"Lady, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
The woman sitting in your living room responded...
The woman sitting in your living room responded...
Birthright: A Muggleborn Quest
- Thread starter Zhade
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Statistics (7 threadmarks, 15k words)
User Total Zhade 7
Introduction
- Location
- Canada
"Lady, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
The woman sitting in your living room responded with a tired smile. Tall, black-hair tied up in a stern bun, and wearing a rather expensive looking bathrobe, she acted as if your demand was a joke.
"I had assumed that removing my hat would made me more convincing. Shame." She sipped her tea daintily. Tea you now regretted bringing out. "However, I can assure you Mr. Bell, that this is not a trick or a jape. I am quite serious."
You lean back on the sole chair in your apartment, the so-called Headmistress taking up the rather more comfortable sofa and tea table. You had been a lot more charitable when you thought she had been representing an educational charity, instead of a fucking School of Magic.
"Ma'am," you begin, growing annoyed. "I don't think you understand how this looks. You enter my home under false pretenses, you claim you're representing some sort of magical school and then you ask me to enroll in it. Give me one reason why I shouldn't think you're a con after my loan."
Seriously, you think she would have come with a better excuse. Although she did convince me into giving her tea-
Your thoughts are interrupted when Headmistress McGonagall takes out a stick, taps it on your table and turns it into a cat.
The woman sitting in your living room responded with a tired smile. Tall, black-hair tied up in a stern bun, and wearing a rather expensive looking bathrobe, she acted as if your demand was a joke.
"I had assumed that removing my hat would made me more convincing. Shame." She sipped her tea daintily. Tea you now regretted bringing out. "However, I can assure you Mr. Bell, that this is not a trick or a jape. I am quite serious."
You lean back on the sole chair in your apartment, the so-called Headmistress taking up the rather more comfortable sofa and tea table. You had been a lot more charitable when you thought she had been representing an educational charity, instead of a fucking School of Magic.
"Ma'am," you begin, growing annoyed. "I don't think you understand how this looks. You enter my home under false pretenses, you claim you're representing some sort of magical school and then you ask me to enroll in it. Give me one reason why I shouldn't think you're a con after my loan."
Seriously, you think she would have come with a better excuse. Although she did convince me into giving her tea-
Your thoughts are interrupted when Headmistress McGonagall takes out a stick, taps it on your table and turns it into a cat.
***
"You must forgive an old woman her guilty pleasures." The woman-Headmistress says, chuckling quietly to herself. "It's been so long since I had the chance to surprise a Muggleborn. It's always a joy to watch their faces lit-up at the revelation that magic is real."
Liar, you think dazedly, stroking Table. You just like seeing them jump.
It had taken a few more displays of "Magic" for you to be convinced that this wasn't an elaborate prank. There was still a part of you that refused to trust and you caught yourself looking suspiciously at the room's corners for cameras.
The Headmistress continued on, as if destroying worldviews was a mundane thing to her. Then again, you muse, it may very well be.
"Well then, Mr. Bell. Now that the necessaries are out of the way, as Headmistress I would once again like to congratulate you into being accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one of the foremost institutes of magical education in the world. Furthermore, I would like to welcome you into the Magical World proper...and would like to apologize for how long it has taken."
"Sorry?" You jerk out of the haze that had clouded your mind the moment you realized you now had a pet. "What was that?"
The woman pauses for a moment, still holding the expression of gentle wisdom she probably had as a child, and then destroys your world for the second time in ten minutes.
"I will be blunt, Mr. Bell. You are a bit of a...special case." She continues, not noticing your flinch at the words. "Given the rates of adaptability and adjustment, all wizards and witches are notified of their potential when they turn eleven. I once again offer my sincerest apologies for this inexcusable lapse."
You stare at her uncomprehendingly. A dozen different strands of thought race through your mind-But I'm eighteen-Am I still allowed to go-I could have gone when I was eleven-Can I keep the cat-before one wins through.
"Hogwarts isn't a university?" You ask, trying not to sound stupid.
The Headmistress raises an eyebrow. "I do not believe it would be categorized as such. Truthfully, the Magical world does not have any universities, or any other forms of your higher education. We do have Apprenticeships-you would be finishing your second year if you hadn't slipped through." Her smile is slight.
"Slipped through?" You say uncomprehendingly.
