plea-" she tried to beg. Part of her must have seen it coming. Maybe I didn't cut the optic nerve.
Lift. Down.
Again.
And again.
Something in my chest burned and ached as I continued to heal myself even as I caved in her skull. I didn't know how long I carried on like that. Her screams became a whimper and slowly trickled to a stop. I didn't know when; I couldn't keep track. It was horrifying and therapeutic and hypnotic all at once, a droning rhythm that lured me into the task with the desperation of the dying. Not even the burn of magical exhaustion stopped me; I'd become very good at ignoring pain these past few hours.
When I stopped, her head was a bloody slurry and my arms felt like they'd fall off. The burn in my chest had gotten intolerable now. Something innate warned me that I couldn't continue like this. Anything more was suicide. I knew instinctively that even a single cast of episkey would kill me.
I slumped forward, still straddling this stranger's body. My head hit the floor and I was intimately introduced to the feeling of cooling brain matter. The thought of just what I was lying in made me empty my stomach again.
With supreme effort, I turned my body around so I could look at the door, the magically locked and soundproofed door.
A renewed wave of hopelessness crashed down on me. That hopelessness became relief; at least I'd get to die in peace. As the corners of my vision darkened and unconsciousness crept closer, I rolled myself onto my back with the last of my strength and lifted a shaking middle finger to the ceiling.
Worst. Day. Ever.
Author's Note
Believe it or not, I intended this to be a comedy for April Fool's.
Will this go on official rotation? Ehh… probably not. I think you guys like my other stories enough that I'm not sure it's a good idea to add yet another thing for me to juggle. People have been telling me to update my quests enough as it is. This might change if I ever build a big enough backlog of this story, but for now, enjoy the free chapters.
I've been on a Harry Potter kick lately and realized that as one of the oldest fandoms around, it's got a ton of tropes. I wanted to do a mashup of different trope ideas like I did with Plan? What Plan? with a trollish seer similar to Bryce as the main character. Again, was supposed to be a comedy before it took on a life of its own.
I still intend for that to happen eventually, but I wanted to start with a CYOA. It's this one if you're curious: kondor9543 .neocities HPcyoa/. I talked about some of the choices in the chapter. We'll see the rest next time.
I want Blaise to be a jaded, sarcastic shitheel who uses his knowledge to fuck with people for shits and giggles. How that became this, I'm not sure of myself…
As always, thanks to my patrons, who got to see this and several more chapters way early.
There are several changes to the Harry Potter universe I'm making, partly because I think these tropes might be fun to mess with and partly because some things just make more sense this way.
AU changes. Feel free to skip if you don't want spoilers:
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Age: Hogwarts starts at 14, ends at 21. This was referenced in the chapter when I talked about when Blaise's father died. An 11 year old Blaise surviving this bullshit would be absurd even for me.
Magical Energy: Can be exhausted, which isn't something we see in canon for some reason. Magical exhaustion is real and it can potentially kill you.
Magic Branches: Hogwarts teaches some classes to NEWTs that are not seen in canon such as alchemy, enchanting, curse-breaking, warding, and healing. Other branches of magic commonly seen in other fantasy settings such as rituals, summoning, necromancy, shamanism, and chronomancy exist but are either jealously guarded by specific families or considered very dark.
Lordships: Some families are lords. Besides the seat on the Wizengamot, there are few legalized benefits that lords have that normal people don't. Most of it is soft power and dickloads of gold, but that alone is heavily influential. No, Zabini is not a noble family. I wanted to play with the idea but didn't want Blaise to get mired in politics.
School Life: Hogwarts offers other extracurriculars beyond quidditch. Broom racing, dueling, choir, and art clubs exist. Specific students might be sought out for apprenticeships should a faculty member feel they're a good match.
Genderswaps: Yes, I'm doing it. Why? Because I flavor my food with the salt of your tears. Harry is Violet. Draco is Lyra. AND, because there must be karmic balance in the world, Hermione is Leontes and Pansy is Heath.
Look! I made a distraction!
This is easily the darkest introduction I've ever written. Might be the darkest single scene I've ever written. You've been warned.
I present to you, Troll in the Dungeon!
Chapter 1: Worst Day Ever
Unknown Location
"AHHHHHH!" I screamed out in agony as I startled to consciousness. It felt like every nerve in my body was on fire and my bone marrow was being extracted through a straw wrapped in sandpaper.
There was a popping noise as my muscles contracted involuntarily and made my spine contort in ways it wasn't meant to. I thrashed and swung at anything and everything around me, only to backhand the hard floor with enough force to bruise. I didn't know anything could hurt this much.
When I was eight, my cousin and I were horsing around, pretending to be WWE Wrestlemania superstars. He jumped off the couch and frog-splashed onto me but landed knee-first onto my forearm, splitting the two bones wide apart and ripping the ligaments in my elbow like a piece of string cheese. That was the prelude to eight weeks of agonizing recovery and physical therapy. For months, just balling a fist or holding a fork was an exercise in patience.
It didn't even come close to what I felt now.
I screamed myself hoarse until I tasted iron with every breath and kept going. My own screams drowned out everything else but I thought I could hear the delirious cackle of someone laughing in the distance.
My vision was blurry with tears. I could make nothing out in the haze of my own suffering save a crimson light that taunted me with promises of even greater pain.
I felt my spine convulse and slam my head against the hard ground. I saw stars and my vision went black for a moment. Even that was better than going through this pain, at least a concussion would daze me for a time.
And then, when the pain reached a new crescendo, I mercifully lost consciousness.
X
Again.
And again.
I didn't know how many times I awoke to this burning. It could have been five minutes. It could have been five years. So great was this unending agony that time itself lost meaning. I could only assume that I'd died and gone to Hell.
And then it lessened.
It was not a kindness. Now, blissful unconsciousness eluded me. I screamed and screamed until I could make no more sounds, until my own voice rubbed my throat raw and the taste of blood overwhelmed my senses.
"Finally got the power right. Wouldn't want you to pass out too often now. I want you to savor this, sweetie," came a woman's voice. I hadn't been dreaming of the cackling after all. I felt a cold, trembling hand caress my face, utterly at odds with the maniacal laughter that had filled the room until now. "You poor thing. You did nothing wrong. You don't deserve this. You just happen to be unlucky enough to have popped out of that whore's cunt. But as the French say, c'est la vie."
My whole body shook with the tremors of whatever the fuck this bitch did to me. Through bleary eyes, I saw her.
She looked bat-shit insane. She bore haunted, hollow eyes that might have once been a dazzling blue. Her cheeks were sunken as though she only ate once every few days. Wispy brown hair framed a face that could have once been pretty.
"W-Who are you?" I stammered. I hated how young I sounded. I hated how my voice trembled and how I had to gnaw on my gums just to keep from hearing the clatter of teeth. "W-Why are you doing this?"
"Why? Why? No, I suppose you don't know what your murderous whore of a mother's been up to, do you?"
"N-No. You've got the wrong guy."
"I assure you I don't, Blaise," she cooed, almost affectionately. "You're exactly who I'm looking for."
My name was Corbin, I wanted to shout. My mother died of breast cancer when I was twenty-six. I cremated and buried her. I was the executor of her will. Who the fuck was this bitch?
And yet, there was a niggling sense of doubt, the tiniest spark of recognition. There was a part of me that said I should know exactly what she was talking about, that, as absurd as this situation was, it should make sense to me.
I wanted to kill her. I wanted to choke her and watch the light leave her eyes. For speaking ill of my mother, five years dead. For torturing some random stranger. For the fiery pangs of agony that swept through my body like aftershocks from an earthquake. Maybe even to put the crazy bitch out of her misery.
Then the torture began again.
This time, I saw something that started to jog my memories, like two pieces of a puzzle crashing into place with the force of a train wreck. She picked up a stick I'd ignored until now and shrieked, "Crucio!"
I had a split second to recognize the word, to finally connect the dots that formed the picture to this shit-tastic day, then the crimson light struck me and my eyes rolled up into my skull as my world became pain.
She kept it up for what felt like hours but had to be several minutes at most. I stopped trying to gauge time long ago and instead ended up measuring her stamina. Who was this witch? Why was she torturing me? What did she have against my supposed mother? Was she as powerful as Bellatrix Lestrange?
God, I hoped not.
She wasn't very creative. Cruicio seemed to be all she knew. I wished she could be more inventive with her torture methods; then at least I'd have relief from this pain. I screamed and screamed until I would have gnawed off my own arm to escape the pain.
I promised everything. I didn't know what fell out of my mouth but it didn't matter. Between the blood and vomit, I promised her the world. I promised her prophecies and secrets that could make her the most wanted woman on earth. I promised the Dark Lord's horcruxes, the Deathly Hallows, the Sword of Gryffindor, the Chamber of Secrets. The philosopher's stone. All that I knew about the series fell from my lips like a raging river as I searched for anything, everything, that could possibly tempt her to stop.
It didn't matter; all I got for my babbling was her mocking laughter. Of course she didn't believe me. I hadn't even begun Hogwarts; what secrets could I possibly know? What treasures could I have? In the first place, all she wanted was to make me suffer for no fault of my own.
Until finally, it ended.
She was panting now. Her wispy, brown hair hung in matted streaks down her face, making her look all the more like some kind of skeletal wraith. The orange light of the sole lamp in the room cast eerie shadows over her face. She breathed heavily and I thought I could see a slight shiver run along her hand.
'Magical exhaustion,' the part of me that was foreign recognized. Crucio could not have been an easy curse to cast. Perhaps my suffering was at an end.
"When I'm done with you, I'm going to send her the memory. Maybe pieces of you too," she giggled madly.
I took huge gulps of air. Even the breath passing through my lungs sent fresh waves of pain through me. More and more of my memories pieced themselves together. I was Corbin Silva, just a no-name college librarian and lover of folk tales. I filled out a CYOA. I died doing… something…
I remembered my choices. I'd picked them out on a lazy evening at the campus library, a what-if character designed more for amusement than anything else. It sure as hell wasn't funny now.
I was Blaise Zabini. That name… my "mother"... That… That certainly explained quite a bit.
Memories of my life in this world came rushing to the fore: Blaise Zabini was born the only son of Dante Zabini, an old pureblood who used to be an acolyte of Grindelwald's back in the 30s. He married the black widow I called mother in 1976 and died in 1978. He was the first of her victims.
I remembered growing up in this life. I remembered slowly maturing and realizing just what happened to all my "fathers," just what a maneater mother was. I remembered wondering why she continued to let me live, if I'd serve some unknown purpose then have an "accident" like all the rest. Suffice to say, Blaise Zabini did not have healthy coping mechanisms.
Unbidden, I began to giggle. The giggling turned into deranged laughter. I couldn't help it; it was honestly funny and humor was all I had left. "Hehehe… Hahahahahaha!"
"What are you laughing at?"
"You. Me. Everything. You must be an Espinoza."
"Don't you say his name! Your murderous whore mother killed him! He was the only family I had-"
"And I'm the only family she has," I croaked. It still hurt to talk but it didn't hurt as much as a crucio so I kept talking. "That's where you're wrong."
"What are you yammering about?"
"Not the only one bit. The family bit. Valencia Zabini doesn't have family. That'd require she give a fuck about someone who isn't her."
"Shut up. Shut up."
"You think the black widow of seven murdered husbands cares about anyone? You think she's capable of that?" I laughed. There was real bitterness in my voice, not just from being in this mess. It was the pain of a young boy who grew up too fast, who unwittingly stumbled upon the cooling corpse of more than one step-father.
"Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!"
"You're just doing her work for her, you know, step-aunt number seven. Heh, she might even thank you for the convenience. Single mothers aren't as sexy as unattached women."
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH! CRUCIO!"
I had the briefest moment of satisfaction knowing I'd gotten to her, knowing I'd shared just a bit of my pain, then I began to drown again in my agony.
X
I was awake for it all but awake and lucid were two different matters altogether. Crucio was the single most excruciating thing I'd ever felt. It had a way of consuming you, of devouring every last thought until the only thing in existence was you and the curse, until pain was all there was, is, or could be.
It was also monotonous. It was one-dimensional. In a detached corner of my mind, I likened it to the desensitization of too much cologne, something you got used to if given enough time.
It wasn't like that of course. The pain was magical. The curse existed for torture and no other purpose. The curse wouldn't let its victim go, not this soon, not unless I left my sanity behind. I refused; I wasn't that far gone yet.
Still, I eventually sank into a semi-conscious state of perpetual suffering. If there was a purgatory, I suspected it'd feel a bit like this.
That subjective eternity eventually came to an end. The bitch couldn't go on forever after all. She could only fuel herself with misplaced hatred for so long; even she had to eat. More importantly, she was magically exhausted.
I wished I could stand but I could barely twitch in place.
"That was satisfying," she said with false cheer. She headed up to a staircase. "You'll stay down here for me, won't you, Blaise? Not that you have a choice. You don't even have your wand yet, do you?"
She laughed cruelly as she closed the door behind her.
I allowed myself a minute to tremble and sob but I couldn't afford to wallow long. I didn't know when she'd be back. I took stock of where I was and what I had.
The basement was an old wine cellar. There was a sturdy metal lamp hanging from a hook by the stairwell that cast a sickly orange glow through the room. Perhaps on another day, I might have wondered how wizards came to adopt light bulbs in some locales but remained so very backwards in others.
The floor was solid oak; my skull knew firsthand how sturdy the wood was. There was nothing else in the room save for a wall-mounted shelf with circular slots meant to hold wine bottles. I searched intently for even one bottle left, it could make for a passable shiv if movies taught me anything, but no, nothing.
I pushed against the floor and forced myself to sit despite the aching in my body. I had to. I had to believe I had a shot at escape. The CYOA was both my curse and my only hope. If I filled it out, it surely meant there was a way out too. Past-Corbin was a fucking asshole but even I wouldn't think a single day of torture-porn was funny. This couldn't be the end of my story.
Then something on my hand scraped against the oak.
I looked down to see a golden ring. I hadn't noticed before but she'd clearly not bothered with taking any of my belongings. Why would she? She wasn't looking for trinkets to rob. She only wanted to see me hurt and I didn't have a wand to take in the first place.
But I knew better. I knew what this was: a spell ring, a unique item enchanted to perform one, predetermined spell.
I wracked my memories but came up disappointed. No, of course it wasn't the AK, blasting curse, or anything to defend myself. Not even Fiendfyre so I could take the bitch with me. Then I realized what was in it and kissed my hand with the delirious joy of the dying.
"Episkey," I whispered as a gentle, green light washed over me. Relief, pure, unadulterated relief filled me and I knew I'd promise the devil my firstborn to feel this again.
The pain wasn't gone, the strongest torture curse couldn't be undone that easily, but the healing spell undid some of the damage I'd done to myself in my thrashing and banished the fog that lingered in my mind. It pushed the pain far back enough that I could think properly again.
'What do you have, Corbin? What do you know? What can you use?' I asked myself. Those three questions became my mantra as I went over everything the CYOA promised me.
I paled as I realized just what was happening here: Worst Day Ever.
It was a drawback, one of those that gave you a hefty dose of points for taking it. In exchange, it placed you on Fate's shitlist, because Fate was apparently a conscious force here. It made Fate take notice of you and ensured you were tested to see if you belonged in this world, to see if you had the right to exist.
For one day, you had to survive at all cost in a setting that would spell death for most: stranded in a forest chased by werewolves, ground zero of a territorial dispute between a nundu and a dragon, that sort of deal. Kidnapped, wandless, and mid-crucio in some undisclosed basement with a torturer who could not be bribed nor negotiated with certainly qualified. The perks, innate abilities, and magical affinities purchased through the CYOA were nerfed into the ground during this time.
It wouldn't be a test otherwise.
I slumped. It wasn't as though my perks were combat-focused anyway. No, no wandless magic, physical fitness, or the bloodline of some powerful magical beast. I went the seer-route. Past-Corbin thought it'd be funny to take every single perk and talent related to divination, up to and including Fate and Time affinities, all for the purpose of creating a competent seer who had some measure of control over his abilities.
Fuck…
The bright side was, if I survived this, Fate would acknowledge my right to exist in this world, providing me with a vial of enhanced felix felicis as a reward, or perhaps a peace offering.
I cast another dose of episkey on myself and closed my eyes. I had to try. Divination was one of the few talents that didn't require a wand. Crystal balls. Tea leaves. Bone fragments. Tarot cards. Zodiac signs and birth gems. Sometimes just someone's palms. Sometimes none of those things.
Would I survive? Would I be rescued? I had to know. I had to try. Anything was better than this.
Just twenty-four hours. If I could hold out that long, the drawback mandated Fate would pull back its bitchfest. Worst Day Ever ended with the holder of the drawback fainting, which implied survival or rescue. It meant my chances of survival in the long run would rise dramatically. If I couldn't… Surely I could ram my head hard enough against the wall to end it…
I took a deep, shuddering breath. I tried to look within myself, to find something, anything, that could hint at the Sight. Innate talents were greatly weakened while Worst Day Ever was active but weakened didn't mean gone… right…? It wasn't impossible to know.
"Come on, Fate, you bitch, give me this," I begged, my voice a raspy whisper.
I had no idea what I was searching for. Needless to say, Corbin came from a world without magic. Blaise wasn't exactly a studious prodigy. It was a hail mary, a desperate attempt to grasp at straws. All I knew was that Blaise Zabini was definitely a wizard and so it should theoretically be possible.
I didn't know how long I tried to find my magic. Seconds seemed to stretch on forever. And then, I heard the door creak open.
My heart fell through my stomach as my eyes flickered towards the stairwell, only to find it was still shut. She hadn't returned yet.
One second. Two… Three…
There was that creak again.
"I'm back~" she sang like a third rate horror movie villain. I wanted to call her on it but the promise of drowning right back in that ocean of pain strangled the words in my throat. She skipped down the stairs. I didn't know if she went to eat or sleep or whatever but she was back and ready to make me regret breathing again.
I blinked as she repeated the motions. The dissonance in time was just wide enough for me to notice. Taking a deep breath, I counted again.
Three seconds. Three. Fucking. Seconds. What the hell was this bullshit? I knew my powers would be dimminished here but what the fuck, Fate?
The torture began again and molten lead flooded my veins. I screamed and laughed in abject hysteria. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't some shonen hero who could make three seconds work for him. I wasn't motherfucking Monkey D. Luffy! Three seconds was fuck all!
I bent and contorted myself, howling in agony. Her curse struck, then struck again as reality caught up with my Sight. The Sight was worse than useless; it forced me to see it coming twice over. What little vitality I managed to recover thanks to my spell ring was undone in moments.
I coughed, spitting blood onto the oaken floor. It looked a lot like spilt wine in the orange light.
"Sweetheart, we're just getting started."
X
After an eternity of this, she was tiring again. Or maybe she was getting bored. No matter how obsessive she was, there had to be a limit, right? Ever so slowly, the rate of her crucios was trickling to a stop. My Sight made me obsess over time, counting the seconds until reality rubber-banded and caught up to my visions. The time between each curse ticked up, second by second, and I could think again.
'I have to make my move,' I realized. If I did nothing, she really would kill me. Or I'd go insane like the Longbottoms. It didn't matter; as far as I was concerned, true death and death of identity were one and the same.
She paused to catch her breath and leaned against the wall. I used those precious seconds to think of a plan. It was risky, but what wasn't at this point?
She had been arrogant, thinking that a boy who hadn't even gotten to Hogwarts couldn't' possibly be a threat. She hadn't bothered to tie my wrists or search me for weapons, not that I had any.
But I did have my ring. A crazy plan began to take shape.
When she returned to her torture, I brought my right fist to my mouth and did my level best to swallow it whole. I felt the ripping of flesh and the warmth of blood as my teeth bit down uncontrollably.
"Argghhhh," I screamed into my fist.
She paused to laugh at me. "Aww, you've screamed enough, don't you think, Blaise? There's no need to muffle your screams now. Or are you trying to be a big man?"
I ignored her. My blood hid my ring as I tugged it off with my teeth. I tasted metal, though whether blood or gold I couldn't say. I tucked it beneath my tongue and waited for the right moment. Three seconds. I'd get a mere three second's warning.
"Does this fix anything?" I asked between ragged breaths.
"No, sweetie, but it does make me feel better," she replied with an unhinged smile. "Your whore of a mother started this. Blame her."
I hated what I had to do. I needed her to be pissed, absolutely livid. I needed her seeing red, so focused on hurting me that nothing else would register.
So, I cracked a bloody smile, I'd bitten down hard enough to fracture my own teeth at some point. "Don't worry, I do blame her for this bullshit. I'm jealous, you know?"
"What are you talking about?"
I shot her the most insufferable grin I could. "At least he got a good fuck in before he croaked."
"You shut your mouth! Crucio!"
I saw it coming in slow motion. I saw it coming twice, once as my power kicked in and another as reality caught up to my vision. The red bolt moved towards me and I had no way to avoid it. So, I didn't bother.
Instead, with what little strength I could muster, I spat my ring beneath her heel as she bolted to her feet. The magic ring caught itself between her foot and the oak floor. It skidded along the floor and took her right foot with it, causing her to collapse with a squawk of surprise. The first, predicted bolt struck my chest. The second struck the space to my left as her aim flew wide..
I'd look back on this moment as the very first prophecy I'd broken. It was barely anything, a mere three seconds, but those precious seconds were a matter of life and death for me.
Her yelp of surprise was cut off abruptly as she struck her head on the wall she had been leaning against. The force sent my ring rolling back towards me and I snatched it from the ground as fast as my trembling hands allowed.
I put the ring back on, made easier by the slick blood covering my hand, and called, "Episkey."
I groaned audibly in relief but I had no time to waste. Episkey wasn't a counter to the crucio, something so convenient didn't exist. All it could do was relieve the symptoms. Its soothing magic calmed the tremors and cleared my vision, just enough to fight back.
I scrambled to my feet. My muscles burned and rebelled with every motion. There was a large part of me that wanted to give in, to just let her have her petty revenge and go to sleep forever. I couldn't.
I did not lunge for her. I instead stumbled my way to the lamp hanging next to the stairwell and removed it from the wall-mounted hook. It was made of sturdy wrought-iron, heavy enough to make my weakened arms shake from the weight.
I paused and did my best to focus as reality twisted and expanded like a slinky. Then, time contracted like a rubber band as the present caught up to my vision. Three seconds. I knew where she would be. With a roar born more of desperation than courage, I lobbed the lantern at her head. And thanks to my vision, I struck true.
The lamp couldn't have been more than ten pounds but it was just enough to daze her. I saw her loosen her grip on her wand and dove for it before she could recover.
"No!" she cried as I snapped it over my knee. Feeling the wood splinter in my grip was the single most satisfying thing I'd ever done.
I collapsed to my knees; I couldn't stand any longer. The combination of relief and vindication struck me like a physical force. Still, I had to move. I doubted I could fight off a toddler the way I was now. If I allowed her to catch her breath, she'd strangle me to death.
So I crawled. I crawled over her until I straddled her chest and did my best to pin her arms beneath my knees. I wouldn't win any title belts anytime soon but I managed. That she was mildly concussed and possibly malnourished and sleep-deprived helped.
'It's her or me,' I told myself. I did the only thing I could think of: I shoved both halves of her wand through her eyes, splintered points first.
"Ahhh!" she shrieked. I learned that day that eyeballs were uncomfortably durable. Instead of piercing through, I felt the wand fragments skid along the sclera until they reached her tear ducts. Then they sank in with a squelching noise that made me wince.
Neither wound was deep enough, not with my flagging strength.
Her scream sent a blood-curdling chill down my spine. I'd been in a handful of scraps as Corbin, a bar fight that my idiot friend started back in college, a schoolyard scuffle in middle school, but nothing like this. I'd never really hurt anyone before, never intentionally maimed anyone before.
But I kept going. I had to do worse than this if I wanted to survive. I told myself that she deserved it. She kidnapped some kid for the express purpose of slowly torturing him to death. If there was unredeemable evil, this was it. Besides, this was nothing compared to the agony of the torture curse.
I hardened my heart and reached out for the lamp even as I dry-heaved. My hands shook so I cast another episkey on myself. Then I brought the lamp down on her head.
"No, plea-" she tried to beg. Part of her must have seen it coming. Maybe I didn't cut the optic nerve.
Lift. Down.
Again.
And again.
Something in my chest burned and ached as I continued to heal myself even as I caved in her skull. I didn't know how long I carried on like that. Her screams became a whimper and slowly trickled to a stop. I didn't know when; I couldn't keep track. It was horrifying and therapeutic and hypnotic all at once, a droning rhythm that lured me into the task with the desperation of the dying. Not even the burn of magical exhaustion stopped me; I'd become very good at ignoring pain these past few hours.
When I stopped, her head was a bloody slurry and my arms felt like they'd fall off. The burn in my chest had gotten intolerable now. Something innate warned me that I couldn't continue like this. Anything more was suicide. I knew instinctively that even a single cast of episkey would kill me.
I slumped forward, still straddling this stranger's body. My head hit the floor and I was intimately introduced to the feeling of cooling brain matter. The thought of just what I was lying in made me empty my stomach again.
With supreme effort, I turned my body around so I could look at the door, the magically locked and soundproofed door.
A renewed wave of hopelessness crashed down on me. That hopelessness became relief; at least I'd get to die in peace. As the corners of my vision darkened and unconsciousness crept closer, I rolled myself onto my back with the last of my strength and lifted a shaking middle finger to the ceiling.
Worst. Day. Ever.
Author's Note
Believe it or not, I intended this to be a comedy for April Fool's.
Will this go on official rotation? Ehh… probably not. I think you guys like my other stories enough that I'm not sure it's a good idea to add yet another thing for me to juggle. People have been telling me to update my quests enough as it is. This might change if I ever build a big enough backlog of this story, but for now, enjoy the free chapters.
I've been on a Harry Potter kick lately and realized that as one of the oldest fandoms around, it's got a ton of tropes. I wanted to do a mashup of different trope ideas like I did with Plan? What Plan? with a trollish seer similar to Bryce as the main character. Again, was supposed to be a comedy before it took on a life of its own.
I still intend for that to happen eventually, but I wanted to start with a CYOA. It's this one if you're curious: kondor9543 .neocities HPcyoa/. I talked about some of the choices in the chapter. We'll see the rest next time.
I want Blaise to be a jaded, sarcastic shitheel who uses his knowledge to fuck with people for shits and giggles. How that became this, I'm not sure of myself…
As always, thanks to my patrons, who got to see this and several more chapters way early.
There are several changes to the Harry Potter universe I'm making, partly because I think these tropes might be fun to mess with and partly because some things just make more sense this way.
AU changes. Feel free to skip if you don't want spoilers:
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Age: Hogwarts starts at 14, ends at 21. This was referenced in the chapter when I talked about when Blaise's father died. An 11 year old Blaise surviving this bullshit would be absurd even for me.
Magical Energy: Can be exhausted, which isn't something we see in canon for some reason. Magical exhaustion is real and it can potentially kill you.
Magic Branches: Hogwarts teaches some classes to NEWTs that are not seen in canon such as alchemy, enchanting, curse-breaking, warding, and healing. Other branches of magic commonly seen in other fantasy settings such as rituals, summoning, necromancy, shamanism, and chronomancy exist but are either jealously guarded by specific families or considered very dark.
Lordships: Some families are lords. Besides the seat on the Wizengamot, there are few legalized benefits that lords have that normal people don't. Most of it is soft power and dickloads of gold, but that alone is heavily influential. No, Zabini is not a noble family. I wanted to play with the idea but didn't want Blaise to get mired in politics.
School Life: Hogwarts offers other extracurriculars beyond quidditch. Broom racing, dueling, choir, and art clubs exist. Specific students might be sought out for apprenticeships should a faculty member feel they're a good match.
Genderswaps: Yes, I'm doing it. Why? Because I flavor my food with the salt of your tears. Harry is Violet. Draco is Lyra. AND, because there must be karmic balance in the world, Hermione is Leontes and Pansy is Heath.
Dumbledore shooting people with an AK-47. (Fury and Wrath of Dumbledore)
Hagrid was the one behind the Quidditch Attack. (Mad Hagrid 1 and 2)
..please use HP YTPS and their content to mess around with people.
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CYOA & Build
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Sorry, everyone. FFnet must have eaten my CYOA link. This is it: CYOA
As for the build, keep in mind that I'm following it fairly loosely:
As for the build, keep in mind that I'm following it fairly loosely:
| Points | Source | Notes |
| NA | AU: Age | Hogwarts starts at 14, ends at 21. |
| NA | AU: Gender | Harry = Violet, Hermione = Leontes, Draco = Lyra, Pansy = Heath |
| NA | AU: Lordships | There are noble houses who have permanent seats on the Wizengamot. There are also respected masterly houses. The power of nobles varies greatly from family to family but it's almost all soft power now. The legalized privileges of nobles are almost entirely gone. |
| NA | AU: Magic Branches | Offered at Hogwarts to NEWT-level classes: Alchemy, Enchantment, Curse-Breaking, Warding, and Healing Not Offered at Hogwarts: Rituals, Chronomancy, Necromancy, Shamanism |
| NA | AU: School Life - Clubs | Athletic: Dueling, Quidditch, Broom Racing Academic: Charms, Enchanting, Divination, Magizoology, Astronomy Cultural: Choir, Arts, Chess Potions, transfiguration, & herbology do not have clubs because Snape is Snape, McG doesn't have time, and Sprout doesn't have enough greenhouse space. |
| NA | AU: School Life - Events | There are two additional tournaments on top of quidditch: dueling and broom racing. Dueling tournament is held all throughout the year, with the champion decided in June. Individual challenges are acceptable with teacher oversight. Broom racing is held twice, one in November and one in May before holidays. Prizes are school credits, sponsorships in leagues, etc. |
| NA | AU: School Life - Misc. | Apprenticeships are offered to students based on individual faculty requirements. Foreign exchange programs are possible with the other 6 major schools. |
| 15 | Drawbacks: Dotty | Like many great witches and wizards, you're a bit touched in the head. Normal social conventions simply don't matter to you, and you may have strongly held beliefs or values that make no sense. You can still live a very successful life in the wizarding world, but this behavior is certain to put off more than a few people. You are also entirely unable to interact with muggles in an acceptable manner. |
| 2 | Drawbacks: Quirky | You're a distinctive and colorful character, whether because of your personality in social settings, a unique way of speaking, or just a penchant for muggle sweets and brightly-colored robes. While the impression you leave isn't necessarily negative, nobody will forget it, and it will always give your detractors something to make fun of, whether they are schoolchildren or journalists. You'll tend to ruffle feathers, and find yourself less welcome in polite and respectable society. Finally your mannerisms make it more difficult to blend in, disguise yourself, or avoid attention when you really have to. Gets worse with Dotty. |
| 6 | Drawbacks: Somnolent | Your need for sleep is increased by 50% and you don't function well on less. You'll suffer from narcolepsy if you are deprived. |
| 10 | Drawbacks: Worst Day Ever | Your starting location is dangerous. Maybe you were kidnapped from your family, maybe a magical accident has acquired, or maybe it's the faulty reincarnation. Regardless, you are in deep right from the start. How deep? The darkest corner of Azkaban; in the middle of a forest chased by werewolves or similar dark creatures; chained in a cellar of a psychopath, etc. You probably have a concussion as all those perks you've bought aren't working properly, providing the bare minimum. Additionally, the high concept of Fate has reacted to your intrusion messing with the strings of Destiny. Until sunrise your luck is abysmal, the world will try it's best to rid itself of your presence or minimize your influence. The repercussions of your time under this drawback will stay with you afterward. You may not make it out intact, and it will certainly cause trauma for you to deal with. If you survive until dawn, you'll pass out due to unexpected effects on your blood. |
| House: Slytherin | Slytherin house embodies the traits of cunning, ambition, resourcefulness, and leadership. This has led to the house gaining a rather dark reputation, as it's members can seem cutthroat and power hungry to others. Slytherin has produced the most dark wizards of any house. Slytherin's house colors are green and silver, and the house has a harsh rivalry with Gryffindor house. | |
| -3 | Innate Abilities: Seer | You were born with the gift of future sight. You will occasionally be capable of creating prophecies which are 100% reliable, though this occurrence happens randomly. When it does, you will remember exactly what your prophecy said with perfect accuracy. You also have a knack for other predictive skills such as reading star alignments for signs of the future, as centaurs do, or the more scientific practice of arithmancy; where users calculate the likelihood of events to surprising accuracy through numerology. |
| -3 | Items: Crystal Ball | A unique crystal ball created by an ancient master of divination. This will allow the user to see the dreams of anyone who is sleeping. Extremely useful for those talented in divination, as it will allow the user to interpret the dreams of others with eerie accuracy. The ball can also be used to instigate two-way communication with targets, which cuts into their dreams. |
| Items: Enhanced Felix Felicis | Requires: Worst Day Ever After waking up you've gathered your tainted blood in a vial to better remember your defiance. Fate has acknowledged your right to be here. Upon drinking the resulting potion, you'll gain all the benefits of Felix Felicis without any side-effects or toxicity. It's enough for a full day. While in this state, Fate can't touch you, nothing else can affect your luck and you can break any prophecy. | |
| -2 | Items: Spell Ring | A plain silver ring inlaid with magical materials. When worn, this ring will mimic the effects of a single spell without need for a wand. This spell will be as easy to use as it would be with your own wand. You can pick any spell from the signature spell list, or leave the ring blank and determine the spell at a later time. This ring cannot be disarmed from the wearer. Contains: Episkey D.A.D.A - Defensive The healing charm. Capable of healing all mundane injuries not caused by magic. This spell can mend broken bones, heal cuts, and even reattach limbs if used quickly. Episkey may have trouble with magical maladies and injuries that resist this healing. |
| 5 | Magic Talents: Black Thumb | You struggle to learn herbology. Understanding the strange logic behind magical plants is twice as difficult for you, and the plants themselves are twice as dangerous to you. Cannot take herbology affinity. |
| -10 | Magic Talents: Fate Affinity | There's a room in the Department of Mysteries, that stores every True prophecy uttered within unknown range and period of time. Each a fixed point, an unavoidable Fate, that still has many ways and forms to come true. Fate is a power or agency that predetermines and orders the course of events. Fate defines events as ordered or "inevitable" and unavoidable. This is a concept based on the belief that there is a fixed natural order to the universe, and in some conceptions, the cosmos. While normally there are infinite possibilities for the future, some events are more likely to happen or more desired by magic. Fate is both the interception of the strings of destiny, ripples from every action, cause and effect, as well as unmovable objects - fixed, prophesized events that lay at the knot of said strings, each motion against them either brings the result closer or suffers a backlash from the world itself to undo those changes. The concept of Fate, used in magic, can produce causality curses like the famous curse upon D.A.D.A position, it influences personal and general Luck, predictions of the future and it's active shaping. Fate grants the semblance of omnipotence and omniscience in different proportions. |
| Magic Talents: Meta-Knowledge Shield | Regardless of whether you know occlumency, you gain the ability to block information related to your old life from outside observers. Magical detection will not identify you as older than you are or as the incorrect gender, and you will not give away any important information about the setting if you wouldn't otherwise know it. This protection extends to effects like veritaserum that would otherwise make you tell the truth. | |
| -10 | Magic Talents: Time Affinity | There's a room in the Department of Mysteries, full of all kinds of time-related devices, such as clocks, Time Turners and a certain bell jar. Time refers to the indefinite continued progress of existence and events that allows to sequence events from the past through the present into the future, to compare their durations and the intervals between them, and to quantify the speed at which objects move and things change. Time-related magic is unstable and as serious breaches in the laws of time is widely accepted to potentially result in catastrophe if meddled with. An example would be traveling four centuries into the past for five days, as a result the traveler was aged five centuries upon return, twenty five people were un-born, following Tuesday lasted two and a half full days, whereas Thursday shot by in the space of four hours. The concept of Time allows traveling in a closed timeline loop or alternative timelines, locking an object or effect in time, on repeat or altering their relative passage of time. It can also be used for pre- and postcognition. |
| -5 | Origin: Bloodline (Seer) | Inborn Gifts discounted by 3 points. |
| 3 | Origin: Legacy of Conflict | Mom murdered seven people for their wealth. She's also racist as fuck and dad was one of Grindelwald's acolytes. "Dark" and "shady" don't even begin to describe the family. |
| 10 | Origin: Pureblood | Memory drop as Blaise Zabini, one month from King's Cross, first year. Kidnapped by the family of the last guy Valencia (mom) murdered thanks to Worst Day Ever. Points can only be used in the item section. |
| -5 | Origin: Wealthy | 7 dead purebloods. Lots of money. |
| -2 | Perks: Best Match | You are the best possible combination of your parents. Despite any developmental issues from your background, you'll usually be the best-looking person in the room, with excellent strength, stamina, disease resistance, and general health. A modest intelligence boost and favorable genetics shore up your other perks, and natural confidence and willpower help you assert yourself and keep moving forward. |
| -6 | Perks: Esoteric Knowledge | Magic is often illogical or counterintuitive, but you have an aptitude for even its most esoteric forms. You grasp the nuance of symbolic properties and associations, the strange logic of rituals, or more mysterious concepts like death, sacrifice, love, and time. This is especially invaluable for magic which invokes these primordial, often dangerous forces, in particular powerful rituals, and you know how far you can push such forces without serious risk. You start with knowledge of these obscure topics equivalent to a qualified unspeakable, which is also useful for disciplines like divination, theoretical potions, and even astronomy. |
| -5 | Perks: Reincarnation+ | Your previous life is fresh in your mind, the memories are distinct but detached. You won't suffer from existential or identity crisis, it's easy to let go of your unfinished business, say farewell to your friends and family and embrace your new life. If you had mental problems or even bad habits, they are gone now if you so wish. On the other hand, you won't suffer from culture shock, raise suspicion due to anachronisms or be confused by muggles because of your pure-blood origin. The new you keeps the best traits of both personalities, decided by your preferences. The baggage of old life won't drag you down. |
| Pets: Owl | Eagle Owl named Minerva. You receive an owl for your pet. There are many different types to choose from, such as barn owls, tawny owls, snowy owls, screech owls, and brown owls. Regardless of what you choose, you can use this owl to send and receive letters and packages with surprising speed. Your owl will always know where to find your recipients as long as you know their name. Most wizards don't have phones, so owl mail is one of the most effective ways to communicate with others. | |
| Wand Core: Phoenix Feather | A feather plucked from an immortal phoenix. These cores have a detached, independent nature and tend to select similar traits in their owners. They are the rarest of the three main cores. Phoenix wands are capable of the greatest range of magic, though it may take time for them to reveal this. This type of wand core also shows the most initiative, and can act independently of the wielder on occasion. | |
| Wand Flexibility: Flexible | Well matched with open-minded wizards. Good for those with only slight favorite among magic schools. | |
| Wand Length: 10 inches | Your wand has excellent fine control, but not quite as much power as longer wands. | |
| Wand Wood: Silver Lime | Silver lime wands are especially useful in the arts of seers and legilimens, and function exceptionally well in these fields for those with the (often inborn) talents to use them. |
2. Aftermath
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Chapter 2: Aftermath
Rome, Italy
My eyes fluttered open, only to close immediately as the sun pierced through the gap between the curtains to jab painfully into my retinas. I groaned pitiably as the soreness washed over me like a wave. It was like the worst hangover I'd ever had paired with a full-body ache that I hadn't felt since my ill-fated attempt at Crossfit to impress a girl in college.
Then I remembered what I'd been doing to end up like this. The repeated rounds of crucio. Her pulped cranium. Her lifeblood and brainmatter staining the wooden floorboards.
I whirled onto my side and retched but nothing came out.
"Yup, I'd be surprised if you had anything left to throw up at this point," came a voice next to the door.
I looked up to find the single most aggressively Mediterranean man I'd ever seen: bronzed skin from too much time on the beach; curly, windblown hair; bushy, salt and pepper mustache; he even had a mug of espresso in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He gulped down the espresso like a shot of whiskey and took a long pull of his cigarette before putting down the cup to draw a wand. The only way this man could be any more Italian was if he walked in with a bowl of pasta and dribbling a soccer ball. Sorry, football.
"W-Who are you?" I asked. I hated how my voice cracked.
"Healer Alvarez. Your attending healer, kid. You're in the Saint Gregory's Hospital for Magical Maladies. The intensive traumas and curses ward if you want to be specific. Now let me run some diagnostics and I'll go notify your mother that you're awake."
"H-How long was I out?"
"Four days since you got to the hospital. One of the aurors on-site had the good sense to dose you with a draught of living death before transporting you. Trust me, waking up mid-apparition can get nasty."
My mind spun chaotically as I tried to make sense of everything he was telling me. "And… And how long was I…"
"In there?" I nodded, too afraid to voice the words. "Two days? Three at most."
"That's… That's good. Survivable…"
He had kind eyes that simmered with rage, not at me but at what had been done to me. He put on a wide smile that quirked his bushy mustache up at the corners. He reminded me of Mario, except with a better mustache. "You're safe, kid. You're a real fighter. You were in good shape when you came in."
"How bad?"
"That's-"
"How bad was it?"
"Malnourished. You hadn't eaten or drank in a while. You cracked your teeth clenching your jaw too hard. Pulled some muscles too. Tearing of the vocal cords. Bruising. Minor concussion." I nodded along. That was expected. He shot me his best reassuring smile again. "But you're a fighter kid, a hell of a spirit. You're going to be fine. A month? Two? And you'll be right as rain, healer's promise."
I mulled over his words. It… It wasn't a bad outcome. All things considered, I'd lucked out beyond all reason and it was all thanks to my little gold ring. All of those injuries he described seemed fixable. Hell, Harry had every bone in his arm regrown thanks to that fuckwit Lockhart. Or, will? Didn't matter. Point was, magical healing was literally miraculous. I'd be fine.
I'd be fine…
I let out a sigh of relief at that. It felt as though a great weight had left my shoulders.
"You know, there is a silver lining to this," he began again.
"What's that, doc?"
"Healer, but what I'm saying is, magical potential is very much like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. Or perhaps 'stronger' is not the right word. More robust? Yes, let's go with that. It grows and adapts when meeting challenges or times of strife, especially during developmental years. I can confidently say no one I've ever heard of has survived an ordeal such as yours at your age."
"And what does that mean for me, healer?" I asked, making sure to use the right word this time. It was a minor thing but he seemed sensitive about it.
"It means you, young man, are likely to turn out to be a very powerful wizard."
"I… Yeah, silver linings…" I trailed off.
He tapped the bedside table and picked up his empty espresso cup. "I'll let your mother know you're awake."
"Is she outside?"
"No, she went off to handle some business, confidential, she said. She asked to be notified by floo."
"I see…"
"Chin up, kid. You're a fighter. A real survivor. You've got a lot to be proud of."
He left me with those parting words. The door closed behind him with a gentle clack.
I had no idea if what he was saying was just some empty platitude or there was actual truth to it. It'd be nice to be stronger, who didn't want power, but I would have happily given up any power-up if it meant not having to go through that. It wasn't like that was established canon or anything either. He was probably just doing his best to put a brighter spin on things.
Then again, now that I had time to myself, I noticed a lot of my memories that didn't quite align with what I knew to be canon.
For starters, students entered Hogwarts at the age of fourteen and graduated at the age of twenty-one. Three by seven, an auspicious number according to numerology. Looking back, I could see how my increased age from canon helped me. I doubted an eleven year old Blaise, even with an adult's memories and willpower, could have survived.
Another shift seemed to be more varieties of magic, both in breadth and depth. Blaise remembered hearing from family portraits about entire fields of magic that didn't exist in canon such as enchanting, druidic shamanism, and even necromancy and chronomancy. Other fields that were barely touched on in canon, like divination and alchemy, had entire libraries worth of literature dedicated to their craft with subfields dedicated to specific practices and branches such as the development of a true panacea in the case of alchemy.
All told, the world felt more lived in, an actual global network of scattered magical communities with more unifying interests than just quidditch. Here, the world consisted of a series of national governments reeling from two dark lords in the same century, ones with political complexities that the teenage Blaise had barely paid attention to.
To be fair to him, me, it wasn't as though the Zabini family were nobles. Purebloods, yes. Wealthy, yes, one of the riches thanks to mother-dearest. But nobles? No. Even the black widow that was Valencia Zabini knew not to fuck with titled families. Though most modern governments did not offer nobles any legalized protections that other houses lacked, besides a hereditary seat in whatever made up their ruling body, their wealth and centuries of connections resulted in enough soft power to effectively rule magical society.
I scowled. That was one more way old-Corbin fucked me over: My family was firmly in the dark, sorry, traditional, camp in terms of politics and had the appropriate associates to show for it. It was actually why I'd been in Portugal; mother was catching up with some contacts and had left me to my own devices in one of our properties. Stepdad-number-seven's summer house, which explained how the crazy bitch knew how to get in.
Not that my real dad, the first of mother's victims, was any better. Daddy-dearest was an acolyte of Grindelwald's, served with distinction if his braggart portrait was to be believed, and the creature I called mother taught Blaise to be just as critical of muggleborns. Condescending at best, more often outright hostile.
Part of me was disgusted with myself that I'd called a healer a doctor, as if a master of the healing arts could be compared to some upjumped muggle.
I shook my head. It was a habit at this point. Old-Blaise was basically indoctrinated into this way of thinking and It'd be a bitch and a half to correct myself.
Or, should I correct myself? By all accounts, nothing terrible happened to Blaise Zabini in canon despite being a pureblood supremacist. He just kind of faded into the background. If I nodded along with Malfoy and the Death Eaters and allowed the stations of canon to pass me by, I'd probably end up alright, a tacit supporter who couldn't be condemned for succumbing to peer pressure by the time the good guys won. I'd walk away with seven families' worth of wealth and resources, assuming mother didn't find stepdad-number-eight sometime during my schooling. By all metrics, letting canon play out would benefit me immensely.
But… But it wasn't the right thing to do. Old-Corbin liked to think of himself as a good man. If not a paragon of virtue, then at least a decent enough folk who wouldn't fold to the bystander effect. I'd also never been the type to be drawn to money; it was one of the few traits I was proud of.
No, I was drawn to books. Knowledge. Stories. Cultures. History. I certainly didn't get a graduate degree in library sciences to become a college librarian because it paid well. The Zabini fortune meant very little to me outside of what magical tomes we possessed and what more tomes I could purchase with said fortune. It was the mystique of magic that caught my eye, not the glitter of gold.
Nor could I count on the stations of canon being followed. I knew of at least four major differences just from examining Old-Blaise's memories. As mentioned, Hogwarts started at fourteen. Second, third, and fourth were similar: Malfoy, Parkinson, and Potter were gender-flipped. Draco was Lyra. Pansy was Heath. Those two, old-Blaise met at a yule function in Malfoy Manor a few years back. And of course, tales of the Girl-Who Lived filled bookstores all over.
What other changes were there? What else was I missing? I doubted Blaise was a powerful seer in the canon Corbin remembered. Would the Chamber open during my first year? Would it open at all? Was Violet Potter the same abused and neglected child desperate for friendship? Were the Dursleys somehow worse? Or, were the Dusleys a loving family in this weird alternate universe?
I sincerely doubted that last one but the trouble was, I didn't know.
I spent the next fifteen minutes sorting my memories. Not literally unfortunately, I wasn't an occlumency prodigy and what most fictions called mind palaces didn't actually exist, but I was competent enough. I did receive some training from my mother, mostly to keep a cool head under stress and keep out casual intruders. It didn't make me some kind of emotionally detached genius but it did calm me.
I'd have to work at it. The CYOA guaranteed that no one would be able to pick canon details from my head, but that was limited protection, if it could be trusted at all. I was a seer; I didn't doubt I'd learn plenty of secrets, keeping them to myself would be a priority.
I let out a sigh. My body still ached from the aftershocks and I didn't think an episkey from my ring would help any if the trained healer hadn't already fixed it. Dark curse. No choice but to smile and grit through the pain.
Before I could finish taking stock of this new reality, the door flung open and possibly the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen sauntered into my room.
Valencia Zabini was thirty-eight years old and looked fifteen years younger, the result of a combination of good genes, magical vitality, and a steady regimen of beautifying potions. She had raven-black hair that cascaded down her back in lustrous waves. Her eyes were large and expressive, a warm, honey-brown with long lashes that models paid exorbitant amounts of money to mimic. Pouty lips, a healthy tan, and a body to put Playboy bunnies to shame wrapped in a form-fitting, purple dress, slitted on one side to show off her thigh, completed the picture.
I was of two minds on the matter. On one hand, Corbin thought she was a knockout, the kind of woman movie stars would be jealous over. On the other hand, old-Blaise was disgusted with myself. New-Blaise waffled between captivated arousal and shame before I reminded myself of just what she was known for and settled on healthy respect and fear, the same kind you afforded king cobras crawling up your leg five inches from your dick.
Then all thoughts flew out the window as she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. The smell of her perfume hit me like a brick. Not that it was overly strong, it was elegantly subtle actually, but it was just about the safest thing I could bring myself to focus on at the moment. She literally smelled like roses, enough to be noticeable but not to offend the senses.
"Oh, my little warrior, I'm so proud of you," she cooed. She kissed me on the forehead and moved back to get a look at me. There was smug satisfaction there, also perhaps even a hint of relief?
My mind, only now starting to reboot, blue-screened again. Little warrior? Since when did she use pet names? For that matter, since when did she show genuine affection? I didn't know she knew what that meant. Was… Was old-Blaise's memories… wrong…? Or misinterpreted?
The cynical part of me scoffed. Or maybe she was just that amazing an actress. But who was she putting on a show for? There was no one else in the room to impress.
"Mother," I replied, as neutrally as I could. I had no idea how to deal with the conflicting feelings this brief interaction welled up in me so I turned to tried and true detached apathy. "Please do not touch me; I am still sore."
"Of course, Blaise."
"What were you doing that was confidential, mother?"
"Oh, just talking to a few people at the Portuguese Ministry of Magic. You won't be charged for killing poor Carmen of course," she said with a giggle that sounded far too innocent for the subject of discussion. I hadn't even known that was my late aunt's name. "Not that anyone was trying considering the circumstances, but I had to silence a few people who wanted to use it to maneuver me into a corner."
"Did you kill them?" I asked, morbidly curious.
The patronizing smile she offered me sent shivers down my spine. 'Of course not, Blaise. There is more than one way to keep someone quiet and I have some very good friends in the ministry. Besides, murder is such an inconvenient method."
I almost barked out a laugh at that. The irony wasn't lost on me. "So what does this mean for me?"
"You? Nothing. The ministry is going to cover it up of course. As far as anyone knows, your dear aunt Carmen died in an accident, bad spell misfire. Could've happened to anyone," she said with a delighted little shrug. "The Portuguese minister doesn't want a scandal in the middle of reelection. The Espinoza family wasn't particularly influential, but they did have the right blood. Can't have a pureblood head getting killed by a child because she went off the deep end."
Political fiction then. I wasn't a stranger to politics; university administration could be surprisingly cutthroat, but this was on a scale that dwarfed anything I'd experienced prior. Honestly? It made me mad. The healers knew. The aurors knew. But it wouldn't matter; they'd keep quiet because the only one who could be blamed was dead and there was no retribution to be had that I hadn't already taken with my own two hands.
I looked down and for a moment imagined my hands as red as that day.
"So this is it then?" I said bitterly. I felt hollow, like there should be something more that could be done. Justice should not be equivalent to desperate self-defense.
"Yes," mother replied bluntly. Her warm smile was gone now, replaced by a cold, calculating gleam in her eyes. "You did well, Blaise. You fought, you killed, and you got a taste of what it means to wield power over someone else."
"Is that what this is about? Power?"
"That's what everything is about."
"That's not what I felt when I…"
"When you bashed her head in with a lamp after suffering through hours of torture that would have driven lesser wizards mad?" She reached out with a hand to daintily caress my cheek. "Oh, Blaise, that's okay. It was only your first time. Losing sight of what matters is acceptable at the start. The heights of passion can be intoxicating."
Her words washed over me and I knew then: This was Valencia Zabini. No frills, no longer that mask of seductive innocence, these were her innermost thoughts laid bare. In the crazy bitch's mind, my kidnapping wasn't a tragedy or an ordeal; It was a chance for me to cut my teeth on easy prey. She didn't see a traumatized teenager; she saw a kindred spirit.
Worse, this was her way of caring. She was trying to teach me, I realized, and that sent my stomach up to my throat.
"This is just the way the world works, Blaise," she continued in that charming voice of hers. "People like to pretend that relationships matter, that words like love and friendship mean anything, but they don't. Their only worth is how they can be used to manipulate the fools who put stock in them. Remember, Blaise, there is only power in all its myriad forms, and those too stupid to seize what they can."
Voldemort once told Harry something similar. "There is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to take it," or something to that effect. The way she inadvertently echoed the Dark Lord made me deeply uncomfortable but I quashed the feeling down. This sociopath was my mother, she had full control over my life, and I couldn't show weakness.
"Yes, mother," I said finally.
"Good, now chin up, little warrior. Tell me all about how you killed."
So I did. I recounted everything, of old-Blaise having lunch that a house elf prepared, of wandering the gardens, and of feeling a spell strike my back. I told her of waking up mid-crucio, I suspected that was when old-Blaise died or went insane, only to be taken over by me. I told her about how I fought through the pain and used my ring to trip her before stealing her wand, snapping it, and jamming the two halves into her eyes before killing her with the lamp.
I didn't tell her about my spell ring. I didn't know if she knew what was in the ring, or if the CYOA gave it to me immediately and from an out of context source but if she didn't know, I saw no need to enlighten her. It'd already proved itself an invaluable ace in the hole.
Talking with her was… refreshing. It disgusted me saying that but it was. Valencia Zabini was ultimately a simple woman. Oh, she was undeniably conniving and manipulative, but she was simple in what she wanted. Now that she'd laid her worldview bare before me, I found her easy to understand if not accept. That understanding became the rock I clung to. It was much easier to view my ordeal more clinically when I spoke with a detached sociopath.
What did that say about me?
X
London, Great Britain
I stayed in that hospital for a week, just in case. There wasn't much they could do about the lingering influences of the torture curse beyond let my own magic wash it over time out but they wanted to keep me under observation anyway. Understandable. I would have appreciated the sentiment more had I actually been a fourteen year old boy.
Personally? I just felt restless. I tried to make progress on my occlumency but I wasn't sure how much better I'd gotten. I couldn't stress test my own defenses and I wasn't about to ask mother-dearest to rummage around in my mind.
We moved to Great Britain shortly afterwards, back to our main house. Mom moved us to Britain when I was too young to remember. Perhaps it was a sense of nostalgia, she was a Hogwarts alumni after all. Or perhaps she simply saw that the political landscape of Magical Britain suited her opportunistic ways better than those of other countries. I had no clue. I didn't ask.
In the end the results were the same: I was here a week before term and I would attend Hogwarts like mother and father. Family tradition, and certain images had to be kept. She also expected me to shop for school supplies on my own. The most populous magical district in the British Isles was far safer than some beach house owned by step-dad-number-seven according to her.
I was of two minds on the matter. Corbin relished the chance to explore Diagon without adult supervision. A thousand and one fanon tropes came to mind. Could I sneak off to Knockturn and somehow luck my way into a phoenix egg? Could I discover a forgotten tome on the mind arts? Or maybe Madam Malkin could weave me a custom order coat made of basilisk hide or acromantula silk?
Ridiculous of course. Diagon was Magical Britain's version of a mall, not some video game dungeon. If such secrets existed, they sure as hell wouldn't be accessible to someone who hadn't even begun his first year. Still, it was Diagon Alley, one of the core settings of the book series that defined my childhood. I couldn't help but get my hopes up.
Blaise, the part of me that was still a teenager, was far more cautious. It wasn't as though I feared for my life if I was away from my mother, even child-me could recognize that such a thing was highly unlikely, but it had only been two weeks since I'd been rescued and feelings were seldom rational.
I looked out over the garden as I pondered what I wanted out of this life.
Looking back on my memories, I was now convinced that Blaise was a Slytherin purely because his ideals made him unfit for Hufflepuff, he lacked the courage for Gryffindor, and he didn't particularly value knowledge. He had no true ambition because he genuinely believed Valencia would kill him off if he got too inconvenient. Ambition meant nothing to a boy who'd become a wallflower as a survival strategy.
Although, he had been reasonably cunning in the way he manipulated his numerous step-dads into giving him gifts in the vain hope of currying his mother's favor so perhaps that was it.
But that ambiguity just meant this body was a blank slate. What exactly did I want? I was a seer. My abilities would grow more powerful with time but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was an invaluable resource to be sure, but it was also a highly coveted resource, the kind that many would seek to exploit.
Dumbledore. Voldemort. It didn't matter. If I wanted to be my own man, pursue my own dreams, I'd need to be powerful enough to resist their machinations. I needed to be so powerful that fucking with me wasn't worthwhile.