She puts down her empty teacup with a clink. "All magical births are recorded at Hogwarts, Mr Bell. There is a scroll, deep in it's depths, that writes down the names of every witch or wizard in Britain as they are born. It is under the heaviest enchantments and magical protections, laid down by the original founders of Hogwarts and strengthened by successive Headmasters and Headmistresses. The only way to interfere with the scroll, or even interact with it, would be to shake loose the very foundations of the castle. Something that has only happened once in the entirety of the history of Hogwarts, so you can understand why this is a special case."
"And the one time...?"
She sighs. "Yes. eighteen years ago, on the night you were born, Hogwarts experienced a crisis that shook it down to it's roots. I do not now for how long, but for a brief time the scroll lay dark and did not watch over Britain. And in that brief moment, you were born and unjustly forgotten. For a third time, I offer my deepest apologies." The Headmistress bowed deeply in front of you. There is a slight tremble in her voice.
"I-Alright. Alright." You say, not knowing what to say. The hand that isn't occupied by the tabby cat rubs your temples tiredly. You wish you had some tea. "So, uh, what happens now?"
"If this were a more normal induction, I would give you your acceptance letter, which would detail where to buy your supplies, what you can bring to Hogwarts and how to arrive there. Unfortunately, Hogwarts is a boarding school, and you are well past the age in which you would be allowed to reside within." She raises a hand to forestall you saying anything.
"Of course, Hogwarts does not intend to simply abandon you a second time. You will be allowed full access to the entire castle and it's facilities, except for the common rooms and other restricted areas. We will also arrange for transportation to and from the school, and all the professors have agreed to give you private tutoring. Unfortunately, due to their preexisting schedules, they are only able to meet with you during the weekends, but I believe that will not be a problem given your own commitments." In a glance that is both amused and critical, she looks around at the small apartment, at the unpacked boxes lining the walls and unwashed clothes pushed hurriedly to the side. Really, you would have finished unpacking yesterday, if the internet hadn't been so damnably hard to set up.
She stands up, moving to place her teacup on your kitchen counter, voice now crisp. "You will largely be left to your own devices, as I believe you are well past the age where you need to be ordered to do homework to keep you focused. Of course, it should be obvious that taking too long may be...frowned upon."
Somewhere in the distance, a gong sounded. The sound reverberated through the room, setting your teeth on edge.
"I believe that is my cue to depart." The Headmistress's voice seemed as if it was coming from far away. Your legs didn't seem to be listening to you and you knew you were being rude, not seeing her out. You didn't care. "I will call upon you in a week's time, Mr Bell, for a more...practical introduction to magic. Meet me next Saturday morning, in London at Charing Cross Road. I assure you, this is an appointment you will not want to miss."
A tinkling laugh followed her out of your apartment, closing the door behind her. You didn't move for several moments.
Table meowed.
"Bugger me." You mutter. Fuck tea, you needed to get drunk.
Liar, you think dazedly, stroking Table. You just like seeing them jump.
It had taken a few more displays of "Magic" for you to be convinced that this wasn't an elaborate prank. There was still a part of you that refused to trust and you caught yourself looking suspiciously at the room's corners for cameras.
The Headmistress continued on, as if destroying worldviews was a mundane thing to her. Then again, you muse, it may very well be.
"Well then, Mr. Bell. Now that the necessaries are out of the way, as Headmistress I would once again like to congratulate you into being accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one of the foremost institutes of magical education in the world. Furthermore, I would like to welcome you into the Magical World proper...and would like to apologize for how long it has taken."
"Sorry?" You jerk out of the haze that had clouded your mind the moment you realized you now had a pet. "What was that?"
The woman pauses for a moment, still holding the expression of gentle wisdom she probably had as a child, and then destroys your world for the second time in ten minutes.
"I will be blunt, Mr. Bell. You are a bit of a...special case." She continues, not noticing your flinch at the words. "Given the rates of adaptability and adjustment, all wizards and witches are notified of their potential when they turn eleven. I once again offer my sincerest apologies for this inexcusable lapse."
You stare at her uncomprehendingly. A dozen different strands of thought race through your mind-But I'm eighteen-Am I still allowed to go-I could have gone when I was eleven-Can I keep the cat-before one wins through.
"Hogwarts isn't a university?" You ask, trying not to sound stupid.