I supposed it was possible for me to simply not use my power, but I didn't want that. I wanted to practice magic in all its forms. I wanted to explore, to push the envelope until I discovered new secrets only I knew. And, if I was honest with myself, I wanted the acclaim of being the first seer who could control Fate, not be bound to its whims.
So step one: Power.
I let out a derisive laugh. I'd spent all week in the hospital thinking about what a fucking psycho Valencia was but here I was lusting after power just like her. Perhaps the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Perhaps there were lessons I could learn from her, I just hoped I'd remain myself while letting her in.
She wasn't wrong after all; there were many forms of power. Magical might was the most obvious and though Healer Alvarez did say I'd become a strong wizard, I seriously doubted he meant I'd stand shoulder to shoulder with titans like Dumbledore and Voldemort.
Wealth? Wealth wasn't nearly enough to keep either off my back, nor was it something I could accrue much of while at Hogwarts. My family was rich, but it wasn't anything compared to the truly old families like Malfoy, Black, or Bones. More importantly, it wasn't my wealth; it was my mother's.
Valencia Zabini did not strike me as a charitable woman.
Connections? That was too iffy for me. It hinged on my connections being more loyal to me than to either side. No, it was worse than that. It relied on my connections being willing to put themselves between me and the two most powerful wizards of the century. Unlikely to say the least.
That left one option: Reputation. Reputation was tricky. Without direct power or influence, it was a hard thing to sell. Should I pretend to be crazy? No, that wouldn't be enough. I needed to be a porcupine or a pufferfish, never worth poking. I needed to convince both Dumbledore and Voldemort that I could hurt either side so irreparably that it wasn't worth ever trying to manipulate me.
Nicholas Flamel struck me as the paragon of this form of power. He and his wife had lived for six centuries, outlasting a dozen different dark lords. I didn't know if the alchemists were personally powerful, but they certainly had an aura of mystique that made even approaching them difficult.
It wasn't impossible, in theory, but… how did I accrue that kind of mystique?
I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. "Maybe I should just help Violet win early," I mumbled. It'd mean going against my mother, breaking every connection my family had, but done right, becoming invaluable to the Light could be rewarding as well.
To do that, I'd… I'd have to take refuge in audacity. It was very unlike old-Corbin, but… but it was an option, one that seemed at least feasible compared to the others. At the very least, it was something to keep in mind.
Sighing, I stood and hobbled back to my room. I still hadn't gotten over the effects of the crucio; I wouldn't for months apparently. So mother, in a rare act of charity, had gotten me a cane.
It was made of rich walnut and fitted with a golden cap on the foot that made a distinctive clacking noise against the floorboards. The cane also sported inlays of golden scales, each individual piece the size of my pinkie nail. The pieces started from halfway up the cane and gradually grew larger as they entwined around the wood, forming the overall picture of a coiling serpent.
The head of the cane was that of a king cobra, hood flared and ready to strike. "To remind the world that my little warrior has fangs," she'd said.
It sounded pretentious as fuck even repeating it in my head. Hell, considering what a colossal slut my mother was, I couldn't help but feel like I'd been given a pimp cane. If I didn't literally need it to walk, I'd have tossed it into the fire the first chance I got. I was still tempted honestly, surely a broom handle would suffice.
Ostentatious gift aside, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of my mother since we'd arrived back in Magical Britain. She said she'd be off taking advantage of my newfound reputation, rumors traveled even if the official story said otherwise, though I wasn't sure what exactly British high society heard. It was what she did best after all.
Apparently, she actually had friends in Britain, or at least as close to friends as someone like her could have. Whoever this "Selene" was, I hoped she kept her husband on a tight leash while mother was around.
"Let's say I get what I want," I mumbled to myself as I pushed in the door. "Let's say I manage to convince everyone to leave me out of their bullshit to pursue my own interests. What then?"
I thought about it long and hard as I reacquainted myself with my room. I loved books. I had esoteric magical affinities. I wanted to explore those affinities, to pursue the secrets of magic only I could uncover. I wanted the grandest magical library in existence. I wanted to be known as the greatest seer to ever live, to never again suffer because Fate wanted to "test me."
I supposed that was what it came down to in the end: Defying Fate. Fate was all-consuming in the Potterverse. It didn't matter who it was, it seemed that everyone was a slave to the whims of Fate. From Harry and Voldemort who were forced into that ridiculous duel to Snape who inadvertently set those events in motion.
Whatever fanon nonsense people liked to spout about Death and his Hallows, it was Fate who reigned supreme.
I hung my cane on a hook embedded into the wall and stumbled towards the bed. One of my drawbacks was Somnolent. I required a full twelve hours of sleep to be functional or I'd be tired, cranky, or possibly even narcoleptic if the situation was bad enough. The healers said it was caused by an unforeseen aftereffect of the crucio. Seeing how no one my age had survived shit like this, it wasn't as though they had anything to compare my case to.
As I rolled onto the bed, I noticed something on the shelf that hadn't been there before. It was a potion, shimmering golden liquid trapped in a vial of ornate crystal. I recognized it of course, from both lives. The gold was a telltale giveaway. Felix felicis, the single rarest and most potent potion in existence short of Flamel's elixir of life.
Pinned beneath the vial was a letter I hastened to open. I knew it wasn't from my mother; she'd never bother with such an expensive potion. Penned in elegant but legible cursive on high quality parchment was a note from the chief bitch herself:
Corbin Silva,
You're not the first, you know. The boundary between realities can be awfully thin. It isn't unheard of for certain souls to slip through the cracks as it were. And sometimes, certain patrons like to insert these souls, often for some nebulous purpose like their own petty amusement. Of course, these souls don't typically insist on proving their right to remain here.
Was it your idea? Or your patron's?
I suppose it doesn't matter in the end. You made a grand challenge and I, your welcoming host, obliged you. And, surprise surprise, you persevered.
Congratulations, Corbin Silva, or Blaise Zabini if you prefer, I acknowledge your right to exist in my world.
I hope you understand the worth of what I am giving you. Blaise Zabini, the vessel you now occupy, had no grand destiny. There were no plans. He would have been raised a typical pureblood wizard and grown up to be a typical pureblood wizard. He certainly had no great affinity towards me.
Except now, he is an anomaly. Now, he's you.
This bottle is proof of your victory in our little contest, proof of your persistence. Yes, it is liquid luck, but it's so much more than that. It is the essence of everything you are in a way, the embodiment of everything I've allowed you to become: It is a Fate-Breaker.
Twenty-four hours. Drink this and not only will you have supernatural luck, you have my personal guarantee that I will not reassert my will on any prophecy you go out of your way to break during that time frame.
Suffice to say, this is not a gift I give often. Use it well, or don't. Actually, that would be better for me, less work you see.
Who knows? Perhaps we shall meet face to face one day and you will not need the aid of a potion to greet me as a peer.
Well played.
Your friend,
Fate
Author's Note
Blaise is a very confused boy.
The enhanced felix felicis is the single biggest reason to take Worst Day Ever. It's basically what the letter said. Since Blaise's build is so heavily tied to divination, I figured it'd be neat if his affinity in combination with the drawback made Fate take a personal interest in his development.
Animal fact? Sure. Tigers hunt by facial recognition. Or rather, they stop hunting by facial recognition. Because they are ambush predators, if they see a pair of eyes, they'll assume they can be seen in turn and won't leap.
Indian and Bangladeshi lumberjacks and woodsmen have used this to their advantage by wearing hats with faces painted on the back of the head to deter tigers. Unfortunately, tigers aren't stupid. They've caught on and there are on average 22 deaths per year (up to 50) in the Sundarbans region.
Thank you to all my patrons. Currently, my patrons can read up to 21 chapters in total ahead spread across various stories: 4 chapters of a yet unreleased Pokemon fic, 7.6 of Legendary Tinker, 3.15.5 of Plan? What Plan?, 3.9 of When is a Spoon a Sword?, 4 of Troll in the Dungeon!, and 3 chapters of another unreleased LoL/Worm fic. They are also occasionally asked to vote on the direction of my stories, such as new tinker specializations.
Rome, Italy
My eyes fluttered open, only to close immediately as the sun pierced through the gap between the curtains to jab painfully into my retinas. I groaned pitiably as the soreness washed over me like a wave. It was like the worst hangover I'd ever had paired with a full-body ache that I hadn't felt since my ill-fated attempt at Crossfit to impress a girl in college.
Then I remembered what I'd been doing to end up like this. The repeated rounds of crucio. Her pulped cranium. Her lifeblood and brainmatter staining the wooden floorboards.
I whirled onto my side and retched but nothing came out.
"Yup, I'd be surprised if you had anything left to throw up at this point," came a voice next to the door.
I looked up to find the single most aggressively Mediterranean man I'd ever seen: bronzed skin from too much time on the beach; curly, windblown hair; bushy, salt and pepper mustache; he even had a mug of espresso in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He gulped down the espresso like a shot of whiskey and took a long pull of his cigarette before putting down the cup to draw a wand. The only way this man could be any more Italian was if he walked in with a bowl of pasta and dribbling a soccer ball. Sorry, football.
"W-Who are you?" I asked. I hated how my voice cracked.
"Healer Alvarez. Your attending healer, kid. You're in the Saint Gregory's Hospital for Magical Maladies. The intensive traumas and curses ward if you want to be specific. Now let me run some diagnostics and I'll go notify your mother that you're awake."
"H-How long was I out?"
"Four days since you got to the hospital. One of the aurors on-site had the good sense to dose you with a draught of living death before transporting you. Trust me, waking up mid-apparition can get nasty."
My mind spun chaotically as I tried to make sense of everything he was telling me. "And… And how long was I…"
"In there?" I nodded, too afraid to voice the words. "Two days? Three at most."
"That's… That's good. Survivable…"
He had kind eyes that simmered with rage, not at me but at what had been done to me. He put on a wide smile that quirked his bushy mustache up at the corners. He reminded me of Mario, except with a better mustache. "You're safe, kid. You're a real fighter. You were in good shape when you came in."
"How bad?"
"That's-"
"How bad was it?"
"Malnourished. You hadn't eaten or drank in a while. You cracked your teeth clenching your jaw too hard. Pulled some muscles too. Tearing of the vocal cords. Bruising. Minor concussion." I nodded along. That was expected. He shot me his best reassuring smile again. "But you're a fighter kid, a hell of a spirit. You're going to be fine. A month? Two? And you'll be right as rain, healer's promise."
I mulled over his words. It… It wasn't a bad outcome. All things considered, I'd lucked out beyond all reason and it was all thanks to my little gold ring. All of those injuries he described seemed fixable. Hell, Harry had every bone in his arm regrown thanks to that fuckwit Lockhart. Or, will? Didn't matter. Point was, magical healing was literally miraculous. I'd be fine.
I'd be fine…
I let out a sigh of relief at that. It felt as though a great weight had left my shoulders.
"You know, there is a silver lining to this," he began again.
"What's that, doc?"
"Healer, but what I'm saying is, magical potential is very much like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. Or perhaps 'stronger' is not the right word. More robust? Yes, let's go with that. It grows and adapts when meeting challenges or times of strife, especially during developmental years. I can confidently say no one I've ever heard of has survived an ordeal such as yours at your age."
"And what does that mean for me, healer?" I asked, making sure to use the right word this time. It was a minor thing but he seemed sensitive about it.
"It means you, young man, are likely to turn out to be a very powerful wizard."
"I… Yeah, silver linings…" I trailed off.
He tapped the bedside table and picked up his empty espresso cup. "I'll let your mother know you're awake."
"Is she outside?"
"No, she went off to handle some business, confidential, she said. She asked to be notified by floo."
"I see…"
"Chin up, kid. You're a fighter. A real survivor. You've got a lot to be proud of."
He left me with those parting words. The door closed behind him with a gentle clack.
I had no idea if what he was saying was just some empty platitude or there was actual truth to it. It'd be nice to be stronger, who didn't want power, but I would have happily given up any power-up if it meant not having to go through that. It wasn't like that was established canon or anything either. He was probably just doing his best to put a brighter spin on things.
Then again, now that I had time to myself, I noticed a lot of my memories that didn't quite align with what I knew to be canon.
For starters, students entered Hogwarts at the age of fourteen and graduated at the age of twenty-one. Three by seven, an auspicious number according to numerology. Looking back, I could see how my increased age from canon helped me. I doubted an eleven year old Blaise, even with an adult's memories and willpower, could have survived.
Another shift seemed to be more varieties of magic, both in breadth and depth. Blaise remembered hearing from family portraits about entire fields of magic that didn't exist in canon such as enchanting, druidic shamanism, and even necromancy and chronomancy. Other fields that were barely touched on in canon, like divination and alchemy, had entire libraries worth of literature dedicated to their craft with subfields dedicated to specific practices and branches such as the development of a true panacea in the case of alchemy.
All told, the world felt more lived in, an actual global network of scattered magical communities with more unifying interests than just quidditch. Here, the world consisted of a series of national governments reeling from two dark lords in the same century, ones with political complexities that the teenage Blaise had barely paid attention to.
To be fair to him, me, it wasn't as though the Zabini family were nobles. Purebloods, yes. Wealthy, yes, one of the riches thanks to mother-dearest. But nobles? No. Even the black widow that was Valencia Zabini knew not to fuck with titled families. Though most modern governments did not offer nobles any legalized protections that other houses lacked, besides a hereditary seat in whatever made up their ruling body, their wealth and centuries of connections resulted in enough soft power to effectively rule magical society.
I scowled. That was one more way old-Corbin fucked me over: My family was firmly in the dark, sorry, traditional, camp in terms of politics and had the appropriate associates to show for it. It was actually why I'd been in Portugal; mother was catching up with some contacts and had left me to my own devices in one of our properties. Stepdad-number-seven's summer house, which explained how the crazy bitch knew how to get in.
Not that my real dad, the first of mother's victims, was any better. Daddy-dearest was an acolyte of Grindelwald's, served with distinction if his braggart portrait was to be believed, and the creature I called mother taught Blaise to be just as critical of muggleborns. Condescending at best, more often outright hostile.
Part of me was disgusted with myself that I'd called a healer a doctor, as if a master of the healing arts could be compared to some upjumped muggle.
I shook my head. It was a habit at this point. Old-Blaise was basically indoctrinated into this way of thinking and It'd be a bitch and a half to correct myself.
Or, should I correct myself? By all accounts, nothing terrible happened to Blaise Zabini in canon despite being a pureblood supremacist. He just kind of faded into the background. If I nodded along with Malfoy and the Death Eaters and allowed the stations of canon to pass me by, I'd probably end up alright, a tacit supporter who couldn't be condemned for succumbing to peer pressure by the time the good guys won. I'd walk away with seven families' worth of wealth and resources, assuming mother didn't find stepdad-number-eight sometime during my schooling. By all metrics, letting canon play out would benefit me immensely.
But… But it wasn't the right thing to do. Old-Corbin liked to think of himself as a good man. If not a paragon of virtue, then at least a decent enough folk who wouldn't fold to the bystander effect. I'd also never been the type to be drawn to money; it was one of the few traits I was proud of.
No, I was drawn to books. Knowledge. Stories. Cultures. History. I certainly didn't get a graduate degree in library sciences to become a college librarian because it paid well. The Zabini fortune meant very little to me outside of what magical tomes we possessed and what more tomes I could purchase with said fortune. It was the mystique of magic that caught my eye, not the glitter of gold.
Nor could I count on the stations of canon being followed. I knew of at least four major differences just from examining Old-Blaise's memories. As mentioned, Hogwarts started at fourteen. Second, third, and fourth were similar: Malfoy, Parkinson, and Potter were gender-flipped. Draco was Lyra. Pansy was Heath. Those two, old-Blaise met at a yule function in Malfoy Manor a few years back. And of course, tales of the Girl-Who Lived filled bookstores all over.
What other changes were there? What else was I missing? I doubted Blaise was a powerful seer in the canon Corbin remembered. Would the Chamber open during my first year? Would it open at all? Was Violet Potter the same abused and neglected child desperate for friendship? Were the Dursleys somehow worse? Or, were the Dusleys a loving family in this weird alternate universe?
I sincerely doubted that last one but the trouble was, I didn't know.
I spent the next fifteen minutes sorting my memories. Not literally unfortunately, I wasn't an occlumency prodigy and what most fictions called mind palaces didn't actually exist, but I was competent enough. I did receive some training from my mother, mostly to keep a cool head under stress and keep out casual intruders. It didn't make me some kind of emotionally detached genius but it did calm me.
I'd have to work at it. The CYOA guaranteed that no one would be able to pick canon details from my head, but that was limited protection, if it could be trusted at all. I was a seer; I didn't doubt I'd learn plenty of secrets, keeping them to myself would be a priority.
I let out a sigh. My body still ached from the aftershocks and I didn't think an episkey from my ring would help any if the trained healer hadn't already fixed it. Dark curse. No choice but to smile and grit through the pain.
Before I could finish taking stock of this new reality, the door flung open and possibly the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen sauntered into my room.
Valencia Zabini was thirty-eight years old and looked fifteen years younger, the result of a combination of good genes, magical vitality, and a steady regimen of beautifying potions. She had raven-black hair that cascaded down her back in lustrous waves. Her eyes were large and expressive, a warm, honey-brown with long lashes that models paid exorbitant amounts of money to mimic. Pouty lips, a healthy tan, and a body to put Playboy bunnies to shame wrapped in a form-fitting, purple dress, slitted on one side to show off her thigh, completed the picture.
I was of two minds on the matter. On one hand, Corbin thought she was a knockout, the kind of woman movie stars would be jealous over. On the other hand, old-Blaise was disgusted with myself. New-Blaise waffled between captivated arousal and shame before I reminded myself of just what she was known for and settled on healthy respect and fear, the same kind you afforded king cobras crawling up your leg five inches from your dick.
Then all thoughts flew out the window as she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. The smell of her perfume hit me like a brick. Not that it was overly strong, it was elegantly subtle actually, but it was just about the safest thing I could bring myself to focus on at the moment. She literally smelled like roses, enough to be noticeable but not to offend the senses.
"Oh, my little warrior, I'm so proud of you," she cooed. She kissed me on the forehead and moved back to get a look at me. There was smug satisfaction there, also perhaps even a hint of relief?
My mind, only now starting to reboot, blue-screened again. Little warrior? Since when did she use pet names? For that matter, since when did she show genuine affection? I didn't know she knew what that meant. Was… Was old-Blaise's memories… wrong…? Or misinterpreted?
The cynical part of me scoffed. Or maybe she was just that amazing an actress. But who was she putting on a show for? There was no one else in the room to impress.
"Mother," I replied, as neutrally as I could. I had no idea how to deal with the conflicting feelings this brief interaction welled up in me so I turned to tried and true detached apathy. "Please do not touch me; I am still sore."
"Of course, Blaise."
"What were you doing that was confidential, mother?"
"Oh, just talking to a few people at the Portuguese Ministry of Magic. You won't be charged for killing poor Carmen of course," she said with a giggle that sounded far too innocent for the subject of discussion. I hadn't even known that was my late aunt's name. "Not that anyone was trying considering the circumstances, but I had to silence a few people who wanted to use it to maneuver me into a corner."
"Did you kill them?" I asked, morbidly curious.
The patronizing smile she offered me sent shivers down my spine. 'Of course not, Blaise. There is more than one way to keep someone quiet and I have some very good friends in the ministry. Besides, murder is such an inconvenient method."
I almost barked out a laugh at that. The irony wasn't lost on me. "So what does this mean for me?"
"You? Nothing. The ministry is going to cover it up of course. As far as anyone knows, your dear aunt Carmen died in an accident, bad spell misfire. Could've happened to anyone," she said with a delighted little shrug. "The Portuguese minister doesn't want a scandal in the middle of reelection. The Espinoza family wasn't particularly influential, but they did have the right blood. Can't have a pureblood head getting killed by a child because she went off the deep end."
Political fiction then. I wasn't a stranger to politics; university administration could be surprisingly cutthroat, but this was on a scale that dwarfed anything I'd experienced prior. Honestly? It made me mad. The healers knew. The aurors knew. But it wouldn't matter; they'd keep quiet because the only one who could be blamed was dead and there was no retribution to be had that I hadn't already taken with my own two hands.
I looked down and for a moment imagined my hands as red as that day.
"So this is it then?" I said bitterly. I felt hollow, like there should be something more that could be done. Justice should not be equivalent to desperate self-defense.
"Yes," mother replied bluntly. Her warm smile was gone now, replaced by a cold, calculating gleam in her eyes. "You did well, Blaise. You fought, you killed, and you got a taste of what it means to wield power over someone else."
"Is that what this is about? Power?"
"That's what everything is about."
"That's not what I felt when I…"
"When you bashed her head in with a lamp after suffering through hours of torture that would have driven lesser wizards mad?" She reached out with a hand to daintily caress my cheek. "Oh, Blaise, that's okay. It was only your first time. Losing sight of what matters is acceptable at the start. The heights of passion can be intoxicating."
Her words washed over me and I knew then: This was Valencia Zabini. No frills, no longer that mask of seductive innocence, these were her innermost thoughts laid bare. In the crazy bitch's mind, my kidnapping wasn't a tragedy or an ordeal; It was a chance for me to cut my teeth on easy prey. She didn't see a traumatized teenager; she saw a kindred spirit.
Worse, this was her way of caring. She was trying to teach me, I realized, and that sent my stomach up to my throat.
"This is just the way the world works, Blaise," she continued in that charming voice of hers. "People like to pretend that relationships matter, that words like love and friendship mean anything, but they don't. Their only worth is how they can be used to manipulate the fools who put stock in them. Remember, Blaise, there is only power in all its myriad forms, and those too stupid to seize what they can."
Voldemort once told Harry something similar. "There is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to take it," or something to that effect. The way she inadvertently echoed the Dark Lord made me deeply uncomfortable but I quashed the feeling down. This sociopath was my mother, she had full control over my life, and I couldn't show weakness.
"Yes, mother," I said finally.
"Good, now chin up, little warrior. Tell me all about how you killed."
So I did. I recounted everything, of old-Blaise having lunch that a house elf prepared, of wandering the gardens, and of feeling a spell strike my back. I told her of waking up mid-crucio, I suspected that was when old-Blaise died or went insane, only to be taken over by me. I told her about how I fought through the pain and used my ring to trip her before stealing her wand, snapping it, and jamming the two halves into her eyes before killing her with the lamp.
I didn't tell her about my spell ring. I didn't know if she knew what was in the ring, or if the CYOA gave it to me immediately and from an out of context source but if she didn't know, I saw no need to enlighten her. It'd already proved itself an invaluable ace in the hole.
Talking with her was… refreshing. It disgusted me saying that but it was. Valencia Zabini was ultimately a simple woman. Oh, she was undeniably conniving and manipulative, but she was simple in what she wanted. Now that she'd laid her worldview bare before me, I found her easy to understand if not accept. That understanding became the rock I clung to. It was much easier to view my ordeal more clinically when I spoke with a detached sociopath.
What did that say about me?
X
London, Great Britain
I stayed in that hospital for a week, just in case. There wasn't much they could do about the lingering influences of the torture curse beyond let my own magic wash it over time out but they wanted to keep me under observation anyway. Understandable. I would have appreciated the sentiment more had I actually been a fourteen year old boy.
Personally? I just felt restless. I tried to make progress on my occlumency but I wasn't sure how much better I'd gotten. I couldn't stress test my own defenses and I wasn't about to ask mother-dearest to rummage around in my mind.
We moved to Great Britain shortly afterwards, back to our main house. Mom moved us to Britain when I was too young to remember. Perhaps it was a sense of nostalgia, she was a Hogwarts alumni after all. Or perhaps she simply saw that the political landscape of Magical Britain suited her opportunistic ways better than those of other countries. I had no clue. I didn't ask.
In the end the results were the same: I was here a week before term and I would attend Hogwarts like mother and father. Family tradition, and certain images had to be kept. She also expected me to shop for school supplies on my own. The most populous magical district in the British Isles was far safer than some beach house owned by step-dad-number-seven according to her.
I was of two minds on the matter. Corbin relished the chance to explore Diagon without adult supervision. A thousand and one fanon tropes came to mind. Could I sneak off to Knockturn and somehow luck my way into a phoenix egg? Could I discover a forgotten tome on the mind arts? Or maybe Madam Malkin could weave me a custom order coat made of basilisk hide or acromantula silk?
Ridiculous of course. Diagon was Magical Britain's version of a mall, not some video game dungeon. If such secrets existed, they sure as hell wouldn't be accessible to someone who hadn't even begun his first year. Still, it was Diagon Alley, one of the core settings of the book series that defined my childhood. I couldn't help but get my hopes up.
Blaise, the part of me that was still a teenager, was far more cautious. It wasn't as though I feared for my life if I was away from my mother, even child-me could recognize that such a thing was highly unlikely, but it had only been two weeks since I'd been rescued and feelings were seldom rational.
I looked out over the garden as I pondered what I wanted out of this life.
Looking back on my memories, I was now convinced that Blaise was a Slytherin purely because his ideals made him unfit for Hufflepuff, he lacked the courage for Gryffindor, and he didn't particularly value knowledge. He had no true ambition because he genuinely believed Valencia would kill him off if he got too inconvenient. Ambition meant nothing to a boy who'd become a wallflower as a survival strategy.
Although, he had been reasonably cunning in the way he manipulated his numerous step-dads into giving him gifts in the vain hope of currying his mother's favor so perhaps that was it.
But that ambiguity just meant this body was a blank slate. What exactly did I want? I was a seer. My abilities would grow more powerful with time but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was an invaluable resource to be sure, but it was also a highly coveted resource, the kind that many would seek to exploit.
Dumbledore. Voldemort. It didn't matter. If I wanted to be my own man, pursue my own dreams, I'd need to be powerful enough to resist their machinations. I needed to be so powerful that fucking with me wasn't worthwhile.
I supposed it was possible for me to simply not use my power, but I didn't want that. I wanted to practice magic in all its forms. I wanted to explore, to push the envelope until I discovered new secrets only I knew. And, if I was honest with myself, I wanted the acclaim of being the first seer who could control Fate, not be bound to its whims.
So step one: Power.
I let out a derisive laugh. I'd spent all week in the hospital thinking about what a fucking psycho Valencia was but here I was lusting after power just like her. Perhaps the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Perhaps there were lessons I could learn from her, I just hoped I'd remain myself while letting her in.
She wasn't wrong after all; there were many forms of power. Magical might was the most obvious and though Healer Alvarez did say I'd become a strong wizard, I seriously doubted he meant I'd stand shoulder to shoulder with titans like Dumbledore and Voldemort.
Wealth? Wealth wasn't nearly enough to keep either off my back, nor was it something I could accrue much of while at Hogwarts. My family was rich, but it wasn't anything compared to the truly old families like Malfoy, Black, or Bones. More importantly, it wasn't my wealth; it was my mother's.
Valencia Zabini did not strike me as a charitable woman.
Connections? That was too iffy for me. It hinged on my connections being more loyal to me than to either side. No, it was worse than that. It relied on my connections being willing to put themselves between me and the two most powerful wizards of the century. Unlikely to say the least.
That left one option: Reputation. Reputation was tricky. Without direct power or influence, it was a hard thing to sell. Should I pretend to be crazy? No, that wouldn't be enough. I needed to be a porcupine or a pufferfish, never worth poking. I needed to convince both Dumbledore and Voldemort that I could hurt either side so irreparably that it wasn't worth ever trying to manipulate me.
Nicholas Flamel struck me as the paragon of this form of power. He and his wife had lived for six centuries, outlasting a dozen different dark lords. I didn't know if the alchemists were personally powerful, but they certainly had an aura of mystique that made even approaching them difficult.
It wasn't impossible, in theory, but… how did I accrue that kind of mystique?
I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. "Maybe I should just help Violet win early," I mumbled. It'd mean going against my mother, breaking every connection my family had, but done right, becoming invaluable to the Light could be rewarding as well.
To do that, I'd… I'd have to take refuge in audacity. It was very unlike old-Corbin, but… but it was an option, one that seemed at least feasible compared to the others. At the very least, it was something to keep in mind.
Sighing, I stood and hobbled back to my room. I still hadn't gotten over the effects of the crucio; I wouldn't for months apparently. So mother, in a rare act of charity, had gotten me a cane.
It was made of rich walnut and fitted with a golden cap on the foot that made a distinctive clacking noise against the floorboards. The cane also sported inlays of golden scales, each individual piece the size of my pinkie nail. The pieces started from halfway up the cane and gradually grew larger as they entwined around the wood, forming the overall picture of a coiling serpent.
The head of the cane was that of a king cobra, hood flared and ready to strike. "To remind the world that my little warrior has fangs," she'd said.
It sounded pretentious as fuck even repeating it in my head. Hell, considering what a colossal slut my mother was, I couldn't help but feel like I'd been given a pimp cane. If I didn't literally need it to walk, I'd have tossed it into the fire the first chance I got. I was still tempted honestly, surely a broom handle would suffice.
Ostentatious gift aside, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of my mother since we'd arrived back in Magical Britain. She said she'd be off taking advantage of my newfound reputation, rumors traveled even if the official story said otherwise, though I wasn't sure what exactly British high society heard. It was what she did best after all.
Apparently, she actually had friends in Britain, or at least as close to friends as someone like her could have. Whoever this "Selene" was, I hoped she kept her husband on a tight leash while mother was around.
"Let's say I get what I want," I mumbled to myself as I pushed in the door. "Let's say I manage to convince everyone to leave me out of their bullshit to pursue my own interests. What then?"
I thought about it long and hard as I reacquainted myself with my room. I loved books. I had esoteric magical affinities. I wanted to explore those affinities, to pursue the secrets of magic only I could uncover. I wanted the grandest magical library in existence. I wanted to be known as the greatest seer to ever live, to never again suffer because Fate wanted to "test me."
I supposed that was what it came down to in the end: Defying Fate. Fate was all-consuming in the Potterverse. It didn't matter who it was, it seemed that everyone was a slave to the whims of Fate. From Harry and Voldemort who were forced into that ridiculous duel to Snape who inadvertently set those events in motion.
Whatever fanon nonsense people liked to spout about Death and his Hallows, it was Fate who reigned supreme.
I hung my cane on a hook embedded into the wall and stumbled towards the bed. One of my drawbacks was Somnolent. I required a full twelve hours of sleep to be functional or I'd be tired, cranky, or possibly even narcoleptic if the situation was bad enough. The healers said it was caused by an unforeseen aftereffect of the crucio. Seeing how no one my age had survived shit like this, it wasn't as though they had anything to compare my case to.
As I rolled onto the bed, I noticed something on the shelf that hadn't been there before. It was a potion, shimmering golden liquid trapped in a vial of ornate crystal. I recognized it of course, from both lives. The gold was a telltale giveaway. Felix felicis, the single rarest and most potent potion in existence short of Flamel's elixir of life.
Pinned beneath the vial was a letter I hastened to open. I knew it wasn't from my mother; she'd never bother with such an expensive potion. Penned in elegant but legible cursive on high quality parchment was a note from the chief bitch herself:
Corbin Silva,
You're not the first, you know. The boundary between realities can be awfully thin. It isn't unheard of for certain souls to slip through the cracks as it were. And sometimes, certain patrons like to insert these souls, often for some nebulous purpose like their own petty amusement. Of course, these souls don't typically insist on proving their right to remain here.
Was it your idea? Or your patron's?
I suppose it doesn't matter in the end. You made a grand challenge and I, your welcoming host, obliged you. And, surprise surprise, you persevered.
Congratulations, Corbin Silva, or Blaise Zabini if you prefer, I acknowledge your right to exist in my world.
I hope you understand the worth of what I am giving you. Blaise Zabini, the vessel you now occupy, had no grand destiny. There were no plans. He would have been raised a typical pureblood wizard and grown up to be a typical pureblood wizard. He certainly had no great affinity towards me.
Except now, he is an anomaly. Now, he's you.
This bottle is proof of your victory in our little contest, proof of your persistence. Yes, it is liquid luck, but it's so much more than that. It is the essence of everything you are in a way, the embodiment of everything I've allowed you to become: It is a Fate-Breaker.
Twenty-four hours. Drink this and not only will you have supernatural luck, you have my personal guarantee that I will not reassert my will on any prophecy you go out of your way to break during that time frame.
Suffice to say, this is not a gift I give often. Use it well, or don't. Actually, that would be better for me, less work you see.
Who knows? Perhaps we shall meet face to face one day and you will not need the aid of a potion to greet me as a peer.
Well played.
Your friend,
Fate
Author's Note
Blaise is a very confused boy.
The enhanced felix felicis is the single biggest reason to take Worst Day Ever. It's basically what the letter said. Since Blaise's build is so heavily tied to divination, I figured it'd be neat if his affinity in combination with the drawback made Fate take a personal interest in his development.
Animal fact? Sure. Tigers hunt by facial recognition. Or rather, they stop hunting by facial recognition. Because they are ambush predators, if they see a pair of eyes, they'll assume they can be seen in turn and won't leap.
Indian and Bangladeshi lumberjacks and woodsmen have used this to their advantage by wearing hats with faces painted on the back of the head to deter tigers. Unfortunately, tigers aren't stupid. They've caught on and there are on average 22 deaths per year (up to 50) in the Sundarbans region.
Thank you to all my patrons. Currently, my patrons can read up to 21 chapters in total ahead spread across various stories: 4 chapters of a yet unreleased Pokemon fic, 7.6 of Legendary Tinker, 3.15.5 of Plan? What Plan?, 3.9 of When is a Spoon a Sword?, 4 of Troll in the Dungeon!, and 3 chapters of another unreleased LoL/Worm fic. They are also occasionally asked to vote on the direction of my stories, such as new tinker specializations.
Meh heavy au is almost always just worse then the original. And begs the question if you are going to change something that much why not just make original work instead. I didn't actually hate the first chapter but ill definitely take a pass going forward especially since you seem to go out of your way to irritate your readers with your fics.
3. So It Begins
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Chapter 3: So it Begins
London, Great Britain
I did it. I managed something people have been attempting ever since we had two brain cells to rub together: I talked to Fate.
Sort of. At least, I received a letter from Fate, which was more than most could say.
It was terrifying. I talked about defying Fate as an ambition, about "being my own man," but now that I was faced with the potential prospect… I felt like an ant who had been shown just how wide the world was for the first time ever.
And yet, the possibilities were enticing. This golden liquid guaranteed me a day without Fate's interference, without Fate's correction. I could alter the course of human history, if that was what I wanted.
"I can kill Voldemort," I spoke aloud. I could take Violet's place, be the Man-Who-Conquered. I scoffed and let the vial slip from my grasp onto my pillow. Standing, I committed the letter to memory before tossing it into the fireplace. I'd only had the vial for a minute and I was already thinking about playing a major role in canon events. "No way. No way in hell. Becoming the Chosen One stand-in won't make me happy."
How could it? The fame that became suffocating. The blind worship of the wizarding sheeple who would turn on me with a single Daily Prophet article. The tactless envy of my so-called friends. The increased scrutiny and enmity of the "light" faction.
No, Violet could keep her crown. I had no intention of breaking Fate's machinations on that front.
As ever, the better question then was, if that wouldn't make me happy, what will?
Books. Esoteric knowledge. Secrets untold. I wasn't sure about any spiritual or emotional fulfillment, but these things could make me happy, at least superficially. So, lying in bed and staring at my plain brown ceiling, I declared:
"My ambition is to build the greatest library in both the muggle and magical world, so great that Ashurbanipal himself would weep with envy. I will live this new life without regrets, pursuing my own dreams without regard for Dumbledore, Voldemort, or even Fate, and should the day come that I stand as Fate's equal, I'm going to punch her in the mouth for this bullshit."
Silence greeted me.
I breathed deep and allowed my body to fade off into sleep. It was no grand declaration made on board the Going Merry as she sailed for Reverse Mountain. It was certainly no Oath of the Peach Garden. There was no one to hear my words to give them weight but I felt that weight anyway.
I was here. I heard. And that was what mattered in the end. It was unlike me to torture myself with what-ifs. So, I wouldn't.
I would step forward each new day towards my own ambition, casting aside all other concerns.
"After this nap," I yawned as my drawback lulled me to sleep.
X
The first step to living for myself was learning more about my power. To that end, I decided to seclude myself in the family library.
The Zabini family library of today was a Frankenstein's monster cobbled together from the corpses of many others of its kind. Father, my real one, was a dark wizard who'd worked under Grindelwald. He'd carried on a long family tradition of being absolute cunts to everyone lacking the "right" blood. The core of the Zabini library was therefore appropriately dark, if not particularly rare, expensive, or numerous. It contained a wealth of knowledge on dark curses and forbidden magics, all of them effective in their own right.
Mother had only added to this from the libraries of her many victims. She sold most of her husbands' possessions but kept the choicest bits for herself like a dragon hoarding gold. She wasn't a big reader, certainly not someone who treasured knowledge, but she was savvy enough to recognize that grimoires were themselves a form of power, and power was what she was all about.
All that to say, as far as non-noble houses went, our family library was probably among the largest and darkest. It contained a great breadth of works on esoteric knowledge, especially pertaining to Fate and Time, as mandated by my CYOA. I looked forward to adding to it in time.
But for now, I could only take and learn from the treasures of seven families.
In front of me was a book titled Divination through the Ages: A brief exploration of the art throughout history. It wasn't a grimoire, a magic book, but it was an excellent primer on what the art could be when its potential was fully realized.
It detailed the different ways the Sight had been used across the millennia, from Egyptian priests who made predictions using the entrails of sacrificial animals to the centaurs who looked to the stars for guidance. It taught me about the lives of the most famous seers in history, from Cassandra of Troy to Michel de Nostredame. Admittedly, it seemed somewhat lacking in eastern divination practices, but it was just one book among many.
The big takeaway seemed to be the lack of a distinct medium. Tea leaves? Fine for vague premonitions. Crystal ball? It was among the more reliable mediums. Corbin picked up one of those from the CYOA and it was lying around the manor somewhere. Tarot cards? Great for more personal fortunes, though admittedly open to interpretation. Entrails? Messy, but the value of a blood sacrifice couldn't be disregarded entirely. Planetary alignments? Excellent for global events and heralding grand climaxes in the play woven by Fate, but not so much for individuals.
Seeing how I actually had a crystal ball and the journal of the man who made it, I decided to start with that. I found it rolling around in what used to be my father's office, mine now. It had belonged to some unknown master perhaps centuries before my time.
It was one of the items that Corbin had saved from the CYOA, an orb which could be used as a medium for traditional fortune-telling and also had the unique ability to see into the dreams of anyone who was sleeping, provided the user knew who they were looking for.
According to Divination through the Ages, the hardest part of divination was starting out. No one was quite sure how to "open the eye" as it were. The Greeks drugged priestess-hopefuls with potions, a few magic and most just narcotic, to try and hear the voice of Apollo. Other cultures could be even more brutal, with dangerous fasts and self-flagellation in the name of letting go of mortal attachments being quite common. Hell, details were sparse but the book even touched upon the spirit-walks that prospective shamans went on in North America.
Suffice to say, the process of opening the inner eye could be extremely dangerous, especially for children. And that was if a prospective seer had the Sight in the first place. Since there was no real way to be sure until it happened, the whole trial could be a colossal waste of time. It certainly explained why divination was described as "wooly" at best even by accomplished witches and wizards like McGonagall. It wasn't that they dismissed its existence, but that they doubted anyone's ability to truly master the Sight to any usable degree.
Thankfully, I'd already awakened the Sight, and in a way that was on par with some of the methods explored by those ancient cultures. I grimaced as my nerves reminded me of the magical burns that had yet to heal. If there was one silver lining that came out of my Worst Day Ever, it was a pre-awakened Sight.
My readings on the subject taught me that there wasn't any single surefire method to learning the art, which explained why Trelawney's class felt so scattered in the movies and books. Some people had an easier time with tea leaves, others with tarot cards or oracle bones.
So, seeing how there wasn't a strict study guide available to me, I decided to start as sequentially as possible. Contrary to common misconceptions, divination was not fortune-telling. Fortune-telling was just one aspect of a much broader branch of magic. Divination was in fact the art of gathering information via magical means. Both the point me and homenum revelio spells were examples of wanded divination. Hell, Dumbledore's pensive was a divination artifact much like my crystal ball.
I tossed out any notion of seeing the future; the complexities of divining countless futures for the most likely outcome wasn't worth it. A mere three seconds could give me a migraine with enough use. Anything long-term was out of my reach until I got stronger.
Instead, I chose to approach this by looking to the past. Postcognition, or psychometry if you bought into ESP terminology, was the art of reading the "history" of an object. Shirou Emiya's structural grasp was an example. I figured that if the future was wooly because there were too many variables, pericognition, knowledge of the present, would be more complicated than postcognition for the same reason. Things that already happened were set in stone, there could be only one answer, while things that were still ongoing could be influenced by outside factors I either hadn't taken into account yet or lacked the ability to perceive.
I stared deeply into the crystal ball and tried to trigger that same feeling of seeing. On the table beside it was a deck of chocolate frog cards, old-Blaise had taken to collecting them for lack of anything else to do. At first, I failed to use my power. Or rather, I succeeded but only in seeing a few seconds into the future. Since there was no one else in the room and nothing was in motion, all I accomplished was to slightly slow my perception of the passage of time.
I kept at it for hours, taking a BLT in my room thanks to the helpful little bugger that was Pocky the house elf.
Then I felt it. The sensation of my magic connection to the crystal ball was impossible to put to words. It was no wonder divination instructions sounded so haphazard. The best analogy I could make was that I was now aware of something that wasn't directly connected to my body yet still resonated with me as well as my own hand.
See? It sounded stupid.
But regardless of my own tenuous grasp on the English language, I now had a tether to the crystal ball. I peered into its core and tried to visualize the deck of cards right next to me. The crystal began to fog up, filling with a silvery-white mist that obscured its center. I wondered what it was. The pensive drew silvery memories. The patronus likewise manifested as silvery mist. Was it a coincidence or was the crystal being filled with the magical manifestation of my own memories?
I tabled the question for now. The fog began to clear as I envisioned the deck of cards. One by one, I began to guess at the top card, then the next.
"Agatha Hopkirk," I tried. She was a sorceress who established the very first news outlet in the British Isles according to her chocolate frog card, the very same that would eventually rebrand as the Daily Prophet.
I flipped the physical deck next to me, only to find a copy of Meriwether Lewis, the famous explorer of Lewis and Clark fame. Turned out, guy was a wizard and magizoologist who did much to catalog the magical beasts found in North America. There were loads of rumors about him, from him having a thunderbird familiar to discovering ancient tombs and treasures. Ilvermorny apparently counted him as one of their greatest alumni, their very own, real-life Indiana Jones.
"Fuck," I swore. As interesting as his chocolate frog card was, I'd been guessing, not relying on my power.
This had seemed like an excellent way to practice postcognition. A math professor at my college told me once that there were more permutations of a single deck of playing cards than there were known stars in the universe. I wasn't sure whether that was really true or not, but it was certainly more than I could count and that was enough. Old-Blaise had far more than fifty-two unique chocolate frog cards.
I mixed the deck again. There was nothing I would do from this point to alter the permutation. Therefore, by using the crystal ball to determine the sequence of these cards, I was effectively looking into the past, the "history" of these cards.
I pulled out some quill and parchment and began again. This time, I did my best to strengthen the connection and imagined the cards flipping over. In response to my desires, the top card on the deck reflected in the fog lifted itself, revealing the face of a world-famous alchemist. Nicholas Flamel, a particularly rare card. I scribbled my answer.
Then Oliver Cromwell, an idiot with delusions of grandeur whose card was more a mockery of his life than homage to it. Samuel Longbottom. Monica Avery. Sophia Bones.
One by one I drew from the hazy illusion until I had nothing left to draw. Then I took the physical deck and flipped the top card. The solemn face of Nicholas Flamel brought a smile to my face, perhaps the first since Portugal.
Oliver Cromwell. Samuel Longbottom… One by one, I checked the accuracy of my postcognition.
I wasn't always right. Out of the seventy or so cards, roughly a quarter of my predictions were wrong. The deeper into the deck of cards, the more frequent my mistakes.
I leaned back into my chair after marking my answers. "Question is, is it because my connection to the orb fluctuates like radio static? Or am I running out of magic? Maybe my inner eye isn't open fully yet and I can only look so far?"
I gathered the cards and split them in two piles before forming a riffle bridge. The college librarian life was quiet and I'd taken to practicing a lot of different hobbies during the late night shifts, card tricks just happened to be one of them. After a few rounds, I cut the deck and began again. If Healer Alvarez was right and magic was like a muscle, I'd be sure to exercise it as much as I could.
X
I did nothing else but work on my burgeoning Sight for four days. The crystal ball was a godsend, the beginner's guide and crutch to an otherwise deeply metaphysical art. By the end of my little training spree, I could more or less observe any material so long as I could envision it. If it existed, and lacked any ongoing variables, it was a simple matter to obtain the information I desired.
I'd also taken to practicing my precognition, limited as it was, as often as possible. The brain of a human child was filled with neurons. As the child learned, the brain pruned itself, strengthening and focusing connections that were frequently used while discarding those that were not. This process of growth and optimization was called neuroplasticity. I had no idea if magic worked in the same manor, but I did know that magical affinities were a thing. If at all possible, I wanted to strengthen my affinity towards divination in any way I could.
In order to not be bored out of my skull, I came up with a number of different exercises such as trying to catch a butterfly with my bare hands using foresight alone. That particular challenge was especially difficult considering I'd shiver and seize up from my recovering nerves every few minutes. I hoped that with time, what was currently an active ability would become a passive warning system.
I wanted my own haki, damn it.
I was learning too fast, far faster than anyone should when exploring such a wooly art without a single teacher to guide me. I attributed my growth rate to my Fate and Time affinities, as well as the Esoteric Knowledge perk.
My stay in Zabini Manor wasn't all sunshine and rainbows however. I'd yet to see my mother even once since coming home. I wasn't sure what a professional socialite and infamous black widow did to pass the time, but it sure as hell wasn't spending time with her son.
"No, this is a good thing," I told myself. There was the teenage son in me who sorely longed for a relationship with Valencia Zabini, even knowing what she was. There was also the detached reincarnator in me who couldn't be happier. Money, space, a house elf to cater to my whims, and the freedom to pursue my own interests. Those should have been fair trades.
So why did old-Blaise insist it felt hollow?
The crystal ball had a secondary function beyond acting as a general divination medium. It was a masterwork created by some ancestor of mine, the same man who'd go on to study the effect of magic on subconscious memories, impressions, and emotions. Or to be specific, dreams.
The ball had the power to scry dreams. According to my ancestor's journal, a true master-such as himself of course-humility was a foreign concept in my family, could use it to directly influence the dreams of others, or simply to pass them messages or flashes of "inspiration."
When I got to reading that bit, I just had to try it. So, I soldiered on despite my increased need to sleep, told Pocky to not wake me in the morning, and tried to scry the dreams of the only other person in the house.
Never. Again.
I learned a great deal about my mother and step-dad-number-two. I learned that Valencia Zabini remembers her husbands fondly, enough to dream about them. I learned that step-dad-number-two liked to be tied up in bed. I learned that the eighty-two year old man needed some… enhancements… to perform. And that, yes, it was in fact possible to overdose on said enhancements and orgasm so hard you died of a heart attack.
I learned my mother wore the prettiest smile as she watched her husband froth at the mouth and release inside her one last time.
That was how I found out that Valencia Zabini didn't just kill because she craved power. No, my mother was a base creature and talks about power and realpolitik were but a cover for her psychotic proclivities. Like any true spider, she enjoyed the kill. She felt alive in her husband's final moments. The sheer, unadulterated delight and fond reminiscence filled her dream like a gunshot in the silence as she came on a dying man's cock. The smile of pure rapture was likely the single most genuine expression I'd ever seen on her.
Valencia Zabini was a monster.
Never. Again.
X
Pocky, the cherubic house elf that she was, allowed me to sleep in. I retired at roughly two in the morning so I woke up after a full twelve hours well into the afternoon. The first thing I did was take a long shower. I felt dirty having seen that, not because I had any compunctions about privacy, if I did I wouldn't have tried to scry dreams in the first place, but because Valencia Zabini was a truly revolting existence. Gilded and beautiful, but irredeemably evil.
When I stumbled downstairs into my new study, Pocky appeared with the crack of poprocks and sank into a bow.
She was a short, thin creature, as all house elves were. It was impossible to tell her age beyond "not as old as Kreacher," and that only because she didn't look like a shriveled scrotum with eyes. Mother saw fit to give her a longer pillowcase with floral prints that she wore as a knee-length dress.
She remained in that bow and in my recently awoken haze it took me a moment to remember why. Mother was one of those rich bitches who believed "the help" should not be heard, preferably not seen either unless strictly necessary. She wouldn't speak at all unless I addressed her first.
"Good morning, Pocky," I greeted her as affably as I could. "Please stand."
"Good morning, Master Blazey," she said. She stood but made sure not to look me in the eyes, another of mother's rules. "Does Mastery Blazey be needing lunch?"
"Yes, I'll take my meal here, please."
"What does Master Blazey be wanting?"
"Just a sandwich is fine." I told her. She remained and I realized I hadn't specified what kind. "Turkey, provolone, gherkin, onion, and watercress. Thank you, Pocky."
"Yes, Master Blazey, right away."
I chuckled as she popped away. She'd been calling me "Master Blazey" for as long as I could remember. One of these days, I'd figure out where that ridiculous quirk of house elves came from.
I ate and went about packing for school. Like every other first year, Blaise had of course received a letter some weeks ago, way back before I'd landed in this body. With the formal acceptance letter came a list of materials required by the school.
One of the major benefits of not being a muggleborn was that I could ignore most of the list. Cauldron? Scales? Telescope? Glass phials? I had those lying around. Mother sold practically everything held by her husbands, but that didn't mean things didn't pile up, especially things that were just not worth the bother of selling. All I really needed at Diagon Alley was a wand, uniform, schoolbooks, and perhaps an owl for myself.
I figured that was a good thing. Mother was rich; I received an allowance. Sure, it was a respectable amount, but I didn't doubt I'd find ways to burn through it quickly. The more I could save now, the better.
I informed Pocky that I'd be eating out in Diagon someplace for dinner and made for the floo.
"Welp… So it begins…"
Author's Note
I have no idea what divination training would look like. On the plus side, neither does JKR, which means I can bullshit as much as I damn well please.
Facts... Umm... In traditional Chinese philosophy, there are five elements: fire, water, earth, wood, and metal. Out of everything in creation, it is the peach tree that is considered to possess all five elements in perfect harmony. The wood has been used as staves by traveling monks to ward off evil and the fruit features prominently in myth as the Peaches of Immortality raised in the garden of the Queen Mother of the West.
Thank you to all my patrons. Currently, my patrons can read up to 22 chapters in total ahead spread across various stories: 5 chapters of a yet unreleased Pokemon fic, 7.6 of Legendary Tinker, 4.1 of Plan? What Plan?, 3.10 of When is a Spoon a Sword?, 5 of Troll in the Dungeon!, and 4 chapters of another unreleased LoL/Worm fic. They are also occasionally asked to vote on the direction of my stories, such as new tinker specializations.
I realized that I've built up quite a stockpile of chapters on Pa-tre-on because I sometimes post during the weekdays there. Some of these chapters have been out for over a month and I feel like I should start letting my public accounts catch up. I'm going to post more often publicly for a while.
London, Great Britain
I did it. I managed something people have been attempting ever since we had two brain cells to rub together: I talked to Fate.
Sort of. At least, I received a letter from Fate, which was more than most could say.
It was terrifying. I talked about defying Fate as an ambition, about "being my own man," but now that I was faced with the potential prospect… I felt like an ant who had been shown just how wide the world was for the first time ever.
And yet, the possibilities were enticing. This golden liquid guaranteed me a day without Fate's interference, without Fate's correction. I could alter the course of human history, if that was what I wanted.
"I can kill Voldemort," I spoke aloud. I could take Violet's place, be the Man-Who-Conquered. I scoffed and let the vial slip from my grasp onto my pillow. Standing, I committed the letter to memory before tossing it into the fireplace. I'd only had the vial for a minute and I was already thinking about playing a major role in canon events. "No way. No way in hell. Becoming the Chosen One stand-in won't make me happy."
How could it? The fame that became suffocating. The blind worship of the wizarding sheeple who would turn on me with a single Daily Prophet article. The tactless envy of my so-called friends. The increased scrutiny and enmity of the "light" faction.
No, Violet could keep her crown. I had no intention of breaking Fate's machinations on that front.
As ever, the better question then was, if that wouldn't make me happy, what will?
Books. Esoteric knowledge. Secrets untold. I wasn't sure about any spiritual or emotional fulfillment, but these things could make me happy, at least superficially. So, lying in bed and staring at my plain brown ceiling, I declared:
"My ambition is to build the greatest library in both the muggle and magical world, so great that Ashurbanipal himself would weep with envy. I will live this new life without regrets, pursuing my own dreams without regard for Dumbledore, Voldemort, or even Fate, and should the day come that I stand as Fate's equal, I'm going to punch her in the mouth for this bullshit."
Silence greeted me.
I breathed deep and allowed my body to fade off into sleep. It was no grand declaration made on board the Going Merry as she sailed for Reverse Mountain. It was certainly no Oath of the Peach Garden. There was no one to hear my words to give them weight but I felt that weight anyway.
I was here. I heard. And that was what mattered in the end. It was unlike me to torture myself with what-ifs. So, I wouldn't.
I would step forward each new day towards my own ambition, casting aside all other concerns.
"After this nap," I yawned as my drawback lulled me to sleep.
X
The first step to living for myself was learning more about my power. To that end, I decided to seclude myself in the family library.
The Zabini family library of today was a Frankenstein's monster cobbled together from the corpses of many others of its kind. Father, my real one, was a dark wizard who'd worked under Grindelwald. He'd carried on a long family tradition of being absolute cunts to everyone lacking the "right" blood. The core of the Zabini library was therefore appropriately dark, if not particularly rare, expensive, or numerous. It contained a wealth of knowledge on dark curses and forbidden magics, all of them effective in their own right.
Mother had only added to this from the libraries of her many victims. She sold most of her husbands' possessions but kept the choicest bits for herself like a dragon hoarding gold. She wasn't a big reader, certainly not someone who treasured knowledge, but she was savvy enough to recognize that grimoires were themselves a form of power, and power was what she was all about.
All that to say, as far as non-noble houses went, our family library was probably among the largest and darkest. It contained a great breadth of works on esoteric knowledge, especially pertaining to Fate and Time, as mandated by my CYOA. I looked forward to adding to it in time.
But for now, I could only take and learn from the treasures of seven families.
In front of me was a book titled Divination through the Ages: A brief exploration of the art throughout history. It wasn't a grimoire, a magic book, but it was an excellent primer on what the art could be when its potential was fully realized.
It detailed the different ways the Sight had been used across the millennia, from Egyptian priests who made predictions using the entrails of sacrificial animals to the centaurs who looked to the stars for guidance. It taught me about the lives of the most famous seers in history, from Cassandra of Troy to Michel de Nostredame. Admittedly, it seemed somewhat lacking in eastern divination practices, but it was just one book among many.
The big takeaway seemed to be the lack of a distinct medium. Tea leaves? Fine for vague premonitions. Crystal ball? It was among the more reliable mediums. Corbin picked up one of those from the CYOA and it was lying around the manor somewhere. Tarot cards? Great for more personal fortunes, though admittedly open to interpretation. Entrails? Messy, but the value of a blood sacrifice couldn't be disregarded entirely. Planetary alignments? Excellent for global events and heralding grand climaxes in the play woven by Fate, but not so much for individuals.
Seeing how I actually had a crystal ball and the journal of the man who made it, I decided to start with that. I found it rolling around in what used to be my father's office, mine now. It had belonged to some unknown master perhaps centuries before my time.
It was one of the items that Corbin had saved from the CYOA, an orb which could be used as a medium for traditional fortune-telling and also had the unique ability to see into the dreams of anyone who was sleeping, provided the user knew who they were looking for.
According to Divination through the Ages, the hardest part of divination was starting out. No one was quite sure how to "open the eye" as it were. The Greeks drugged priestess-hopefuls with potions, a few magic and most just narcotic, to try and hear the voice of Apollo. Other cultures could be even more brutal, with dangerous fasts and self-flagellation in the name of letting go of mortal attachments being quite common. Hell, details were sparse but the book even touched upon the spirit-walks that prospective shamans went on in North America.
Suffice to say, the process of opening the inner eye could be extremely dangerous, especially for children. And that was if a prospective seer had the Sight in the first place. Since there was no real way to be sure until it happened, the whole trial could be a colossal waste of time. It certainly explained why divination was described as "wooly" at best even by accomplished witches and wizards like McGonagall. It wasn't that they dismissed its existence, but that they doubted anyone's ability to truly master the Sight to any usable degree.
Thankfully, I'd already awakened the Sight, and in a way that was on par with some of the methods explored by those ancient cultures. I grimaced as my nerves reminded me of the magical burns that had yet to heal. If there was one silver lining that came out of my Worst Day Ever, it was a pre-awakened Sight.
My readings on the subject taught me that there wasn't any single surefire method to learning the art, which explained why Trelawney's class felt so scattered in the movies and books. Some people had an easier time with tea leaves, others with tarot cards or oracle bones.
So, seeing how there wasn't a strict study guide available to me, I decided to start as sequentially as possible. Contrary to common misconceptions, divination was not fortune-telling. Fortune-telling was just one aspect of a much broader branch of magic. Divination was in fact the art of gathering information via magical means. Both the point me and homenum revelio spells were examples of wanded divination. Hell, Dumbledore's pensive was a divination artifact much like my crystal ball.
I tossed out any notion of seeing the future; the complexities of divining countless futures for the most likely outcome wasn't worth it. A mere three seconds could give me a migraine with enough use. Anything long-term was out of my reach until I got stronger.
Instead, I chose to approach this by looking to the past. Postcognition, or psychometry if you bought into ESP terminology, was the art of reading the "history" of an object. Shirou Emiya's structural grasp was an example. I figured that if the future was wooly because there were too many variables, pericognition, knowledge of the present, would be more complicated than postcognition for the same reason. Things that already happened were set in stone, there could be only one answer, while things that were still ongoing could be influenced by outside factors I either hadn't taken into account yet or lacked the ability to perceive.
I stared deeply into the crystal ball and tried to trigger that same feeling of seeing. On the table beside it was a deck of chocolate frog cards, old-Blaise had taken to collecting them for lack of anything else to do. At first, I failed to use my power. Or rather, I succeeded but only in seeing a few seconds into the future. Since there was no one else in the room and nothing was in motion, all I accomplished was to slightly slow my perception of the passage of time.
I kept at it for hours, taking a BLT in my room thanks to the helpful little bugger that was Pocky the house elf.
Then I felt it. The sensation of my magic connection to the crystal ball was impossible to put to words. It was no wonder divination instructions sounded so haphazard. The best analogy I could make was that I was now aware of something that wasn't directly connected to my body yet still resonated with me as well as my own hand.
See? It sounded stupid.
But regardless of my own tenuous grasp on the English language, I now had a tether to the crystal ball. I peered into its core and tried to visualize the deck of cards right next to me. The crystal began to fog up, filling with a silvery-white mist that obscured its center. I wondered what it was. The pensive drew silvery memories. The patronus likewise manifested as silvery mist. Was it a coincidence or was the crystal being filled with the magical manifestation of my own memories?
I tabled the question for now. The fog began to clear as I envisioned the deck of cards. One by one, I began to guess at the top card, then the next.
"Agatha Hopkirk," I tried. She was a sorceress who established the very first news outlet in the British Isles according to her chocolate frog card, the very same that would eventually rebrand as the Daily Prophet.
I flipped the physical deck next to me, only to find a copy of Meriwether Lewis, the famous explorer of Lewis and Clark fame. Turned out, guy was a wizard and magizoologist who did much to catalog the magical beasts found in North America. There were loads of rumors about him, from him having a thunderbird familiar to discovering ancient tombs and treasures. Ilvermorny apparently counted him as one of their greatest alumni, their very own, real-life Indiana Jones.
"Fuck," I swore. As interesting as his chocolate frog card was, I'd been guessing, not relying on my power.
This had seemed like an excellent way to practice postcognition. A math professor at my college told me once that there were more permutations of a single deck of playing cards than there were known stars in the universe. I wasn't sure whether that was really true or not, but it was certainly more than I could count and that was enough. Old-Blaise had far more than fifty-two unique chocolate frog cards.
I mixed the deck again. There was nothing I would do from this point to alter the permutation. Therefore, by using the crystal ball to determine the sequence of these cards, I was effectively looking into the past, the "history" of these cards.
I pulled out some quill and parchment and began again. This time, I did my best to strengthen the connection and imagined the cards flipping over. In response to my desires, the top card on the deck reflected in the fog lifted itself, revealing the face of a world-famous alchemist. Nicholas Flamel, a particularly rare card. I scribbled my answer.
Then Oliver Cromwell, an idiot with delusions of grandeur whose card was more a mockery of his life than homage to it. Samuel Longbottom. Monica Avery. Sophia Bones.
One by one I drew from the hazy illusion until I had nothing left to draw. Then I took the physical deck and flipped the top card. The solemn face of Nicholas Flamel brought a smile to my face, perhaps the first since Portugal.
Oliver Cromwell. Samuel Longbottom… One by one, I checked the accuracy of my postcognition.
I wasn't always right. Out of the seventy or so cards, roughly a quarter of my predictions were wrong. The deeper into the deck of cards, the more frequent my mistakes.
I leaned back into my chair after marking my answers. "Question is, is it because my connection to the orb fluctuates like radio static? Or am I running out of magic? Maybe my inner eye isn't open fully yet and I can only look so far?"
I gathered the cards and split them in two piles before forming a riffle bridge. The college librarian life was quiet and I'd taken to practicing a lot of different hobbies during the late night shifts, card tricks just happened to be one of them. After a few rounds, I cut the deck and began again. If Healer Alvarez was right and magic was like a muscle, I'd be sure to exercise it as much as I could.
X
I did nothing else but work on my burgeoning Sight for four days. The crystal ball was a godsend, the beginner's guide and crutch to an otherwise deeply metaphysical art. By the end of my little training spree, I could more or less observe any material so long as I could envision it. If it existed, and lacked any ongoing variables, it was a simple matter to obtain the information I desired.
I'd also taken to practicing my precognition, limited as it was, as often as possible. The brain of a human child was filled with neurons. As the child learned, the brain pruned itself, strengthening and focusing connections that were frequently used while discarding those that were not. This process of growth and optimization was called neuroplasticity. I had no idea if magic worked in the same manor, but I did know that magical affinities were a thing. If at all possible, I wanted to strengthen my affinity towards divination in any way I could.
In order to not be bored out of my skull, I came up with a number of different exercises such as trying to catch a butterfly with my bare hands using foresight alone. That particular challenge was especially difficult considering I'd shiver and seize up from my recovering nerves every few minutes. I hoped that with time, what was currently an active ability would become a passive warning system.
I wanted my own haki, damn it.
I was learning too fast, far faster than anyone should when exploring such a wooly art without a single teacher to guide me. I attributed my growth rate to my Fate and Time affinities, as well as the Esoteric Knowledge perk.
My stay in Zabini Manor wasn't all sunshine and rainbows however. I'd yet to see my mother even once since coming home. I wasn't sure what a professional socialite and infamous black widow did to pass the time, but it sure as hell wasn't spending time with her son.
"No, this is a good thing," I told myself. There was the teenage son in me who sorely longed for a relationship with Valencia Zabini, even knowing what she was. There was also the detached reincarnator in me who couldn't be happier. Money, space, a house elf to cater to my whims, and the freedom to pursue my own interests. Those should have been fair trades.
So why did old-Blaise insist it felt hollow?
The crystal ball had a secondary function beyond acting as a general divination medium. It was a masterwork created by some ancestor of mine, the same man who'd go on to study the effect of magic on subconscious memories, impressions, and emotions. Or to be specific, dreams.
The ball had the power to scry dreams. According to my ancestor's journal, a true master-such as himself of course-humility was a foreign concept in my family, could use it to directly influence the dreams of others, or simply to pass them messages or flashes of "inspiration."
When I got to reading that bit, I just had to try it. So, I soldiered on despite my increased need to sleep, told Pocky to not wake me in the morning, and tried to scry the dreams of the only other person in the house.
Never. Again.
I learned a great deal about my mother and step-dad-number-two. I learned that Valencia Zabini remembers her husbands fondly, enough to dream about them. I learned that step-dad-number-two liked to be tied up in bed. I learned that the eighty-two year old man needed some… enhancements… to perform. And that, yes, it was in fact possible to overdose on said enhancements and orgasm so hard you died of a heart attack.
I learned my mother wore the prettiest smile as she watched her husband froth at the mouth and release inside her one last time.
That was how I found out that Valencia Zabini didn't just kill because she craved power. No, my mother was a base creature and talks about power and realpolitik were but a cover for her psychotic proclivities. Like any true spider, she enjoyed the kill. She felt alive in her husband's final moments. The sheer, unadulterated delight and fond reminiscence filled her dream like a gunshot in the silence as she came on a dying man's cock. The smile of pure rapture was likely the single most genuine expression I'd ever seen on her.
Valencia Zabini was a monster.
Never. Again.
X
Pocky, the cherubic house elf that she was, allowed me to sleep in. I retired at roughly two in the morning so I woke up after a full twelve hours well into the afternoon. The first thing I did was take a long shower. I felt dirty having seen that, not because I had any compunctions about privacy, if I did I wouldn't have tried to scry dreams in the first place, but because Valencia Zabini was a truly revolting existence. Gilded and beautiful, but irredeemably evil.
When I stumbled downstairs into my new study, Pocky appeared with the crack of poprocks and sank into a bow.
She was a short, thin creature, as all house elves were. It was impossible to tell her age beyond "not as old as Kreacher," and that only because she didn't look like a shriveled scrotum with eyes. Mother saw fit to give her a longer pillowcase with floral prints that she wore as a knee-length dress.
She remained in that bow and in my recently awoken haze it took me a moment to remember why. Mother was one of those rich bitches who believed "the help" should not be heard, preferably not seen either unless strictly necessary. She wouldn't speak at all unless I addressed her first.
"Good morning, Pocky," I greeted her as affably as I could. "Please stand."
"Good morning, Master Blazey," she said. She stood but made sure not to look me in the eyes, another of mother's rules. "Does Mastery Blazey be needing lunch?"
"Yes, I'll take my meal here, please."
"What does Master Blazey be wanting?"
"Just a sandwich is fine." I told her. She remained and I realized I hadn't specified what kind. "Turkey, provolone, gherkin, onion, and watercress. Thank you, Pocky."
"Yes, Master Blazey, right away."
I chuckled as she popped away. She'd been calling me "Master Blazey" for as long as I could remember. One of these days, I'd figure out where that ridiculous quirk of house elves came from.
I ate and went about packing for school. Like every other first year, Blaise had of course received a letter some weeks ago, way back before I'd landed in this body. With the formal acceptance letter came a list of materials required by the school.
One of the major benefits of not being a muggleborn was that I could ignore most of the list. Cauldron? Scales? Telescope? Glass phials? I had those lying around. Mother sold practically everything held by her husbands, but that didn't mean things didn't pile up, especially things that were just not worth the bother of selling. All I really needed at Diagon Alley was a wand, uniform, schoolbooks, and perhaps an owl for myself.
I figured that was a good thing. Mother was rich; I received an allowance. Sure, it was a respectable amount, but I didn't doubt I'd find ways to burn through it quickly. The more I could save now, the better.
I informed Pocky that I'd be eating out in Diagon someplace for dinner and made for the floo.
"Welp… So it begins…"
Author's Note
I have no idea what divination training would look like. On the plus side, neither does JKR, which means I can bullshit as much as I damn well please.
Facts... Umm... In traditional Chinese philosophy, there are five elements: fire, water, earth, wood, and metal. Out of everything in creation, it is the peach tree that is considered to possess all five elements in perfect harmony. The wood has been used as staves by traveling monks to ward off evil and the fruit features prominently in myth as the Peaches of Immortality raised in the garden of the Queen Mother of the West.
Thank you to all my patrons. Currently, my patrons can read up to 22 chapters in total ahead spread across various stories: 5 chapters of a yet unreleased Pokemon fic, 7.6 of Legendary Tinker, 4.1 of Plan? What Plan?, 3.10 of When is a Spoon a Sword?, 5 of Troll in the Dungeon!, and 4 chapters of another unreleased LoL/Worm fic. They are also occasionally asked to vote on the direction of my stories, such as new tinker specializations.
I realized that I've built up quite a stockpile of chapters on Pa-tre-on because I sometimes post during the weekdays there. Some of these chapters have been out for over a month and I feel like I should start letting my public accounts catch up. I'm going to post more often publicly for a while.
Well that was interesting. Seeing dreams is probably an underrated ability in the HP universe. Especially since Harry himself constantly has prophetic/revelatory dreams and never thinks to investigate them or 'dream magic' in general.
Spying on murder mommy though. eww ewww ewwwwww.
Spying on murder mommy though. eww ewww ewwwwww.
- Location
- Elsewhere
This sounds like it runs directly counter to your plans of "not being bothered."
"So he's a seer that isn't bound by fate, what does that mean?"
"It means he can predict the future and change it."
"So, like elections? Weather? The economy?"
"Maybe?"
"He's too dangerous to live. No government can exist as long as he's around. Kill him at any cost."
Remember, you don't get bothered when you are too irrelevant to be worth bothering.
It is worth noting that if there was a prophecy that Dumbledore could kill Voldemort, but he'd have to die doing it, he'd absolutely jump on that grenade without hesitation.
Which would neatly remove both from your life.
Just saying.
Magic equivalent of static?
If he knows there was a shipwreck in, let's say 1700, that was never recovered but hasn't moved much since it sank, could he divine the shipment of gold buried under 200 years of debris at the bottom of the ocean from his bedroom? Could he find deposits of ore, oil, or other natural resources buried deep under his feet that have been there mostly unchanging for a million years?
It might take some more practice with future sight to win the lottery or a fight, but there are exploits for seeing the past as well. Since he wants a library he can scry Alexandria and record the lost knowledge from it before it burns.
It might take some more practice with future sight to win the lottery or a fight, but there are exploits for seeing the past as well. Since he wants a library he can scry Alexandria and record the lost knowledge from it before it burns.
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4. Obligatory Diagon
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Chapter 4: Obligatory Diagon
London, Great Britain
There was a small square filled with several public fireplaces just to the side of Diagon Alley that played the same role as a bus stop or subway station in the muggle world. After all, it'd be really weird if the only entrance to the biggest magical shopping quarter in Magical Britain was through a rundown tavern. While I had no doubt that Tom loved the flow of traffic and increased business, his little tavern couldn't possibly cater to the entire magical population of the British Isles.
And still, as I stepped into my own fireplace, I tossed the ash-like powder onto the ground and enunciated clearly, "Leaky Cauldron."
The part of me that was Corbin, the man who grew up reading stories about this world, would accept nothing less. Saying those words with floo powder tightly clenched in hand meant something, just a part of my childhood dream being validated. It sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach.
That was as much joy as I got out of my first floo experience before the world shifted around me like a demented carousel. Turned out, the floo was not instant movement, not really. If anything, it was like one of those 60s sci-fi cartoons where people got shoved through chutes at super speed. I saw other people's fireplaces blur by, too fast to make out any specific details.
Then, my mind was launched out of the chute even as my body insisted we were still moving in the same direction. I saw myself faceplant onto the tavern floor, pimp cane clattering to the ground. My body convulsed as the fall triggered a new round of painful shivers.
'Precog,' I realized. I did my best to brace myself, though to little avail.
In the end, I clutched my cane with both hands and walked out with the release, doing my best to bleed off the momentum. This didn't keep me from promptly tripping over my own feet. I staggered forward two more steps before I managed to jam the cane into the tavern floor with both hands like I was staking a vampire. I drew a fair bit of attention but the patrons of the bar immediately turned back to their meals once they realized there was no entertainment to be found.
"You alright there, lad?" came the bartender's concerned question. I looked over to find Tom polishing a mug. He was an old, bald man whose age had stooped his back into a pronounced hunch. Still, he was a nice enough man by all accounts and his eyes shone with naked kindness.
Or maybe he just didn't want me losing my teeth against his floor.
"Well, I'm not having a seizure so we should be fine," I drawled back. "Sorry about making a show, can't really walk right at the moment."
He eyed the ostentatious cane with a knowing nod. "Ain't the worst I've seen. You want anything, kid?"
"Just getting my school shopping done, Tom."
"You know they have a public fireplace right around the corner?"
I shot him a disarming smile. "What can I say? Your pub's iconic. Felt like I had to start my journey here if that makes any sense."
He puffed out his chest with pride. "Well of course it's iconic. The Leaky Cauldron's been in the family for near five hundred years now. This humble pub's the divide between the wizarding and muggle worlds, you know? It ain't much, but it's an institution is what it is."
"So I've been told. Heard you got a mean shepherd's pie too, might come back for dinner. You take care, Tom. Gotta go get my wand and whatnot."
"Heh, you get on then, lad. Cutting it a little close though."
"I've been busy these past few weeks," I said with a wan smile. "Not exactly my choice either."
"You need to be let into the Alley," Tom asked. "The wall stops anyone who don't know the sequence."
"Ehh, I like puzzles. Let me try on my own first. I'll come get you if I can't figure it out."
"Suit yourself."
With a wave behind me, I stepped into the back of the tavern. Before me was the brick wall that Hagrid first showed to Harry. It looked about as mundane as any other alley, with a few trash bins in one corner. Tapping the right brick would make the wall reconfigure itself into an archway.
"Was it three up and two across or two up and three across?" I mused to myself as I stepped next to the rubbish. "I know the sequence began from the trash can…"
I could easily try both combinations but I figured it would be a decent chance to practice my divination without the ball. The ball was a tool but I didn't want it to become a crutch. I reached out and placed a hand on the brickwork. I closed my eyes and willed my magic to the surface. This in itself made me an anomaly; I doubted anyone my age could call on their magic freely without a wand.
My magic answered me, rising up like a bubbling spring. Like water, it was formless. Any attempt to grasp it with my will only saw me staring at my empty hands as it flowed through my fingers. If it wasn't for my esoteric affinities, I knew I wouldn't have been able to manage even this much. Everything save divination was far out of my grasp.
That was fine; I didn't need anything else. The magic in the wall thrummed as it sensed me. I willed my own magic into the brickwork and attempted to look at its past. My magic felt like molasses as it slowly seeped inside, a huge contrast compared to the crystal ball which had all but snapped the connection into place on its own.
I supposed that was the difference between a magical tool designed for the art and your everyday ward.
I stood with my eyes closed and hands on that wall for a solid twenty minutes. I felt my lips curl into a smile as I thought about what I must have looked like, kind of like I'd been pulled over and was waiting to be frisked by a cop. Then the distracting thought broke my concentration and I had to start again. Tom must have assumed I'd gotten in somehow because he didn't bother checking up on me.
I didn't succeed, at least not in seeing its history. Normally, I literally saw visions of what had happened, such as me seeing the cards flip over to reveal themselves in my crystal ball. Instead, though the vision of the last person who'd used this entrance eluded me, I was able to feel the way the magic flowed through the brickwork. It felt a bit like the water of a gentle creek that I'd dipped a finger into as it flowed downstream. It was slow and languid, so much so that I barely noticed the current, but it was there.
I tracked it to the center of the wall, three bricks up and two across from the rubbish bin.
"That must be the entrance then," I concluded. I reached out and tapped the brick. Sure enough, I was rewarded with the sound of grinding stone as the wall moved aside for me.
I grinned wide as the legendary locale spread out before me. It was… Well, it was honestly somewhat underwhelming, but the simple fact that this was Diagon Alley made it seem much more grandiose than it would have been.
I skipped the bank. Valencia Zabini was a paranoid bitch and though the Zabini family had an account with Gringotts that included six other folded houses, there was a not insignificant amount of money and resources that was squirreled away in different places around Europe. It made sense, when she lived her life screwing over (literally) everyone she met, it became second nature to expect the same treatment in return.
All it meant was that I lacked the key to the Zabini vault. Mother had seen fit to give me a bag of one hundred galleons and told me to knock myself out.
Parenting, thy name is not Valencia.
How much was that in pounds? I didn't have a single fucking clue because old-Blaise never frequented the muggle world. It was a lot though, enough that a less affluent family could live for a month or two on my allowance. Considering Fred and George used only a thousand galleons to start a business, purchase and develop products, and acquire retail space, perhaps that was to be expected.
"Let's see… I need a wand, uniform, books, and an owl…" I muttered to myself.
That made my decision easy. I'd never been the sort to leave the important things for last so I made a beeline for Olivander's.
I meandered through the streets, window shopping to see if there was anything not on the list worth buying. I saw the Nimbus 2000 and a few kids going goo goo over it, but it didn't strike a chord with me as I'd expected. Apparently, old-Blaise wasn't much of a flyer.
I eventually found the historic shop. It was near the southern end of the alley and looked somewhat dilapidated. The walls were covered in beige paint that had begun to flake off and there were cracks in the masonry as if caused by one too many explosions, which, considering Harry's wand choosing, wasn't out of the question.
Then again, I supposed the outer appearance of the shop meant little to a wizard, especially not one with a guaranteed clientele like Ollivander. Perhaps he saw no reason to restore the store to its undamaged state so long as the damages were merely cosmetic.
I took a deep breath and stepped into the store, the bell above the door ringing merrilly. I turned around to face the nook behind the door, Ollivander playing peekaboo was a thing, right?
Only, there was no one there.
Then a sliding ladder clanged to the floor with a deafening thump, making me jump. My hand clenched down on my cane and I only just kept down a squeak of surprise. The famed wandmaker slid down from it with dexterity belied by his age.
"Ah, Mr. Zabini, welcome to my store," the wispy old man said with a knowing smile.
"Do you enjoy surprising people?" I asked acerbically. I wasn't pouting, honest.
"When one reaches my age, one must find his own amusement."
"How did you know my name?"
"You have many questions but the answer is not as magical as you would believe. You look like young Miss Constanza did at your age. Willow and dragon heartstring, nine inches, a flexible wand for a morally flexible witch."
I scowled. It took me a moment to recognize my mother's maiden name. I should have triggered my precog before coming in, if only to turn the tables on that little prank of his. "Might be the nicest way I've heard anyone describe her."
"Yes, well, let's get started, shall we? Show me your wand arm."
I transferred the cane to my left hand and held out my right. A set of measuring tapes floated around my body, measuring everything from the space between my eyes to the width of my nostrils. "Do these things actually help or are they just here to distract customers while you work?"
He gave me another of those enigmatic smiles but ignored my question entirely. "Here, try this one. Ash and unicorn hair, very forgiving."
"That's not me," I said definitively. The CYOA had given Corbin the chance to customize a wand. Naturally, old-me had gone with the one best suited for esoteric magics, especially divination: silver lime and phoenix tail feather, ten inches. Even had I not known my exact wand, I would have had doubts about this one. Forgiveness? Me? There was a woman with her head pulped down in Portugal who'd beg to differ.
"Try anyway," he urged. "I find even the rejections to be highly informative. As my grandfather always said, it is the wand that chooses the wizard. The choice could surprise you."
I reached out for it and just before I could make contact with the wood, it launched from my grip and threw itself into the fireplace where it promptly burst into flames.
I stared at him flatly. "Yeah, well, your wand chose to commit suicide rather than spend a second in my hand. What's that mean?"
"That you will be a most fascinating customer."
That kicked off fifteen minutes of wand-fitting. Unfortunately for Ollivander's profit margins, the first wand wasn't the only one to commit suicide. One slammed into the brick wall and snapped itself in half. Another turned to confetti in my hand. A third literally grew a snake's head and bit itself in two.
"Perhaps unicorn hair is not right for you, young man," he hummed.
I let out a gasp of mock-horror. "Say it ain't so!"
"Your sarcasm is really not as endearing as you seem to think it is."
"Yeah, well, I ain't paying for the wands that decided to off themselves. I didn't even know they could do that."
"Truthfully, neither did I. Wands are fascinating, aren't they? Now try this one, silver birch and phoenix tail feather, eleven inches." I took it in hand. A jolt of magic raced through me and I felt my own magic rise up to respond. The tip of the wand began to glow white but before it could do more, Ollivander snatched it from my hand. "No… Close, but not quite… Phoenix feather does seem like the right core for you."
"How can you tell? I mean, yeah, it didn't explode or anything, but what are you looking for when a wand matches itself properly?" I asked curiously. "They can't all let out sparks or something, right?"
"Correct, Mr. Zabini. Wands have personalities of their own, much like people. And much like people, they show their approval in different ways."
"Okay, so what are you looking for? How do you know that a wand is the right fit?"
"Ah, you must allow an old man his secrets. Now, try this one: silver lime and phoenix feather, ten inches. I felt the silver birch was close."
I took a calming breath. This was it, my wand. I took it in hand with eager anticipation. There were no sparks or gouts of flame, no magic birds that chirped their birdsong throughout the store. In fact, there were no outward signs of a shift at all.
And yet, it felt as though my world exploded with color, as if I'd been born blind and had only now begun to see. Every hue and shade seemed more vivid, more real in a way that I could not explain. There was a thrumming in my wand, a quiet hum only I could hear whispering its welcome, promising me its secrets.
"Congratulations, Mr. Zabini, I believe that is the right wand for you."
I scowled at him. "How'd you know? There weren't any signs at all this time."
"From the wand, Mr. Zabini, from the wand," he said with a knowing smile. "The look of awestruck wonder on a young man's face as he forges that connection for the first time is a sure giveaway."
"I… Yeah, fair enough. Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."
"You are welcome. You've been a most curious customer."
"How so, sir?"
"That wand is not a powerful wand, silver limes seldom are, certainly not at that length. However, it is an extraordinarily subtle wand. I suspect that it will serve a man with the right outlook on life."
I met his smiling gaze with a suspicious one of my own. There was no legilimency probe as far as I could tell. I had the sneaking suspicion that the whole thing about watching my face to see the proper match was bullshit, at least partially. Could he see magic directly? Or maybe there were wards around the shop made to scan for it? Were his glasses enchanted like Mad Eye's?
"I… Thank you, sir," I said, now thoroughly unnerved. I knew from the CYOA that this wand excelled at legilimency and divination. Question was, did he say that to suggest he knew I was a seer? Or maybe to give me a hint to study the mind arts more?
Ollivander was a man of hidden depths. Something about the man made my hackles rise. I bought myself a cleaning kit and holster and did not linger.
X
Now that I had my wand, the rest of the shopping went by quickly. Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was a far more stylish shop on the surface than Olliivander's, with a squat, older witch dressed in a whole lot of pinkish purple manning the store. She was friendly enough but I'd never been the fashionable sort so I bought several Hogwarts uniforms and headed out. It wasn't as though Blaise didn't have normal clothes anyway.
That left me with only my books and owl to purchase.
Flourish & Blotts reminded me of Barnes & Noble, if one particular store manager was both blind and insisted on laying out his shelves according to his eight year old son's fever dream. Which was to say, absolutely nothing made sense here. I saw books on transfiguration laid out with Lockhart's "memoirs." There were guides to botanical taxonomy next to Dumbledore's famous thesis on the twelve uses of dragon blood. The whole store was a cluttered mess and the inner librarian in me wanted to find the proprietor if only so I could kick his dick into his throat.
And then there was the Girl Who Lived section. It occupied a place of prominence near the counter, which made clear to me the priorities of the owners. "Memoirs" of Violet Potter's life filled the shelf, just about the only shelf that seemed properly organized.
I was taken aback by the sheer number of volumes on display. There were titles ranging from The Girl Who Lived and the Fae Prince to The True Life and Times of Violet Potter.
Partly out of a desire to not look at the disaster zone that was the rest of the store and partly out of morbid curiosity, I picked up one of the less obviously libelous volumes. It was a leatherbound hardcover that professed to be a true record of the events of that fateful night in 1977.
And then I got to the part about little Violet rising up out of the crib to smite the Dark Lord with the anti-killing curse, whateve the fuck that was, and promptly lost all faith in the magical world.
I let out an audible groan of disappointment as I closed the tome and returned it to its rightful place. Garbage or not, books were to be treasured.
"I take it you're not here for casual reading?" came a female voice behind me. She sounded far too amused for my liking.
I turned to find an older girl, roughly sixteen or seventeen, with dusky skin and large, olive eyes. Said eyes were narrowed into an amused smirk. She wore the witch-typical robes with a nametag that marked her as an employee.
"Just here for my school books but got caught up in this nonsense. How do you find anything in here?"
"The summoning charm," she said with a sly grin. "Alicia Spinnet, you?"
"Blaise Zabini," I said as I tucked my cane under my arm so I could ask for a handshake.
There was a flash of recognition in her eyes at the name and her smile became a little more rigid. She still took my hand to not seem impolite. "Right, come on then. We keep all the school books beneath the counter for convenience. First year?"
I pretended not to notice her judging eye. I'd just have to get used to being associated with an infamous black widow. I recognized her of course, one of Gryffindor's three chasers. They got a decent amount of screen time for such irrelevant side characters purely by association with Harry's quidditch team. Old-Blaise remembered House Spinnet as a halfblood house, and therefore not really worth networking with. Nor rich or powerful, but not impoverished either. They just, were.
I was trying not to be a bigoted ass so I made some conversation. "Yup. You don't look much older than me. Working part-time?"
"Yes, well, some of us need to work for what we want."
"Hey now, no judgment. Just making conversation."
She let out a sigh. "Sorry, just… had a run in with Avery the other day."
I ran through old-Blaise's memories for someone from that house. A boy a few years my senior came to mind. "Eustace Avery?"
"Yup. Know him?"
"We move in the same circles. If it makes you feel better, he's not any more bearable when he's with 'friends.'"
"Not surprised. If you must know, mom said I should learn the value of a knut and told me to save up for my own broom this summer."
"Respectable. So, my books?"
"Yeah, I got you." She slid a set of books onto the counter. "Here's the firstie set."
I placed them into a trunk I'd brought for the purpose and shrank it before it went into my pocket. I paid her and walked back into the store. "Thanks, gonna go look for something else interesting to read."
"Sure. What's with your cane?"
"Accident. Can't walk right."
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," I waved, readying myself to plunge back into the jungle that was this store's bookshelves.
X
I returned half an hour later with four books under my arm. It had been an absolute ordeal trying to find anything of worth in that maze. In the end, I looked for books that were likely not in the family library, if only so I could say I'd added to it. I placed them in a stack on the counter.
"Ring these up for me, please."
"Sure, Zabini." Alicia saw the book on top and rolled her eyes. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard? You don't strike me as the sort to collect children's books."
I shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? It's a classic."
"Mhmm, let's see… Zonko's Pranks and Practical Jokes, some old edition of Hogwarts: A History, and Enchanting Enchantments for the Novice Enchanter… Wow, your reading choices are all over the place."
"I mean… yes? Aren't these interesting? Zonko's is Zonko's, but Enchanting sounds like a foundational text for say, how to make your own broom."
"I guess, so why the children's book and the history doorstop?"
"They're classics. How can I not buy them?" I repeated.
"Right, to Ravenclaw with you then. That'll be nine galleons and six sickles."
"Slytherin, actually," I told her as I dropped the cash into her hand. "I'm willing to bet anything I'll end up a Slytherin."
"Oh? And here I thought you were starting to look respectable," Alicia snarked, her lips curling up a little in jest.
"Ravenclaw is fine, but well… my ambition is bigger than my love of knowledge."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I swiped the books into my trunk and began to walk away. I wanted to be a man who wasn't bound by Fate, who held all the magical knowledge that existed or would exist in the world. If that wasn't an impossible dream, I didn't know what was. "Don't mind it. Nice talking to you, Spinnet."
X
I walked away from that encounter feeling resigned to the prejudice I'd be facing. If this were a game, I'd be starting every social interaction with a malus simply for being my mother's son. And, the worst part of it all was that I couldn't blame them. Sure, I was my own person, but children were products of their environment and until I could prove that I wasn't on track to become another opportunistic murderer, I could assume everyone would keep me at a distance. Spinnet was at least polite-ish about it.
I stopped at my final destination, the Magical Menagerie. I could smell the shop before I even entered. The pungent scent of animal droppings, feed, and musty cages struck me like a physical force as I entered the store.
The interior of the store was so crowded that there was barely any room to walk. Cages upon cages were stacked from floor to ceiling,each filled with all manner of creatures. There was such a large variety that even Blaise's memories were not enough to identify them all, not that Blaise was particularly interested in magizoology.
I didn't bother using my cane and simply leaned against the wall of cages as I moved forward.
"Hello, welcome to Magical Menagerie. How may I help you?" came the call of the shopkeeper. She was a portly lady with only one exposed eye; the other was covered with thick bandages. I must have been caught staring because she let out a rueful chuckle and pointed to a large glass tank in the corner. "Sorry, dearie, I must look quite the sight. Streelers, you understand."
I walked up to her and looked over to the tank to find the biggest snails I'd ever seen. Each shell seemed to be at least six inches in diameter with their slimy bodies ranging from eight to seventeen inches. As I watched, some of their shells began to change color, from orange to blue, blue to neon yellow.
"No problem, ma'am. Sorry for staring. Umm… What are they?"
"Streelers, they're a type of magic snail, see? Their slime trail is poisonous and they've got little venom sacs underneath their shell with a needle to inject it. Got a bit in my eye while moving them around the shop the other day."
"I see… Will you be alright?"
"Oh, thanks for asking. Yes, the streeler venom isn't too dangerous. Healers at Mungo's said my eye'll regain sight in a week or two," she said with a chipper grin.
I nodded slowly. I wasn't sure how she managed to get snail slime into her eye but decided not to question it. "Glad to hear it. I'm looking for an owl…"
"Say no more! Knew you had that firstie smell on you." She took me by the hand and began to drag me along. She was surprisingly gentle, having noticed the way I was bracing against the cages and my cane. "Come this way, let me show you all the birds we've got."
And it was truly an impressive collection. The shop was much larger inside than it appeared at first glance, which should not have been surprising in hindsight. There were several shelves stocked with nothing but Hogwarts-approved animals. The owls especially got the most room, enough to hop around a bit and stretch their wings. I noticed that several large cages housed up to eight or nine owls while smaller cages only housed one or two.
I didn't even bother looking at the toads or kneazles. Owls were symbols of wisdom, and more importantly, they were far more useful than either option. I didn't have any plans to communicate with my mother at school, but it couldn't hurt to have a private owl.
"Go on, dearie," she urged. "I know ol' Ollivander likes to say the wand chooses the wizard, but I think my owls can be even more selective."
"Alright then…" I walked up to the nearest cage and wiggled my finger against the bar. Inside was a midnight-black owl of a species I couldn't name. "Hey, you, how's it-Fuck!"
I jerked my finger back before the little bugger could take a bite of it. My startled yelp caused every owl and cat in the store to turn to me with a cross glare.
"Heh, yeah, that one's frisky. Might want to keep your voice down, dearie, lots of creatures here aren't fans of loud noises."
"Sorry…"
I learned my lesson. I triggered my Sight and walked from cage to cage, merely intending to stick my finger inside. If I didn't receive any visions of it getting nipped, I went ahead and petted the animal. I wanted an owl that was both smart and calm, not one of those ornery fuckers that left droppings in your shoe because you didn't give them a tribute of bacon.
In the end, I left the store with an absolute mammoth of an owl. She as an Eurasian eagle owl according to Wanda, the shopkeeper, and had some room to grow still. She didn't look all that special, just your typical tawny browns and grays, but her sheer size caught my eye. She was almost the size of my head and most of that volume was pure fluff. I knew because she turned out to be an incredibly affectionate bird who'd decided my head made for a perfect perch.
Wanda threw in a leather cap to protect my head from her talons.
I decided to call my newest ball of fluff Minerva, officially, after the Roman goddess of war and wisdom. Unofficially, I wanted to rub it in McGonagall's face. Cats were inferior to owls in every way.
Author's Note
Remember, for Blaise & co to be 14 at the start of canon, they would have had to be born in 1977, not 1980.
This makes Alicia Spinnet 16 years old.
Right, chapter-relevant animal fact for once: The Eurasian eagle owl is the second largest owl in the world, can have a wingspan of over six feet long and weigh north of ten pounds. It's a chonky birb.
I had pork bulgogi today. Not news, was delicious. That is all.
London, Great Britain
There was a small square filled with several public fireplaces just to the side of Diagon Alley that played the same role as a bus stop or subway station in the muggle world. After all, it'd be really weird if the only entrance to the biggest magical shopping quarter in Magical Britain was through a rundown tavern. While I had no doubt that Tom loved the flow of traffic and increased business, his little tavern couldn't possibly cater to the entire magical population of the British Isles.
And still, as I stepped into my own fireplace, I tossed the ash-like powder onto the ground and enunciated clearly, "Leaky Cauldron."
The part of me that was Corbin, the man who grew up reading stories about this world, would accept nothing less. Saying those words with floo powder tightly clenched in hand meant something, just a part of my childhood dream being validated. It sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach.
That was as much joy as I got out of my first floo experience before the world shifted around me like a demented carousel. Turned out, the floo was not instant movement, not really. If anything, it was like one of those 60s sci-fi cartoons where people got shoved through chutes at super speed. I saw other people's fireplaces blur by, too fast to make out any specific details.
Then, my mind was launched out of the chute even as my body insisted we were still moving in the same direction. I saw myself faceplant onto the tavern floor, pimp cane clattering to the ground. My body convulsed as the fall triggered a new round of painful shivers.
'Precog,' I realized. I did my best to brace myself, though to little avail.
In the end, I clutched my cane with both hands and walked out with the release, doing my best to bleed off the momentum. This didn't keep me from promptly tripping over my own feet. I staggered forward two more steps before I managed to jam the cane into the tavern floor with both hands like I was staking a vampire. I drew a fair bit of attention but the patrons of the bar immediately turned back to their meals once they realized there was no entertainment to be found.
"You alright there, lad?" came the bartender's concerned question. I looked over to find Tom polishing a mug. He was an old, bald man whose age had stooped his back into a pronounced hunch. Still, he was a nice enough man by all accounts and his eyes shone with naked kindness.
Or maybe he just didn't want me losing my teeth against his floor.
"Well, I'm not having a seizure so we should be fine," I drawled back. "Sorry about making a show, can't really walk right at the moment."
He eyed the ostentatious cane with a knowing nod. "Ain't the worst I've seen. You want anything, kid?"
"Just getting my school shopping done, Tom."
"You know they have a public fireplace right around the corner?"
I shot him a disarming smile. "What can I say? Your pub's iconic. Felt like I had to start my journey here if that makes any sense."
He puffed out his chest with pride. "Well of course it's iconic. The Leaky Cauldron's been in the family for near five hundred years now. This humble pub's the divide between the wizarding and muggle worlds, you know? It ain't much, but it's an institution is what it is."
"So I've been told. Heard you got a mean shepherd's pie too, might come back for dinner. You take care, Tom. Gotta go get my wand and whatnot."
"Heh, you get on then, lad. Cutting it a little close though."
"I've been busy these past few weeks," I said with a wan smile. "Not exactly my choice either."
"You need to be let into the Alley," Tom asked. "The wall stops anyone who don't know the sequence."
"Ehh, I like puzzles. Let me try on my own first. I'll come get you if I can't figure it out."
"Suit yourself."
With a wave behind me, I stepped into the back of the tavern. Before me was the brick wall that Hagrid first showed to Harry. It looked about as mundane as any other alley, with a few trash bins in one corner. Tapping the right brick would make the wall reconfigure itself into an archway.
"Was it three up and two across or two up and three across?" I mused to myself as I stepped next to the rubbish. "I know the sequence began from the trash can…"
I could easily try both combinations but I figured it would be a decent chance to practice my divination without the ball. The ball was a tool but I didn't want it to become a crutch. I reached out and placed a hand on the brickwork. I closed my eyes and willed my magic to the surface. This in itself made me an anomaly; I doubted anyone my age could call on their magic freely without a wand.
My magic answered me, rising up like a bubbling spring. Like water, it was formless. Any attempt to grasp it with my will only saw me staring at my empty hands as it flowed through my fingers. If it wasn't for my esoteric affinities, I knew I wouldn't have been able to manage even this much. Everything save divination was far out of my grasp.
That was fine; I didn't need anything else. The magic in the wall thrummed as it sensed me. I willed my own magic into the brickwork and attempted to look at its past. My magic felt like molasses as it slowly seeped inside, a huge contrast compared to the crystal ball which had all but snapped the connection into place on its own.
I supposed that was the difference between a magical tool designed for the art and your everyday ward.
I stood with my eyes closed and hands on that wall for a solid twenty minutes. I felt my lips curl into a smile as I thought about what I must have looked like, kind of like I'd been pulled over and was waiting to be frisked by a cop. Then the distracting thought broke my concentration and I had to start again. Tom must have assumed I'd gotten in somehow because he didn't bother checking up on me.
I didn't succeed, at least not in seeing its history. Normally, I literally saw visions of what had happened, such as me seeing the cards flip over to reveal themselves in my crystal ball. Instead, though the vision of the last person who'd used this entrance eluded me, I was able to feel the way the magic flowed through the brickwork. It felt a bit like the water of a gentle creek that I'd dipped a finger into as it flowed downstream. It was slow and languid, so much so that I barely noticed the current, but it was there.
I tracked it to the center of the wall, three bricks up and two across from the rubbish bin.
"That must be the entrance then," I concluded. I reached out and tapped the brick. Sure enough, I was rewarded with the sound of grinding stone as the wall moved aside for me.
I grinned wide as the legendary locale spread out before me. It was… Well, it was honestly somewhat underwhelming, but the simple fact that this was Diagon Alley made it seem much more grandiose than it would have been.
I skipped the bank. Valencia Zabini was a paranoid bitch and though the Zabini family had an account with Gringotts that included six other folded houses, there was a not insignificant amount of money and resources that was squirreled away in different places around Europe. It made sense, when she lived her life screwing over (literally) everyone she met, it became second nature to expect the same treatment in return.
All it meant was that I lacked the key to the Zabini vault. Mother had seen fit to give me a bag of one hundred galleons and told me to knock myself out.
Parenting, thy name is not Valencia.
How much was that in pounds? I didn't have a single fucking clue because old-Blaise never frequented the muggle world. It was a lot though, enough that a less affluent family could live for a month or two on my allowance. Considering Fred and George used only a thousand galleons to start a business, purchase and develop products, and acquire retail space, perhaps that was to be expected.
"Let's see… I need a wand, uniform, books, and an owl…" I muttered to myself.
That made my decision easy. I'd never been the sort to leave the important things for last so I made a beeline for Olivander's.
I meandered through the streets, window shopping to see if there was anything not on the list worth buying. I saw the Nimbus 2000 and a few kids going goo goo over it, but it didn't strike a chord with me as I'd expected. Apparently, old-Blaise wasn't much of a flyer.
I eventually found the historic shop. It was near the southern end of the alley and looked somewhat dilapidated. The walls were covered in beige paint that had begun to flake off and there were cracks in the masonry as if caused by one too many explosions, which, considering Harry's wand choosing, wasn't out of the question.
Then again, I supposed the outer appearance of the shop meant little to a wizard, especially not one with a guaranteed clientele like Ollivander. Perhaps he saw no reason to restore the store to its undamaged state so long as the damages were merely cosmetic.
I took a deep breath and stepped into the store, the bell above the door ringing merrilly. I turned around to face the nook behind the door, Ollivander playing peekaboo was a thing, right?
Only, there was no one there.
Then a sliding ladder clanged to the floor with a deafening thump, making me jump. My hand clenched down on my cane and I only just kept down a squeak of surprise. The famed wandmaker slid down from it with dexterity belied by his age.
"Ah, Mr. Zabini, welcome to my store," the wispy old man said with a knowing smile.
"Do you enjoy surprising people?" I asked acerbically. I wasn't pouting, honest.
"When one reaches my age, one must find his own amusement."
"How did you know my name?"
"You have many questions but the answer is not as magical as you would believe. You look like young Miss Constanza did at your age. Willow and dragon heartstring, nine inches, a flexible wand for a morally flexible witch."
I scowled. It took me a moment to recognize my mother's maiden name. I should have triggered my precog before coming in, if only to turn the tables on that little prank of his. "Might be the nicest way I've heard anyone describe her."
"Yes, well, let's get started, shall we? Show me your wand arm."
I transferred the cane to my left hand and held out my right. A set of measuring tapes floated around my body, measuring everything from the space between my eyes to the width of my nostrils. "Do these things actually help or are they just here to distract customers while you work?"
He gave me another of those enigmatic smiles but ignored my question entirely. "Here, try this one. Ash and unicorn hair, very forgiving."
"That's not me," I said definitively. The CYOA had given Corbin the chance to customize a wand. Naturally, old-me had gone with the one best suited for esoteric magics, especially divination: silver lime and phoenix tail feather, ten inches. Even had I not known my exact wand, I would have had doubts about this one. Forgiveness? Me? There was a woman with her head pulped down in Portugal who'd beg to differ.
"Try anyway," he urged. "I find even the rejections to be highly informative. As my grandfather always said, it is the wand that chooses the wizard. The choice could surprise you."
I reached out for it and just before I could make contact with the wood, it launched from my grip and threw itself into the fireplace where it promptly burst into flames.
I stared at him flatly. "Yeah, well, your wand chose to commit suicide rather than spend a second in my hand. What's that mean?"
"That you will be a most fascinating customer."
That kicked off fifteen minutes of wand-fitting. Unfortunately for Ollivander's profit margins, the first wand wasn't the only one to commit suicide. One slammed into the brick wall and snapped itself in half. Another turned to confetti in my hand. A third literally grew a snake's head and bit itself in two.
"Perhaps unicorn hair is not right for you, young man," he hummed.
I let out a gasp of mock-horror. "Say it ain't so!"
"Your sarcasm is really not as endearing as you seem to think it is."
"Yeah, well, I ain't paying for the wands that decided to off themselves. I didn't even know they could do that."
"Truthfully, neither did I. Wands are fascinating, aren't they? Now try this one, silver birch and phoenix tail feather, eleven inches." I took it in hand. A jolt of magic raced through me and I felt my own magic rise up to respond. The tip of the wand began to glow white but before it could do more, Ollivander snatched it from my hand. "No… Close, but not quite… Phoenix feather does seem like the right core for you."
"How can you tell? I mean, yeah, it didn't explode or anything, but what are you looking for when a wand matches itself properly?" I asked curiously. "They can't all let out sparks or something, right?"
"Correct, Mr. Zabini. Wands have personalities of their own, much like people. And much like people, they show their approval in different ways."
"Okay, so what are you looking for? How do you know that a wand is the right fit?"
"Ah, you must allow an old man his secrets. Now, try this one: silver lime and phoenix feather, ten inches. I felt the silver birch was close."
I took a calming breath. This was it, my wand. I took it in hand with eager anticipation. There were no sparks or gouts of flame, no magic birds that chirped their birdsong throughout the store. In fact, there were no outward signs of a shift at all.
And yet, it felt as though my world exploded with color, as if I'd been born blind and had only now begun to see. Every hue and shade seemed more vivid, more real in a way that I could not explain. There was a thrumming in my wand, a quiet hum only I could hear whispering its welcome, promising me its secrets.
"Congratulations, Mr. Zabini, I believe that is the right wand for you."
I scowled at him. "How'd you know? There weren't any signs at all this time."
"From the wand, Mr. Zabini, from the wand," he said with a knowing smile. "The look of awestruck wonder on a young man's face as he forges that connection for the first time is a sure giveaway."
"I… Yeah, fair enough. Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."
"You are welcome. You've been a most curious customer."
"How so, sir?"
"That wand is not a powerful wand, silver limes seldom are, certainly not at that length. However, it is an extraordinarily subtle wand. I suspect that it will serve a man with the right outlook on life."
I met his smiling gaze with a suspicious one of my own. There was no legilimency probe as far as I could tell. I had the sneaking suspicion that the whole thing about watching my face to see the proper match was bullshit, at least partially. Could he see magic directly? Or maybe there were wards around the shop made to scan for it? Were his glasses enchanted like Mad Eye's?
"I… Thank you, sir," I said, now thoroughly unnerved. I knew from the CYOA that this wand excelled at legilimency and divination. Question was, did he say that to suggest he knew I was a seer? Or maybe to give me a hint to study the mind arts more?
Ollivander was a man of hidden depths. Something about the man made my hackles rise. I bought myself a cleaning kit and holster and did not linger.
X
Now that I had my wand, the rest of the shopping went by quickly. Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was a far more stylish shop on the surface than Olliivander's, with a squat, older witch dressed in a whole lot of pinkish purple manning the store. She was friendly enough but I'd never been the fashionable sort so I bought several Hogwarts uniforms and headed out. It wasn't as though Blaise didn't have normal clothes anyway.
That left me with only my books and owl to purchase.
Flourish & Blotts reminded me of Barnes & Noble, if one particular store manager was both blind and insisted on laying out his shelves according to his eight year old son's fever dream. Which was to say, absolutely nothing made sense here. I saw books on transfiguration laid out with Lockhart's "memoirs." There were guides to botanical taxonomy next to Dumbledore's famous thesis on the twelve uses of dragon blood. The whole store was a cluttered mess and the inner librarian in me wanted to find the proprietor if only so I could kick his dick into his throat.
And then there was the Girl Who Lived section. It occupied a place of prominence near the counter, which made clear to me the priorities of the owners. "Memoirs" of Violet Potter's life filled the shelf, just about the only shelf that seemed properly organized.
I was taken aback by the sheer number of volumes on display. There were titles ranging from The Girl Who Lived and the Fae Prince to The True Life and Times of Violet Potter.
Partly out of a desire to not look at the disaster zone that was the rest of the store and partly out of morbid curiosity, I picked up one of the less obviously libelous volumes. It was a leatherbound hardcover that professed to be a true record of the events of that fateful night in 1977.
And then I got to the part about little Violet rising up out of the crib to smite the Dark Lord with the anti-killing curse, whateve the fuck that was, and promptly lost all faith in the magical world.
I let out an audible groan of disappointment as I closed the tome and returned it to its rightful place. Garbage or not, books were to be treasured.
"I take it you're not here for casual reading?" came a female voice behind me. She sounded far too amused for my liking.
I turned to find an older girl, roughly sixteen or seventeen, with dusky skin and large, olive eyes. Said eyes were narrowed into an amused smirk. She wore the witch-typical robes with a nametag that marked her as an employee.
"Just here for my school books but got caught up in this nonsense. How do you find anything in here?"
"The summoning charm," she said with a sly grin. "Alicia Spinnet, you?"
"Blaise Zabini," I said as I tucked my cane under my arm so I could ask for a handshake.
There was a flash of recognition in her eyes at the name and her smile became a little more rigid. She still took my hand to not seem impolite. "Right, come on then. We keep all the school books beneath the counter for convenience. First year?"
I pretended not to notice her judging eye. I'd just have to get used to being associated with an infamous black widow. I recognized her of course, one of Gryffindor's three chasers. They got a decent amount of screen time for such irrelevant side characters purely by association with Harry's quidditch team. Old-Blaise remembered House Spinnet as a halfblood house, and therefore not really worth networking with. Nor rich or powerful, but not impoverished either. They just, were.
I was trying not to be a bigoted ass so I made some conversation. "Yup. You don't look much older than me. Working part-time?"
"Yes, well, some of us need to work for what we want."
"Hey now, no judgment. Just making conversation."
She let out a sigh. "Sorry, just… had a run in with Avery the other day."
I ran through old-Blaise's memories for someone from that house. A boy a few years my senior came to mind. "Eustace Avery?"
"Yup. Know him?"
"We move in the same circles. If it makes you feel better, he's not any more bearable when he's with 'friends.'"
"Not surprised. If you must know, mom said I should learn the value of a knut and told me to save up for my own broom this summer."
"Respectable. So, my books?"
"Yeah, I got you." She slid a set of books onto the counter. "Here's the firstie set."
I placed them into a trunk I'd brought for the purpose and shrank it before it went into my pocket. I paid her and walked back into the store. "Thanks, gonna go look for something else interesting to read."
"Sure. What's with your cane?"
"Accident. Can't walk right."
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," I waved, readying myself to plunge back into the jungle that was this store's bookshelves.
X
I returned half an hour later with four books under my arm. It had been an absolute ordeal trying to find anything of worth in that maze. In the end, I looked for books that were likely not in the family library, if only so I could say I'd added to it. I placed them in a stack on the counter.
"Ring these up for me, please."
"Sure, Zabini." Alicia saw the book on top and rolled her eyes. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard? You don't strike me as the sort to collect children's books."
I shrugged helplessly. "What can I say? It's a classic."
"Mhmm, let's see… Zonko's Pranks and Practical Jokes, some old edition of Hogwarts: A History, and Enchanting Enchantments for the Novice Enchanter… Wow, your reading choices are all over the place."
"I mean… yes? Aren't these interesting? Zonko's is Zonko's, but Enchanting sounds like a foundational text for say, how to make your own broom."
"I guess, so why the children's book and the history doorstop?"
"They're classics. How can I not buy them?" I repeated.
"Right, to Ravenclaw with you then. That'll be nine galleons and six sickles."
"Slytherin, actually," I told her as I dropped the cash into her hand. "I'm willing to bet anything I'll end up a Slytherin."
"Oh? And here I thought you were starting to look respectable," Alicia snarked, her lips curling up a little in jest.
"Ravenclaw is fine, but well… my ambition is bigger than my love of knowledge."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I swiped the books into my trunk and began to walk away. I wanted to be a man who wasn't bound by Fate, who held all the magical knowledge that existed or would exist in the world. If that wasn't an impossible dream, I didn't know what was. "Don't mind it. Nice talking to you, Spinnet."
X
I walked away from that encounter feeling resigned to the prejudice I'd be facing. If this were a game, I'd be starting every social interaction with a malus simply for being my mother's son. And, the worst part of it all was that I couldn't blame them. Sure, I was my own person, but children were products of their environment and until I could prove that I wasn't on track to become another opportunistic murderer, I could assume everyone would keep me at a distance. Spinnet was at least polite-ish about it.
I stopped at my final destination, the Magical Menagerie. I could smell the shop before I even entered. The pungent scent of animal droppings, feed, and musty cages struck me like a physical force as I entered the store.
The interior of the store was so crowded that there was barely any room to walk. Cages upon cages were stacked from floor to ceiling,each filled with all manner of creatures. There was such a large variety that even Blaise's memories were not enough to identify them all, not that Blaise was particularly interested in magizoology.
I didn't bother using my cane and simply leaned against the wall of cages as I moved forward.
"Hello, welcome to Magical Menagerie. How may I help you?" came the call of the shopkeeper. She was a portly lady with only one exposed eye; the other was covered with thick bandages. I must have been caught staring because she let out a rueful chuckle and pointed to a large glass tank in the corner. "Sorry, dearie, I must look quite the sight. Streelers, you understand."
I walked up to her and looked over to the tank to find the biggest snails I'd ever seen. Each shell seemed to be at least six inches in diameter with their slimy bodies ranging from eight to seventeen inches. As I watched, some of their shells began to change color, from orange to blue, blue to neon yellow.
"No problem, ma'am. Sorry for staring. Umm… What are they?"
"Streelers, they're a type of magic snail, see? Their slime trail is poisonous and they've got little venom sacs underneath their shell with a needle to inject it. Got a bit in my eye while moving them around the shop the other day."
"I see… Will you be alright?"
"Oh, thanks for asking. Yes, the streeler venom isn't too dangerous. Healers at Mungo's said my eye'll regain sight in a week or two," she said with a chipper grin.
I nodded slowly. I wasn't sure how she managed to get snail slime into her eye but decided not to question it. "Glad to hear it. I'm looking for an owl…"
"Say no more! Knew you had that firstie smell on you." She took me by the hand and began to drag me along. She was surprisingly gentle, having noticed the way I was bracing against the cages and my cane. "Come this way, let me show you all the birds we've got."
And it was truly an impressive collection. The shop was much larger inside than it appeared at first glance, which should not have been surprising in hindsight. There were several shelves stocked with nothing but Hogwarts-approved animals. The owls especially got the most room, enough to hop around a bit and stretch their wings. I noticed that several large cages housed up to eight or nine owls while smaller cages only housed one or two.
I didn't even bother looking at the toads or kneazles. Owls were symbols of wisdom, and more importantly, they were far more useful than either option. I didn't have any plans to communicate with my mother at school, but it couldn't hurt to have a private owl.
"Go on, dearie," she urged. "I know ol' Ollivander likes to say the wand chooses the wizard, but I think my owls can be even more selective."
"Alright then…" I walked up to the nearest cage and wiggled my finger against the bar. Inside was a midnight-black owl of a species I couldn't name. "Hey, you, how's it-Fuck!"
I jerked my finger back before the little bugger could take a bite of it. My startled yelp caused every owl and cat in the store to turn to me with a cross glare.
"Heh, yeah, that one's frisky. Might want to keep your voice down, dearie, lots of creatures here aren't fans of loud noises."
"Sorry…"
I learned my lesson. I triggered my Sight and walked from cage to cage, merely intending to stick my finger inside. If I didn't receive any visions of it getting nipped, I went ahead and petted the animal. I wanted an owl that was both smart and calm, not one of those ornery fuckers that left droppings in your shoe because you didn't give them a tribute of bacon.
In the end, I left the store with an absolute mammoth of an owl. She as an Eurasian eagle owl according to Wanda, the shopkeeper, and had some room to grow still. She didn't look all that special, just your typical tawny browns and grays, but her sheer size caught my eye. She was almost the size of my head and most of that volume was pure fluff. I knew because she turned out to be an incredibly affectionate bird who'd decided my head made for a perfect perch.
Wanda threw in a leather cap to protect my head from her talons.
I decided to call my newest ball of fluff Minerva, officially, after the Roman goddess of war and wisdom. Unofficially, I wanted to rub it in McGonagall's face. Cats were inferior to owls in every way.
Author's Note
Remember, for Blaise & co to be 14 at the start of canon, they would have had to be born in 1977, not 1980.
This makes Alicia Spinnet 16 years old.
Right, chapter-relevant animal fact for once: The Eurasian eagle owl is the second largest owl in the world, can have a wingspan of over six feet long and weigh north of ten pounds. It's a chonky birb.
I had pork bulgogi today. Not news, was delicious. That is all.
- Location
- Elsewhere
"A flexible wand for a flexible witch."
"I did not need that image."
"Morally! Morally flexible witch!"
"Your Fate is to hold all the magical knowledge that existed or would exist in the world."
"...Well played, Fate, well played."
Enjoying this, thanks.
Not really seeing the Dotty/Quirky drawbacks in action in this chapter, though?
Not really seeing the Dotty/Quirky drawbacks in action in this chapter, though?
5. All Aboard the Choo-Choo Train
Fabled Webs
Lord Weaver, Glorious and Wise
- Location
- Arlington, VA
Chapter 5: All Aboard the Choo-Choo Train
London, Great Britain
I stood on Platform 9 ¾ with mother-dearest, my luggage, and Minerva the owl. To my surprise, it was Valencia who woke me up this morning, saying she'd see me off to school. It was a once a year event so hardly a time commitment, but that she took her time out of her schedule to come along was… something. What it said, I wasn't exactly sure.
I felt Minerva pruning my hair; she liked to do that, like I was an owlet for her to groom. Her talons were sharp as fuck and the leather cap the pet shop recommended made me sweaty so I quickly gave up giving her rides on my skull. Instead, I got her a little, shoulder-mounted perch I could wear over my right shoulder. It was basically a normal shoulder strap with a hardened leather platform for the oversized owl to sit on. It looked silly, but there was something pretty fucking cool about having a giant bird nestling into you.
The two of us gamely ignored the captivated stares of men twice her age and the jealous fits of their wives. Witches' robe or not, mother still managed to turn heads. She'd spent the morning making sure we were presentable, which meant "dressing down" in what was the magical world's equivalent of a button-down shirt, slacks, and loafers. Still evident that we had money to burn, but not quite the lacy monstrosity that was the wizarding dress robe.
"Remember, Blaise, image is a power unto itself. An image of strength, an image of vulnerability, they both have their uses," she whispered in my ear as she came in for a hug. "Cultivate useful pawns but know that every relationship has a price, whether social or monetary. Some people are just too expensive to keep around, no matter their talents. Use them and toss them, without distorting your image."
"Yes, mother," I replied back in rote. I heard what she hadn't put to words: Mudbloods weren't worth it. Not because she had any innate sense of superiority over them, not any more than anyone else we met on the street, but because they were "too expensive" in terms of social clout to be worth the investment.
It was a final reminder: No matter how seductive, how empathetic she seemed, Valencia Zabini was a transactional creature who weighed lives on a scale of material gains.
Then, with a final peck on the cheek, she whirled around to lock eyes with a man thrice her age, possibly more considering the greater life expectancy of wizards.
"Lowell Spencer-Moon," she hummed with an uncomfortably sensual purr. "Deputy head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Recently widowed and nephew of former minister, Leonard Spencer-Moon."
"Huh, so he is," I hummed noncommittally. I knew this song and dance by now.
"Go on then, my little warrior. Who knows? By winter, you might have daddy-number-eight."
"And won't that make the holidays interesting…"
I turned around and boarded the train, doing my level best to suppress that bit of fresh trauma. On the plus side, I had yet one more very good reason to hone my occlumency. Truly, I had a mother who motivated me to greater heights.
X
The interior of the train was… disappointing. I shouldn't have been; I'd been in train cars before and seen the movies, but there was something about the Hogwarts Express that made me set my expectations high. In the end though,the cars were as normal as could be, with eggshell-white walls and eight individual compartments per car.
I walked along the corridor, languidly looking in on any compartments that caught my eye. Most were already occupied by the older students, leaving the last car or two to the first years. Some were studying, others were catching up, and one particularly daring couple was just starting to get frisky and hadn't remembered to draw the curtains. I rapped on the window and gestured to the curtains before moving on.
"Now… Do I want to meet the Chosen One early?" I mused. I could try to use divination to predict which compartment she'd end up in. Train leaves in half an hour. There were only so many compartments available and only a single variable to consider, Violet. Precognition wasn't my forte quite yet, but under such narrow conditions, scrying her future location should be well within my capabilities.
"That sounds creepy as fuck," I told myself with a snort. Why did I even want to meet Violet anyway? Because she was the Chosen One? Passing curiosity would just piss her off and anything more than that on my end felt too much like manipulation, too much like I was heeding mom's advice. Oh, I had no doubt that I'd have to play the political game, I was a Zabini, but that didn't mean I had to start by grooming a fourteen year old girl.
Standards. I had them… sort of…
Just as important as my own moral compass, I couldn't rely on canon to play out as I'd seen. With Harry being Violet and us all being fourteen, things were bound to be different and I wouldn't know what those differences were until they hit me like a wet fish. Hagrid might not have forgotten to teach her how the platform gate works. She might have read about it in Hogwarts: A History. She might meet a different magical family. Or, she might be a typical teenage girl and decide not to enter a compartment with a lone boy in it.
No, finding Violet sounded like a silly thing to do. If canon played out, great. If not, also great. I'd involve myself if I thought it'd amuse me, until it stopped amusing me. All that mattered was that I improved my own divination abilities and set myself up to gather the biggest magical library in the world.
To that end, I found myself an empty compartment and cracked open Divination through the Ages: A brief exploration of the art throughout history, one of several books I'd lifted from my family library. I cracked open the window so Minerva could fly to Hogwarts if she so chose, kicked up my feet, and began to read:
Scrying is ultimately the art of seeing and hearing from remote distances, across space and time, by using the reflective properties of a medium. There is, therefore, no functional difference between a crystal ball, a mirror, and a tranquil lake surface for the purposes of divination. They can all be used in the same manner and once one understands how to use one medium, one understands all the others. That isn't to say there aren't some advantages to certain mediums over others however. I will go over each in general and make my case for why the crystal ball is the greatest of all scrying mediums.
Naturally, the clearer the medium, the better the result, thus a body of water is typically ill-advised. It could work, shamans across cultures have been using still lakes and ponds to practice divination for millennia, but when a single stray wind or falling leaf might disturb your session, suffice to say there are better options.
That isn't to say there is zero advantage to a still pond. Because of the moon's conceptual connection as the "illuminator of darkness," it can greatly empower divination attempts under the right circumstances, such as a full moon reflected upon an unpolluted pond that formed above a natural ley line. Indeed, I would go as far as to say such a locale has the potential to be the single most powerful scrying medium. Though powerful, I consider natural locales such as this to be the least useful for the average diviner because of their unreliability.
Mirrors, though clear, stable, and easily portable, are only middling in their use. This is because unlike the pond which reflects the moon, or "the world" if one must be philosophical, the mirror reflects "the self." It is therefore best used in scrying events that are directly relevant to the self and often provides misleading answers when attempting to scry another.
This is doubly true when one scries a natural event and not, say, a person or creature. Though there is no true consensus on the matter, I believe it to be because the mirror is intrinsically tied to an identity, a sense of self. When the target lacks such, the magic weakens a great deal.
There are ways to mitigate this. Enchantments anchored-
I was brought out of my reading by the sound of my compartment door sliding open. "C-Can I sit here?" I heard someone stammer.
I put down my book and looked at the intruder. He was a chubby, brunette boy who despite our age had yet to shed his baby fat. He kept his hair in a shaggy mess and dragged along a suitcase. I recognized him from a few formal events we'd been forced to attend.
"Longbottom," I greeted the Boy Who Could've Been. "Sit."
"Thanks," he said shyly. He took a seat, took one look at me, and realized whose cabin he'd stepped into. The boy shrank into himself like a shriveled nutsack.
Past-Blaise hadn't bullied him or anything. Never mind anything physical, he hadn't said more than a few words to the Longbottom heir. What he did do was hang around Theodore Nott, Lyra Malfoy, and all the other children of the "dark" faction. He was careful with his words even as a child thanks to Valencia, but he'd certainly chuckled along. Coupled with my mother's reputation, it wasn't exactly surprising that Neville considered me among his bullies.
I could see his eyes darting towards the door. He was probably wondering if I'd take offense and single him out throughout the year if he bolted now. I rolled my eyes. I knew he would find his spine eventually, even go on to lead the resistance in Hogwarts, but whatever valiant man he'd become, he certainly wasn't that now.
I vaguely remembered that he didn't have a happy home life either. Augusta Longbottom was by all accounts an intimidating woman. She expected much of people and I couldn't imagine the bar was any lower for the heir. Neville was treated as a squib for a decent chunk of his childhood before his uncle dropped him from a window. He sure as hell didn't have a support group in the rest of his family.
When I considered that he had an extra three years of that kind of home life, it became painfully obvious to me why he was so skittish.
"Keep it down and let me read in peace, capiche?" I asked rhetorically. Part of me wanted to comfort him, bolster his confidence somehow. The bigger part of me said it wasn't any of my fucking business. His childhood was downright heavenly compared to mine. Besides, any attempts to be kind would feel like a trap to him so I settled for cool ambivalence.
"R-Right. You got it, Zabini."
He rummaged through his suitcase and picked out a book. The compartment fell into silence as the final warning whistle sounded, five minutes now. Judging by how he never flipped a page, the boy was all nerves still.
I ignored him and continued to read:
There are ways to mitigate this. Enchantments anchored onto mirrors through the use of runes and formalcraft can turn the mirror into a highly effective tool. Expensive, alchemically treated silver used as the base for the glass to rest on instead of mere aluminum can likewise make it a better medium, as can quartz over regular glass. Runic inlays can be formed with poured gold or some other material should one need it to perform a specific function. I once saw a mirror made of pure obsidian used by the Inca; it had several unique properties that go beyond the scope of this short primer but suffice to say, it was a very useful tool.
Finally, we come to the crystal ball. Every benefit which can be attributed to the mirror can likewise be attributed to the crystal ball. It is reliable, perfectly clear, and portable, all without any conceptual ties to a sense of self, vanity, or similar. It is a tool designed purely for divination and behaves like it.
Some say that the biggest drawback to a crystal ball is that because it is made up of a single material, it lacks room for customization. However, I beg to differ. This is an advantage more often than not, especially considering just how difficult it is to find a truly masterful enchanter who is both a runemaster and has a clear understanding of the nuances of spell matrices that make up divination spells in particular. Suffice to say, such people are extremely rare and their time proportionally valuable.
That is why, though there are dozens of different means of divination and three in particular most commonly used in scrying, I will focus the following chapter on the humble cryst-
Several minutes later, just as I was coming to the tail end of the preface, the compartment door slid open again.
"Mind if I join you, chaps?" The speaker was yet another boy, but this time obviously muggleborn. He was short-ish with a frizzy mop and a pronounced upper bite. He was also dressed in jeans and a Beatles t-shirt.
I glanced at Neville, then at the newcomer. Maybe he didn't want to give permission because I was here first. Or maybe he was afraid of me for some perceived threat I'd made. I decided to try to send him a subtle message: Blood really meant nothing to me.
I waved the newcomer in with a careless nod. "Sit. Keep it quiet; I'm reading."
He dragged his suitcase inside and plopped down directly across from me. "Oh, that's great. What're you reading? Divination through the Ages? Is it any good? I heard it was a subject we can learn in our third year but it's supposed to be a load of hogwash, not that I won't give it the ol' college try of course. Are you a third year? I'm a first year and it's so exciting, learning magic and all. I couldn't help it and read all the first year coursebooks already. Would you mind lending some of your old books to me if you have them?"
My grip on the tome tightened. Brunette, check. Buck teeth, check. Frizzy hair, never shuts up, clearly way too into books… Check, check, and check. A sinking pit formed in my stomach as reality beat me like a ginger stepchild. I had the sneaking suspicion Fate was laughing her ass off somewhere.
Just to confirm, I said, "In polite company, we introduce ourselves before interrupting people who are trying to read."
"Oh, my bad, chap. I'm Leontes Granger, first year Hogwarts student. I get a little excited about reading; mom says I should curb the enthusiasm just a tad. Call me Leon."
"Neville Longbottom," my initial cabin-mate introduced himself.
"Zabini. First year. Your mother sounds like a wise lady."
"She is! So… Divination?"
I stared at genderbent-Hermione. I recognized the name of course. How could I not? I was a librarian. Leontes too was a Shakesperean name, the name of Queen Hermione's husband in The Winter's Tale in fact.
I slowly marked the page and closed the book. "Very well. Ask away, Granger."
"Is it?"
"Is it what?"
"Hogwash. I mean, there has to be something to the branch of magic if it's taught in Hogwarts, but when I looked for details on the electives, all the books I read dismissed it."
"That depends on what you think of when you think of divination. What is it?"
"It's the magical art of predicting the future," he said matter-of-factly.
"Good, and which book did you get that from?"
"Hogwarts: A History of course. You should read it if you haven't."
I sighed. "That was sarcasm. While that definition is correct, it's also incomplete. Divination is the art of acquiring information through magical means. Let's say you have your telescope. You brought it for Astronomy, right?"
"Of course."
"Well you'll find that the telescope you purchased in Diagon Alley has been enchanted to improve the magnification of light and to provide better clarity. That enchantment matrix? Divination."
"Oh, I hadn't thought of that. I don't think that was covered in-"
"It wasn't covered because permanent enchantment is a field reserved for NEWT-level students. If Hogwarts: A History addresses the subject, it's likely just a small part and probably not mentioned alongside divination at all. Another use of divination is, say, a spell to let you hear things better."
"So it doesn't have to be trying to predict the future. I really want to read that book now."
"Perhaps another time," I evaded.
Neville looked between me and Leontes like he couldn't believe what was going on. Blaise Zabini, a pureblood, was talking to a muggleborn and had yet to utter a single threat or insult. He shifted in his seat and I saw his eyes widen in shock.
I thought it was because of something we did, but he began to pat himself down. Then, when he didn't find whatever he was looking for, he lifted his trunk back down and began to rummage through it.
"Neville?" Leontes asked. "Are you okay?"
"Trevor? Trevor's gone!"
"Who's Trevor?"
"My toad is missing."
"Longbottom, if your toad isn't on your person or in your trunk, it stands to reason he's somewhere in the car," I replied. "Were you in any other train car before settling on this one?"
"N-No."
I stood. On one hand, I could just tell them to find a prefect and summon Trevor. But on the other hand, if Fate wanted to throw canon in my face like this, I figured I may as well go meet the Girl Who Lived. I had to admit to being quite curious. "Well come on, then. Let's go find Trevor before he finds a kneazle. Or an owl like Minerva here."
"Y-You'll help me?"
"This promises to be entertaining."
The two boys followed me out. Neville still looked a little bewildered by my unforeseen assistance; I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to step out of my mother's shadow. Leontes on the other hand, showed zero hesitation and marched up to the nearest compartment before yanking the door open.
He peered inside and said, "Hello, pardon me. Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville lost his."
"No, get out, firstie!" I heard before the compartment door clattered shut. One of the upper years who wanted a rear compartment then.
"Well, that was rude."
I strolled by and saw Lyra Malfoy talking to Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. As if to prove that some things never changed, Heath Parkinson sat to Lyra's right, doing his level best to get her attention. I tapped the wall before Leontes could reach for the door handle. "Not this one. Move on."
"What? We should check all the compartments. That's the logical thing to do."
"What's wrong?" Neville asked.
"Malfoy and Parkinson. Greengrass and Davis aren't so bad but if you want to deal with them, then leave me out."
Neville grabbed Leontes by the arm and started to drag him down the corridor. "Zabini is right. We can leave that cabin for last."
"What? They're just talking in there," he protested, but seeing how we both shoved him on, he let out a huff and tagged along.
We went down a few more compartments until we arrived at the last one. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot sat with Lisa Turpin; they were nice enough to promise to pass Trevor on if they found him. Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Terry Boot, and Anthony Goldstein all shared a cabin and one of the boys was explaining Exploding Snap to Justin, the muggleborn among them. They hadn't seen Trevor either.
The last cabin in the car contained three girls, a pair of brown-skinned twins and a raven-haired girl who seemed a tad skinnier than she perhaps should be. At her side was a snowy owl, which made it easy to guess who this was.
"So the Patils twins met her first," I hummed under my breath. An interesting change, but not something I didn't expect. I didn't know exactly who she'd be with, but I assumed it wouldn't be Ron this time around. "Should be interesting…"
A lot could have happened between Violet stepping onto the platform and settling in with Ron. She could have been invited by the Patils before she found an empty cabin. Or maybe the Patils invited themselves and Ron decided he didn't want to sit with three girls. Or perhaps Fred and George took more time showing him Lee Jordan's tarantula than in canon.
"You know them?" Neville asked.
"You don't?" I asked back in genuine surprise. I assumed Augusta Longbottom would have ensured he knew every pureblood family name. "Light" or not, she was still fairly traditionalist in mannerism. "Pureblood family from India. Their father's a master enchanter who sells high-end textiles abroad. Their uncle's the Indian Ministry's Head of Foreign Affairs."
"Ah… I think that sounds familiar?"
"Well we should say hello." Leontes opened the door and poked his head inside. "Hello, has anyone seen a toad? Neville lost his."
I took the chance to lean against the door and take a closer look at the Chosen One.
Everyone in the wizarding world knew Dumbledore had taken custody of her. Some bought the tripe written in her "biographies" and expected a gallant heroine off to slay dragons before her first year. Others thought she'd be raised as a princess, given all the best our world had to offer. Entitled? Or maybe a political mastermind? Or, a beautiful maiden ready to be wooed by the right pureblood? She wasn't any of those things, but she wasn't what I expected either.
As far as I knew, Harry was abused, not just emotionally but physically. There was a point in canon when Petunia beat him with a frying pan for burning the bacon or some other inane reason. I expected similar here, a fourteen year old girl who'd spent most of her life sleeping in a stairwell closet, a very literal modern day Cinderella. Did the genderswap make her more a sympathetic figure? Or did it trigger Petunia's envy even worse?
I thought I'd find a malnourished waif of a girl dressed in Petunia's baggy hand-me-downs, maybe with a sweater to hide the bruises. I expected her to have the eyes of a scared rabbit and loathe physical contact. I expected to find an abuse victim. It was something I'd come to terms with. There wasn't much I could have done over the past month and even less chance of convincing Valencia to help. To be Violet was to suffer and I'd accepted it as a fact of life as sure as the rising sun.
That wasn't what I found.
She sensed my gaze on her and her eyes snapped up to meet mine. They were large, made all the larger by her glasses. In those pools of green, I saw not a shred of hesitation or fear. Instead, I saw defiance and spite; I saw someone who was used to getting shit on by everyone and decided that she'd rather throw the first punch than get shoved around.
Her outfit was likewise unexpected. The first thing I noticed, besides her scar and trademark "Lily's eyes," was the piercings in her ears. She wore diamond studs on her lobes and rings on her upper helix. Around each piercing was a hint of scar tissue, implying she got those done in a back alley or did them herself.
Around her neck was a lace choker with torn edges, probably ripped out of another garment rather than purchased. Instead of Petunia or Dudley's baggy hand-me-downs, she wore a black, tight-fitting t-shirt with a faded, bubblegum-pink butterfly design stretched across her chest. A pair of dark jeans and a studded belt wrapped around her hips. In her hand was a wand, presumably holly and phoenix feather, as well as a pair of fingerless gloves.
She looked, in a word, like a punk. Or at least, what an abused, isolated teenage girl would consider "punk."
"Take a picture; it'll last longer," she spat.
"You… are different," I admitted quietly. This was a good thing, especially considering the alternatives. I turned to greet the Patil twins. Padma was reading a book while Parvati seemed to be in the middle of lecturing Violet on fashion. "Patils, right? Blaise Zabini."
Parvati waved awkwardly. "Aren't you…"
"The son of an alleged serial killer," I finished for her. "Why, yes, yes I am."
"Wait, seriously?" It was Leontes who spoke up. "Your dad killed people?"
"Considering my old man lived through Grindelwald and World War Two, yes. He's definitely killed people. That part isn't really up for debate, but nor is that what she's talking about. It's my mother who's the alleged serial killer if you must know."
"You seem… cavalier about this," Padma said carefully.
I shrugged carelessly. "Ehh, everyone knows it. People who grew up in the wizarding world are going to be suspicious of me because of who my mother is. Can't do anything about it so I may as well get used to clearing the air."
"Oh, that was really rude of Parvati, wasn't it? I apologize on behalf of my sister."
"Hey, I didn't say it," the more energetic twin said with a pout.
"But you thought it and made it super obvious."
I shrugged. "Don't mind it; that was a natural reaction. More importantly, toad named Trevor. Longbottom lost him. Have you seen him around? If Snowball over there ate him, let us know so we don't waste time looking."
"Hedwig," Violet said. She reached out a hand and stroked the ornery owl as the bird glowered at me. "Her name is Hedwig, not Snowball. And I'm Violet."
"Padma Patil."
"Parvati Patil. And sorry, we haven't seen any toads."
I noticed Violet didn't give her last name. She'd likely cottoned on to the mess that was being a celebrity already. Unfortunately, Leontes was as bright as Hermione and he connected the dots rather quickly.
"Violet? As in Violet Potter? Oh! I read all about you!"
"Yeah? You want a medal?"
"Is it true that you-"
"Fought off a dementor and saved a fairy who took me into Albion where I studied magic for a hundred years in a day?" she said, voice tinged with excitement and pride.
"Yes!"
"No," she said flatly. "Are you stupid? Were you born this way or were you dropped on your head as a child?"
"Hehehe," I chuckled as Leontes sputtered. This little trek around the train was worthwhile just to see this. They were great entertainment if nothing else. Violet Potter was turning out to be quite the variable, and in a good way.
"What're you laughing at, chuckle-fuck?"
"Forgive Granger. He's very curious about the magical world. He was interrogating me on the nuances of divination before we started this little scavenger hunt."
Parvati perked up. "You're studying divination?"
"Independently, yes."
"Ooh, do you have the Sight?"
"I'd like to think so. Any interest in the subject?"
"Yeah! I mean, why not learn, right? Imagine knowing who your true love is. Or how to make yourself lucky. Or when you're going to die so you can prevent it."
Padma sighed and interrupted her sister. "Or, you can spend a decade learning an art that you have zero talent in. You either have the Sight or you don't. And we don't. Patils haven't been seers in all three thousand years of our existence."
"Hey, you never know. Seer bloodlines have to have started somewhere. What do you think, Zabini?"
This was clearly a longstanding argument between the two. I vaguely remembered Parvati and Lavender taking divination in third year so her showing some interest in the subject beforehand made sense. "Leave me out of your sibling spats, please. All I know is I'm a seer. That's all that matters to me."
"Liar," Padma accused. "Seers are really rare. In fact, you wouldn't even know if you were one because seers don't remember their own prophecies."
"Is that right?"
"Yup. I think you're having us on."
I smiled glibly. She wasn't wrong, the CYOA just made me an abnormality. I wanted recognition, to be known as the greatest seer of all, and what better time to start building a reputation for myself than now? I figured I may as well sow the seeds and tapped into my magic. Suddenly, I was hearing their conversation five seconds ahead. I began to speak conversationally, repeating everything I heard as they spoke in the real world.
"Well, he was reading a book on divination," Leontes said.
"Yeah, so? That doesn't mean he has the Sight. He's probably interested in it like my sister."
"Hey, guys, umm… I'm going to go find a prefect so I can get Trevor back," Neville said before shuffling away.
"Lovely meeting y-"
"Holy crap, Padma, he's saying what we're saying!"
"Yeah, I noticed," the smarter sister said with a scowl. "Stop copying us. It doesn't prove you're a seer."
"Wait, isn't he saying the words before you do? He is!" Parvati exclaimed. I walked into the cabin and took a seat next to Violet and across from Padma so I could better look at her changing expressions. Leontes squeezed in next to the twins and closed the door behind him. The chipper twin had a huge grin on her face. "Do you have the Sight?"
"Doesn't prove anything. It's a good trick, but just a trick. Watch: Mera naam Padma Patil hai. main Ravenclaw banna chaahati hoon," Padma said in a foreign language. She looked smug for about a second before she realized I said the same thing she'd said, and a whole second faster than she did. "No way… That was Hindi…"
"Oh, was it?" I asked with a grin that wouldn't melt butter. "It feels a bit strange on the tongue. What did I say?"
"You said, 'My name is Padma Patil. I want to be a Ravenclaw.'"
"Huh. Neat. Sorry if I butchered your native language, Patil."
"Either you're lying and you speak Hindi, or I'm wrong and this isn't some predictive mind game."
I waggled my eyebrows. "Who knows? So, Ravenclaw, huh? Ever consider Gryffindor? Your sister's probably going there."
"Really?" Parvati asked. "Like, for real? You saw it?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just messing with you and you're going to end up in Ravenclaw, doomed to forever be cooped up in a tower studying like your sister."
"That would be awful."
"Hey! Ravenclaw is a perfectly respectable house," Padma protested. She shot me a judging glare. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing. No changing the subject. Do you have the Sight?"
"Signs point to yes."
"A yes or no would be great, Zabini."
"Reply hazy, try again later."
"Ugh, Blaise is copying magic eight ball responses," Leontes groaned. "It's a muggle fortune-telling toy."
"Zabini, Granger. In the wizarding world, unless you are close friends, lovers, or family, you use a person's family name to address them. We're not that close," I corrected him. He'd probably get shit for it if I didn't. He'd get shit anyway, but if he made a basic effort to fit in with wizarding culture, he'd be less likely to get singled out. "And who says that muggle contraption is useless?"
"I mean… Isn't it?"
"Better not tell you now."
"More eight ball responses? Really?"
"It is certain."
Violet, who'd been watching carefully, let out a snort of laughter. "Is it just the future? Or can you also see the past?"
"Not everyone who has the Sight is equal, kind of like how not everyone has perfect vision. Either your eyes are opened or shut, but the clarity varies from person to person. A lot of things depend on the medium, what spell you're using, what you're searching for, or even the position of the planets, stars, and moon. But yes, it's theoretically possible for someone to see into the past."
Parvati spoke up. "Ooh, can you tell me what house will have the cutest boys?"
I couldn't help it. I flipped my bangs like the pompous ass I was. "Slytherin, because I'm going there."
"Someone's humble," Violet rolled her eyes.
"I am. Now are you convinced I am a seer?"
"Maybe. Tell me something no one knows about me."
I stared at her pointedly. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." Her reply was immediate. It was good to know she was as reckless as her male counterpart.
"No, because there are a lot of things that you'd actually feel uncomfortable about," I said reasonably. She must have thought back on her life because her face became an unhealthy red. "There is something harmless however: You have a neighbor named Arabella Figg. And if that doesn't convince you, just remember: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak."
"I-Yeah… Thanks. I believe you now."
"No problem, Potter. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get changed into my school robes."
"No, wait," Parvati called, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nonsense, sister," Padma drolled. "He means nonsense."
"I'll have you know I make as much sense as Albus Dumbledore," I sniffed pompously. "You'll see. And just remember, my services are for sale. Now I really must be getting changed."
"Oh, right, you left your owl in our cabin," Leontes said.
"Minerva's a big girl. She probably left through the window anyway."
"We still need to grab our stuff."
"We don't. Leave it to the house elves, Granger. Just grab your robes."
"What are house elves? I read about them but there wasn't much in Hogwarts: A History to say for sure. Are they like a type of brownie?"
I sighed as I stood back up. Dick or no dick, Hermione was as hungry for knowledge as ever. If I was honest, it was getting a little annoying. Hopefully I could ditch him soon.
Author's Note
There must be karmic balance. If Harry gets swapped, so does Hermione. Lyra and Heath have the same relationship here as they did in canon, which is to say, not-Pansy is still thirsty as fuck. I guess he's a simp now (lol).
I'm probably forgetting a lot of canon, I read the books over a decade ago. I realized as I was writing that I'm effectively no better than the people who write fanfiction about Worm without ever having read it. Canon and fanon have fully merged into an amorphous blob in my mind.
Animal facts… Shit, umm… kinda put myself on the spot because I didn't have one when I originally put this up on Pat-re-on. Have something disturbing: Adelie penguins can and will fuck absolutely anything vaguely penguin-shaped. Chicks? Fine. Females? Consent is a human construct. Dead penguin carcasses? Yup.
Anyway, there are still ten chapters of content from various stories on my Pat-re-on.
London, Great Britain
I stood on Platform 9 ¾ with mother-dearest, my luggage, and Minerva the owl. To my surprise, it was Valencia who woke me up this morning, saying she'd see me off to school. It was a once a year event so hardly a time commitment, but that she took her time out of her schedule to come along was… something. What it said, I wasn't exactly sure.
I felt Minerva pruning my hair; she liked to do that, like I was an owlet for her to groom. Her talons were sharp as fuck and the leather cap the pet shop recommended made me sweaty so I quickly gave up giving her rides on my skull. Instead, I got her a little, shoulder-mounted perch I could wear over my right shoulder. It was basically a normal shoulder strap with a hardened leather platform for the oversized owl to sit on. It looked silly, but there was something pretty fucking cool about having a giant bird nestling into you.
The two of us gamely ignored the captivated stares of men twice her age and the jealous fits of their wives. Witches' robe or not, mother still managed to turn heads. She'd spent the morning making sure we were presentable, which meant "dressing down" in what was the magical world's equivalent of a button-down shirt, slacks, and loafers. Still evident that we had money to burn, but not quite the lacy monstrosity that was the wizarding dress robe.
"Remember, Blaise, image is a power unto itself. An image of strength, an image of vulnerability, they both have their uses," she whispered in my ear as she came in for a hug. "Cultivate useful pawns but know that every relationship has a price, whether social or monetary. Some people are just too expensive to keep around, no matter their talents. Use them and toss them, without distorting your image."
"Yes, mother," I replied back in rote. I heard what she hadn't put to words: Mudbloods weren't worth it. Not because she had any innate sense of superiority over them, not any more than anyone else we met on the street, but because they were "too expensive" in terms of social clout to be worth the investment.
It was a final reminder: No matter how seductive, how empathetic she seemed, Valencia Zabini was a transactional creature who weighed lives on a scale of material gains.
Then, with a final peck on the cheek, she whirled around to lock eyes with a man thrice her age, possibly more considering the greater life expectancy of wizards.
"Lowell Spencer-Moon," she hummed with an uncomfortably sensual purr. "Deputy head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Recently widowed and nephew of former minister, Leonard Spencer-Moon."
"Huh, so he is," I hummed noncommittally. I knew this song and dance by now.
"Go on then, my little warrior. Who knows? By winter, you might have daddy-number-eight."
"And won't that make the holidays interesting…"
I turned around and boarded the train, doing my level best to suppress that bit of fresh trauma. On the plus side, I had yet one more very good reason to hone my occlumency. Truly, I had a mother who motivated me to greater heights.
X
The interior of the train was… disappointing. I shouldn't have been; I'd been in train cars before and seen the movies, but there was something about the Hogwarts Express that made me set my expectations high. In the end though,the cars were as normal as could be, with eggshell-white walls and eight individual compartments per car.
I walked along the corridor, languidly looking in on any compartments that caught my eye. Most were already occupied by the older students, leaving the last car or two to the first years. Some were studying, others were catching up, and one particularly daring couple was just starting to get frisky and hadn't remembered to draw the curtains. I rapped on the window and gestured to the curtains before moving on.
"Now… Do I want to meet the Chosen One early?" I mused. I could try to use divination to predict which compartment she'd end up in. Train leaves in half an hour. There were only so many compartments available and only a single variable to consider, Violet. Precognition wasn't my forte quite yet, but under such narrow conditions, scrying her future location should be well within my capabilities.
"That sounds creepy as fuck," I told myself with a snort. Why did I even want to meet Violet anyway? Because she was the Chosen One? Passing curiosity would just piss her off and anything more than that on my end felt too much like manipulation, too much like I was heeding mom's advice. Oh, I had no doubt that I'd have to play the political game, I was a Zabini, but that didn't mean I had to start by grooming a fourteen year old girl.
Standards. I had them… sort of…
Just as important as my own moral compass, I couldn't rely on canon to play out as I'd seen. With Harry being Violet and us all being fourteen, things were bound to be different and I wouldn't know what those differences were until they hit me like a wet fish. Hagrid might not have forgotten to teach her how the platform gate works. She might have read about it in Hogwarts: A History. She might meet a different magical family. Or, she might be a typical teenage girl and decide not to enter a compartment with a lone boy in it.
No, finding Violet sounded like a silly thing to do. If canon played out, great. If not, also great. I'd involve myself if I thought it'd amuse me, until it stopped amusing me. All that mattered was that I improved my own divination abilities and set myself up to gather the biggest magical library in the world.
To that end, I found myself an empty compartment and cracked open Divination through the Ages: A brief exploration of the art throughout history, one of several books I'd lifted from my family library. I cracked open the window so Minerva could fly to Hogwarts if she so chose, kicked up my feet, and began to read:
Scrying is ultimately the art of seeing and hearing from remote distances, across space and time, by using the reflective properties of a medium. There is, therefore, no functional difference between a crystal ball, a mirror, and a tranquil lake surface for the purposes of divination. They can all be used in the same manner and once one understands how to use one medium, one understands all the others. That isn't to say there aren't some advantages to certain mediums over others however. I will go over each in general and make my case for why the crystal ball is the greatest of all scrying mediums.
Naturally, the clearer the medium, the better the result, thus a body of water is typically ill-advised. It could work, shamans across cultures have been using still lakes and ponds to practice divination for millennia, but when a single stray wind or falling leaf might disturb your session, suffice to say there are better options.
That isn't to say there is zero advantage to a still pond. Because of the moon's conceptual connection as the "illuminator of darkness," it can greatly empower divination attempts under the right circumstances, such as a full moon reflected upon an unpolluted pond that formed above a natural ley line. Indeed, I would go as far as to say such a locale has the potential to be the single most powerful scrying medium. Though powerful, I consider natural locales such as this to be the least useful for the average diviner because of their unreliability.
Mirrors, though clear, stable, and easily portable, are only middling in their use. This is because unlike the pond which reflects the moon, or "the world" if one must be philosophical, the mirror reflects "the self." It is therefore best used in scrying events that are directly relevant to the self and often provides misleading answers when attempting to scry another.
This is doubly true when one scries a natural event and not, say, a person or creature. Though there is no true consensus on the matter, I believe it to be because the mirror is intrinsically tied to an identity, a sense of self. When the target lacks such, the magic weakens a great deal.
There are ways to mitigate this. Enchantments anchored-
I was brought out of my reading by the sound of my compartment door sliding open. "C-Can I sit here?" I heard someone stammer.
I put down my book and looked at the intruder. He was a chubby, brunette boy who despite our age had yet to shed his baby fat. He kept his hair in a shaggy mess and dragged along a suitcase. I recognized him from a few formal events we'd been forced to attend.
"Longbottom," I greeted the Boy Who Could've Been. "Sit."
"Thanks," he said shyly. He took a seat, took one look at me, and realized whose cabin he'd stepped into. The boy shrank into himself like a shriveled nutsack.
Past-Blaise hadn't bullied him or anything. Never mind anything physical, he hadn't said more than a few words to the Longbottom heir. What he did do was hang around Theodore Nott, Lyra Malfoy, and all the other children of the "dark" faction. He was careful with his words even as a child thanks to Valencia, but he'd certainly chuckled along. Coupled with my mother's reputation, it wasn't exactly surprising that Neville considered me among his bullies.
I could see his eyes darting towards the door. He was probably wondering if I'd take offense and single him out throughout the year if he bolted now. I rolled my eyes. I knew he would find his spine eventually, even go on to lead the resistance in Hogwarts, but whatever valiant man he'd become, he certainly wasn't that now.
I vaguely remembered that he didn't have a happy home life either. Augusta Longbottom was by all accounts an intimidating woman. She expected much of people and I couldn't imagine the bar was any lower for the heir. Neville was treated as a squib for a decent chunk of his childhood before his uncle dropped him from a window. He sure as hell didn't have a support group in the rest of his family.
When I considered that he had an extra three years of that kind of home life, it became painfully obvious to me why he was so skittish.
"Keep it down and let me read in peace, capiche?" I asked rhetorically. Part of me wanted to comfort him, bolster his confidence somehow. The bigger part of me said it wasn't any of my fucking business. His childhood was downright heavenly compared to mine. Besides, any attempts to be kind would feel like a trap to him so I settled for cool ambivalence.
"R-Right. You got it, Zabini."
He rummaged through his suitcase and picked out a book. The compartment fell into silence as the final warning whistle sounded, five minutes now. Judging by how he never flipped a page, the boy was all nerves still.
I ignored him and continued to read:
There are ways to mitigate this. Enchantments anchored onto mirrors through the use of runes and formalcraft can turn the mirror into a highly effective tool. Expensive, alchemically treated silver used as the base for the glass to rest on instead of mere aluminum can likewise make it a better medium, as can quartz over regular glass. Runic inlays can be formed with poured gold or some other material should one need it to perform a specific function. I once saw a mirror made of pure obsidian used by the Inca; it had several unique properties that go beyond the scope of this short primer but suffice to say, it was a very useful tool.
Finally, we come to the crystal ball. Every benefit which can be attributed to the mirror can likewise be attributed to the crystal ball. It is reliable, perfectly clear, and portable, all without any conceptual ties to a sense of self, vanity, or similar. It is a tool designed purely for divination and behaves like it.
Some say that the biggest drawback to a crystal ball is that because it is made up of a single material, it lacks room for customization. However, I beg to differ. This is an advantage more often than not, especially considering just how difficult it is to find a truly masterful enchanter who is both a runemaster and has a clear understanding of the nuances of spell matrices that make up divination spells in particular. Suffice to say, such people are extremely rare and their time proportionally valuable.
That is why, though there are dozens of different means of divination and three in particular most commonly used in scrying, I will focus the following chapter on the humble cryst-
Several minutes later, just as I was coming to the tail end of the preface, the compartment door slid open again.
"Mind if I join you, chaps?" The speaker was yet another boy, but this time obviously muggleborn. He was short-ish with a frizzy mop and a pronounced upper bite. He was also dressed in jeans and a Beatles t-shirt.
I glanced at Neville, then at the newcomer. Maybe he didn't want to give permission because I was here first. Or maybe he was afraid of me for some perceived threat I'd made. I decided to try to send him a subtle message: Blood really meant nothing to me.
I waved the newcomer in with a careless nod. "Sit. Keep it quiet; I'm reading."
He dragged his suitcase inside and plopped down directly across from me. "Oh, that's great. What're you reading? Divination through the Ages? Is it any good? I heard it was a subject we can learn in our third year but it's supposed to be a load of hogwash, not that I won't give it the ol' college try of course. Are you a third year? I'm a first year and it's so exciting, learning magic and all. I couldn't help it and read all the first year coursebooks already. Would you mind lending some of your old books to me if you have them?"
My grip on the tome tightened. Brunette, check. Buck teeth, check. Frizzy hair, never shuts up, clearly way too into books… Check, check, and check. A sinking pit formed in my stomach as reality beat me like a ginger stepchild. I had the sneaking suspicion Fate was laughing her ass off somewhere.
Just to confirm, I said, "In polite company, we introduce ourselves before interrupting people who are trying to read."
"Oh, my bad, chap. I'm Leontes Granger, first year Hogwarts student. I get a little excited about reading; mom says I should curb the enthusiasm just a tad. Call me Leon."
"Neville Longbottom," my initial cabin-mate introduced himself.
"Zabini. First year. Your mother sounds like a wise lady."
"She is! So… Divination?"
I stared at genderbent-Hermione. I recognized the name of course. How could I not? I was a librarian. Leontes too was a Shakesperean name, the name of Queen Hermione's husband in The Winter's Tale in fact.
I slowly marked the page and closed the book. "Very well. Ask away, Granger."
"Is it?"
"Is it what?"
"Hogwash. I mean, there has to be something to the branch of magic if it's taught in Hogwarts, but when I looked for details on the electives, all the books I read dismissed it."
"That depends on what you think of when you think of divination. What is it?"
"It's the magical art of predicting the future," he said matter-of-factly.
"Good, and which book did you get that from?"
"Hogwarts: A History of course. You should read it if you haven't."
I sighed. "That was sarcasm. While that definition is correct, it's also incomplete. Divination is the art of acquiring information through magical means. Let's say you have your telescope. You brought it for Astronomy, right?"
"Of course."
"Well you'll find that the telescope you purchased in Diagon Alley has been enchanted to improve the magnification of light and to provide better clarity. That enchantment matrix? Divination."
"Oh, I hadn't thought of that. I don't think that was covered in-"
"It wasn't covered because permanent enchantment is a field reserved for NEWT-level students. If Hogwarts: A History addresses the subject, it's likely just a small part and probably not mentioned alongside divination at all. Another use of divination is, say, a spell to let you hear things better."
"So it doesn't have to be trying to predict the future. I really want to read that book now."
"Perhaps another time," I evaded.
Neville looked between me and Leontes like he couldn't believe what was going on. Blaise Zabini, a pureblood, was talking to a muggleborn and had yet to utter a single threat or insult. He shifted in his seat and I saw his eyes widen in shock.
I thought it was because of something we did, but he began to pat himself down. Then, when he didn't find whatever he was looking for, he lifted his trunk back down and began to rummage through it.
"Neville?" Leontes asked. "Are you okay?"
"Trevor? Trevor's gone!"
"Who's Trevor?"
"My toad is missing."
"Longbottom, if your toad isn't on your person or in your trunk, it stands to reason he's somewhere in the car," I replied. "Were you in any other train car before settling on this one?"
"N-No."
I stood. On one hand, I could just tell them to find a prefect and summon Trevor. But on the other hand, if Fate wanted to throw canon in my face like this, I figured I may as well go meet the Girl Who Lived. I had to admit to being quite curious. "Well come on, then. Let's go find Trevor before he finds a kneazle. Or an owl like Minerva here."
"Y-You'll help me?"
"This promises to be entertaining."
The two boys followed me out. Neville still looked a little bewildered by my unforeseen assistance; I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to step out of my mother's shadow. Leontes on the other hand, showed zero hesitation and marched up to the nearest compartment before yanking the door open.
He peered inside and said, "Hello, pardon me. Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville lost his."
"No, get out, firstie!" I heard before the compartment door clattered shut. One of the upper years who wanted a rear compartment then.
"Well, that was rude."
I strolled by and saw Lyra Malfoy talking to Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. As if to prove that some things never changed, Heath Parkinson sat to Lyra's right, doing his level best to get her attention. I tapped the wall before Leontes could reach for the door handle. "Not this one. Move on."
"What? We should check all the compartments. That's the logical thing to do."
"What's wrong?" Neville asked.
"Malfoy and Parkinson. Greengrass and Davis aren't so bad but if you want to deal with them, then leave me out."
Neville grabbed Leontes by the arm and started to drag him down the corridor. "Zabini is right. We can leave that cabin for last."
"What? They're just talking in there," he protested, but seeing how we both shoved him on, he let out a huff and tagged along.
We went down a few more compartments until we arrived at the last one. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot sat with Lisa Turpin; they were nice enough to promise to pass Trevor on if they found him. Dean Thomas, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Terry Boot, and Anthony Goldstein all shared a cabin and one of the boys was explaining Exploding Snap to Justin, the muggleborn among them. They hadn't seen Trevor either.
The last cabin in the car contained three girls, a pair of brown-skinned twins and a raven-haired girl who seemed a tad skinnier than she perhaps should be. At her side was a snowy owl, which made it easy to guess who this was.
"So the Patils twins met her first," I hummed under my breath. An interesting change, but not something I didn't expect. I didn't know exactly who she'd be with, but I assumed it wouldn't be Ron this time around. "Should be interesting…"
A lot could have happened between Violet stepping onto the platform and settling in with Ron. She could have been invited by the Patils before she found an empty cabin. Or maybe the Patils invited themselves and Ron decided he didn't want to sit with three girls. Or perhaps Fred and George took more time showing him Lee Jordan's tarantula than in canon.
"You know them?" Neville asked.
"You don't?" I asked back in genuine surprise. I assumed Augusta Longbottom would have ensured he knew every pureblood family name. "Light" or not, she was still fairly traditionalist in mannerism. "Pureblood family from India. Their father's a master enchanter who sells high-end textiles abroad. Their uncle's the Indian Ministry's Head of Foreign Affairs."
"Ah… I think that sounds familiar?"
"Well we should say hello." Leontes opened the door and poked his head inside. "Hello, has anyone seen a toad? Neville lost his."
I took the chance to lean against the door and take a closer look at the Chosen One.
Everyone in the wizarding world knew Dumbledore had taken custody of her. Some bought the tripe written in her "biographies" and expected a gallant heroine off to slay dragons before her first year. Others thought she'd be raised as a princess, given all the best our world had to offer. Entitled? Or maybe a political mastermind? Or, a beautiful maiden ready to be wooed by the right pureblood? She wasn't any of those things, but she wasn't what I expected either.
As far as I knew, Harry was abused, not just emotionally but physically. There was a point in canon when Petunia beat him with a frying pan for burning the bacon or some other inane reason. I expected similar here, a fourteen year old girl who'd spent most of her life sleeping in a stairwell closet, a very literal modern day Cinderella. Did the genderswap make her more a sympathetic figure? Or did it trigger Petunia's envy even worse?
I thought I'd find a malnourished waif of a girl dressed in Petunia's baggy hand-me-downs, maybe with a sweater to hide the bruises. I expected her to have the eyes of a scared rabbit and loathe physical contact. I expected to find an abuse victim. It was something I'd come to terms with. There wasn't much I could have done over the past month and even less chance of convincing Valencia to help. To be Violet was to suffer and I'd accepted it as a fact of life as sure as the rising sun.
That wasn't what I found.
She sensed my gaze on her and her eyes snapped up to meet mine. They were large, made all the larger by her glasses. In those pools of green, I saw not a shred of hesitation or fear. Instead, I saw defiance and spite; I saw someone who was used to getting shit on by everyone and decided that she'd rather throw the first punch than get shoved around.
Her outfit was likewise unexpected. The first thing I noticed, besides her scar and trademark "Lily's eyes," was the piercings in her ears. She wore diamond studs on her lobes and rings on her upper helix. Around each piercing was a hint of scar tissue, implying she got those done in a back alley or did them herself.
Around her neck was a lace choker with torn edges, probably ripped out of another garment rather than purchased. Instead of Petunia or Dudley's baggy hand-me-downs, she wore a black, tight-fitting t-shirt with a faded, bubblegum-pink butterfly design stretched across her chest. A pair of dark jeans and a studded belt wrapped around her hips. In her hand was a wand, presumably holly and phoenix feather, as well as a pair of fingerless gloves.
She looked, in a word, like a punk. Or at least, what an abused, isolated teenage girl would consider "punk."
"Take a picture; it'll last longer," she spat.
"You… are different," I admitted quietly. This was a good thing, especially considering the alternatives. I turned to greet the Patil twins. Padma was reading a book while Parvati seemed to be in the middle of lecturing Violet on fashion. "Patils, right? Blaise Zabini."
Parvati waved awkwardly. "Aren't you…"
"The son of an alleged serial killer," I finished for her. "Why, yes, yes I am."
"Wait, seriously?" It was Leontes who spoke up. "Your dad killed people?"
"Considering my old man lived through Grindelwald and World War Two, yes. He's definitely killed people. That part isn't really up for debate, but nor is that what she's talking about. It's my mother who's the alleged serial killer if you must know."
"You seem… cavalier about this," Padma said carefully.
I shrugged carelessly. "Ehh, everyone knows it. People who grew up in the wizarding world are going to be suspicious of me because of who my mother is. Can't do anything about it so I may as well get used to clearing the air."
"Oh, that was really rude of Parvati, wasn't it? I apologize on behalf of my sister."
"Hey, I didn't say it," the more energetic twin said with a pout.
"But you thought it and made it super obvious."
I shrugged. "Don't mind it; that was a natural reaction. More importantly, toad named Trevor. Longbottom lost him. Have you seen him around? If Snowball over there ate him, let us know so we don't waste time looking."
"Hedwig," Violet said. She reached out a hand and stroked the ornery owl as the bird glowered at me. "Her name is Hedwig, not Snowball. And I'm Violet."
"Padma Patil."
"Parvati Patil. And sorry, we haven't seen any toads."
I noticed Violet didn't give her last name. She'd likely cottoned on to the mess that was being a celebrity already. Unfortunately, Leontes was as bright as Hermione and he connected the dots rather quickly.
"Violet? As in Violet Potter? Oh! I read all about you!"
"Yeah? You want a medal?"
"Is it true that you-"
"Fought off a dementor and saved a fairy who took me into Albion where I studied magic for a hundred years in a day?" she said, voice tinged with excitement and pride.
"Yes!"
"No," she said flatly. "Are you stupid? Were you born this way or were you dropped on your head as a child?"
"Hehehe," I chuckled as Leontes sputtered. This little trek around the train was worthwhile just to see this. They were great entertainment if nothing else. Violet Potter was turning out to be quite the variable, and in a good way.
"What're you laughing at, chuckle-fuck?"
"Forgive Granger. He's very curious about the magical world. He was interrogating me on the nuances of divination before we started this little scavenger hunt."
Parvati perked up. "You're studying divination?"
"Independently, yes."
"Ooh, do you have the Sight?"
"I'd like to think so. Any interest in the subject?"
"Yeah! I mean, why not learn, right? Imagine knowing who your true love is. Or how to make yourself lucky. Or when you're going to die so you can prevent it."
Padma sighed and interrupted her sister. "Or, you can spend a decade learning an art that you have zero talent in. You either have the Sight or you don't. And we don't. Patils haven't been seers in all three thousand years of our existence."
"Hey, you never know. Seer bloodlines have to have started somewhere. What do you think, Zabini?"
This was clearly a longstanding argument between the two. I vaguely remembered Parvati and Lavender taking divination in third year so her showing some interest in the subject beforehand made sense. "Leave me out of your sibling spats, please. All I know is I'm a seer. That's all that matters to me."
"Liar," Padma accused. "Seers are really rare. In fact, you wouldn't even know if you were one because seers don't remember their own prophecies."
"Is that right?"
"Yup. I think you're having us on."
I smiled glibly. She wasn't wrong, the CYOA just made me an abnormality. I wanted recognition, to be known as the greatest seer of all, and what better time to start building a reputation for myself than now? I figured I may as well sow the seeds and tapped into my magic. Suddenly, I was hearing their conversation five seconds ahead. I began to speak conversationally, repeating everything I heard as they spoke in the real world.
"Well, he was reading a book on divination," Leontes said.
"Yeah, so? That doesn't mean he has the Sight. He's probably interested in it like my sister."
"Hey, guys, umm… I'm going to go find a prefect so I can get Trevor back," Neville said before shuffling away.
"Lovely meeting y-"
"Holy crap, Padma, he's saying what we're saying!"
"Yeah, I noticed," the smarter sister said with a scowl. "Stop copying us. It doesn't prove you're a seer."
"Wait, isn't he saying the words before you do? He is!" Parvati exclaimed. I walked into the cabin and took a seat next to Violet and across from Padma so I could better look at her changing expressions. Leontes squeezed in next to the twins and closed the door behind him. The chipper twin had a huge grin on her face. "Do you have the Sight?"
"Doesn't prove anything. It's a good trick, but just a trick. Watch: Mera naam Padma Patil hai. main Ravenclaw banna chaahati hoon," Padma said in a foreign language. She looked smug for about a second before she realized I said the same thing she'd said, and a whole second faster than she did. "No way… That was Hindi…"
"Oh, was it?" I asked with a grin that wouldn't melt butter. "It feels a bit strange on the tongue. What did I say?"
"You said, 'My name is Padma Patil. I want to be a Ravenclaw.'"
"Huh. Neat. Sorry if I butchered your native language, Patil."
"Either you're lying and you speak Hindi, or I'm wrong and this isn't some predictive mind game."
I waggled my eyebrows. "Who knows? So, Ravenclaw, huh? Ever consider Gryffindor? Your sister's probably going there."
"Really?" Parvati asked. "Like, for real? You saw it?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just messing with you and you're going to end up in Ravenclaw, doomed to forever be cooped up in a tower studying like your sister."
"That would be awful."
"Hey! Ravenclaw is a perfectly respectable house," Padma protested. She shot me a judging glare. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing. No changing the subject. Do you have the Sight?"
"Signs point to yes."
"A yes or no would be great, Zabini."
"Reply hazy, try again later."
"Ugh, Blaise is copying magic eight ball responses," Leontes groaned. "It's a muggle fortune-telling toy."
"Zabini, Granger. In the wizarding world, unless you are close friends, lovers, or family, you use a person's family name to address them. We're not that close," I corrected him. He'd probably get shit for it if I didn't. He'd get shit anyway, but if he made a basic effort to fit in with wizarding culture, he'd be less likely to get singled out. "And who says that muggle contraption is useless?"
"I mean… Isn't it?"
"Better not tell you now."
"More eight ball responses? Really?"
"It is certain."
Violet, who'd been watching carefully, let out a snort of laughter. "Is it just the future? Or can you also see the past?"
"Not everyone who has the Sight is equal, kind of like how not everyone has perfect vision. Either your eyes are opened or shut, but the clarity varies from person to person. A lot of things depend on the medium, what spell you're using, what you're searching for, or even the position of the planets, stars, and moon. But yes, it's theoretically possible for someone to see into the past."
Parvati spoke up. "Ooh, can you tell me what house will have the cutest boys?"
I couldn't help it. I flipped my bangs like the pompous ass I was. "Slytherin, because I'm going there."
"Someone's humble," Violet rolled her eyes.
"I am. Now are you convinced I am a seer?"
"Maybe. Tell me something no one knows about me."
I stared at her pointedly. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." Her reply was immediate. It was good to know she was as reckless as her male counterpart.
"No, because there are a lot of things that you'd actually feel uncomfortable about," I said reasonably. She must have thought back on her life because her face became an unhealthy red. "There is something harmless however: You have a neighbor named Arabella Figg. And if that doesn't convince you, just remember: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak."
"I-Yeah… Thanks. I believe you now."
"No problem, Potter. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get changed into my school robes."
"No, wait," Parvati called, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nonsense, sister," Padma drolled. "He means nonsense."
"I'll have you know I make as much sense as Albus Dumbledore," I sniffed pompously. "You'll see. And just remember, my services are for sale. Now I really must be getting changed."
"Oh, right, you left your owl in our cabin," Leontes said.
"Minerva's a big girl. She probably left through the window anyway."
"We still need to grab our stuff."
"We don't. Leave it to the house elves, Granger. Just grab your robes."
"What are house elves? I read about them but there wasn't much in Hogwarts: A History to say for sure. Are they like a type of brownie?"
I sighed as I stood back up. Dick or no dick, Hermione was as hungry for knowledge as ever. If I was honest, it was getting a little annoying. Hopefully I could ditch him soon.
Author's Note
There must be karmic balance. If Harry gets swapped, so does Hermione. Lyra and Heath have the same relationship here as they did in canon, which is to say, not-Pansy is still thirsty as fuck. I guess he's a simp now (lol).
I'm probably forgetting a lot of canon, I read the books over a decade ago. I realized as I was writing that I'm effectively no better than the people who write fanfiction about Worm without ever having read it. Canon and fanon have fully merged into an amorphous blob in my mind.
Animal facts… Shit, umm… kinda put myself on the spot because I didn't have one when I originally put this up on Pat-re-on. Have something disturbing: Adelie penguins can and will fuck absolutely anything vaguely penguin-shaped. Chicks? Fine. Females? Consent is a human construct. Dead penguin carcasses? Yup.
Anyway, there are still ten chapters of content from various stories on my Pat-re-on.
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I like the trio of the mc, Neville and malemine… also it is hilarious what you did with Violet I love it!
I was half expecting her to be a Taylor Hebert lookalike, bee powers and all.
Yes they are a type of Brownie, no don't pitty them!
Ya know the main reason Harry didn't get sorted into Slytherin was because Malfoy was such a tool. MC is doing a good job of making Slytherin seem cool, butterflies be damned.