The Headmistress raises an eyebrow. "I do not believe it would be categorized as such. Truthfully, the Magical world does not have any universities, or any other forms of your higher education. We do have Apprenticeships-you would be finishing your second year if you hadn't slipped through." Her smile is slight.
"Slipped through?" You say uncomprehendingly.
She puts down her empty teacup with a clink. "All magical births are recorded at Hogwarts, Mr Bell. There is a scroll, deep in it's depths, that writes down the names of every witch or wizard in Britain as they are born. It is under the heaviest enchantments and magical protections, laid down by the original founders of Hogwarts and strengthened by successive Headmasters and Headmistresses. The only way to interfere with the scroll, or even interact with it, would be to shake loose the very foundations of the castle. Something that has only happened once in the entirety of the history of Hogwarts, so you can understand why this is a special case."
"And the one time...?"
She sighs. "Yes. eighteen years ago, on the night you were born, Hogwarts experienced a crisis that shook it down to it's roots. I do not now for how long, but for a brief time the scroll lay dark and did not watch over Britain. And in that brief moment, you were born and unjustly forgotten. For a third time, I offer my deepest apologies." The Headmistress bowed deeply in front of you. There is a slight tremble in her voice.
"I-Alright. Alright." You say, not knowing what to say. The hand that isn't occupied by the tabby cat rubs your temples tiredly. You wish you had some tea. "So, uh, what happens now?"
"If this were a more normal induction, I would give you your acceptance letter, which would detail where to buy your supplies, what you can bring to Hogwarts and how to arrive there. Unfortunately, Hogwarts is a boarding school, and you are well past the age in which you would be allowed to reside within." She raises a hand to forestall you saying anything.
"Of course, Hogwarts does not intend to simply abandon you a second time. You will be allowed full access to the entire castle and it's facilities, except for the common rooms and other restricted areas. We will also arrange for transportation to and from the school, and all the professors have agreed to give you private tutoring. Unfortunately, due to their preexisting schedules, they are only able to meet with you during the weekends, but I believe that will not be a problem given your own commitments." In a glance that is both amused and critical, she looks around at the small apartment, at the unpacked boxes lining the walls and unwashed clothes pushed hurriedly to the side. Really, you would have finished unpacking yesterday, if the internet hadn't been so damnably hard to set up.
She stands up, moving to place her teacup on your kitchen counter, voice now crisp. "You will largely be left to your own devices, as I believe you are well past the age where you need to be ordered to do homework to keep you focused. Of course, it should be obvious that taking too long may be...frowned upon."
Somewhere in the distance, a gong sounded. The sound reverberated through the room, setting your teeth on edge.
"I believe that is my cue to depart." The Headmistress's voice seemed as if it was coming from far away. Your legs didn't seem to be listening to you and you knew you were being rude, not seeing her out. You didn't care. "I will call upon you in a week's time, Mr Bell, for a more...practical introduction to magic. Meet me next Saturday morning, in London at Charing Cross Road. I assure you, this is an appointment you will not want to miss."
A tinkling laugh followed her out of your apartment, closing the door behind her. You didn't move for several moments.
Table meowed.
"Bugger me." You mutter. Fuck tea, you needed to get drunk.
***
Hours later, once you've fortified yourself with cheap beer, you can go finally go over what had just happened without feeling vertigo. Well, that may be a bad thing, considering you had tripped over your own feet twice and then fell off the stool. While sitting on it.
In any case, you think you can finally get a grip on your emotions now.
How are you feeling?
[] Bitter: Headstart on Magical Education
-You missed out on seven years of magic, seven years not spent in your hometown, all because of a fucking clerical error?
[] Insightful: Headstart on relationship with Hogwarts
-There seemed to be something...guarded about the Headmistress. You can't put your finger on it, but it may have something to do with the crisis she mentioned, the one when you were born.
[] Wary: Headstart on discovering the Watcher
-It can't be that easy. It's never that easy. Something's wrong.
[] Eager: Headstart on Accustomed to Magical Culture
-Holy shit, Magic is real!
You groan in horror as you remember that you're supposed to meet with the Headmistress next week, in London. Bloody hell.
That's going to be a problem, because you live in...
[] Oxford: OK, you were a little smug when you got the acceptance letter. I mean, it's Oxford!
-Pro: Resources, Social
-Con: Time, Money
-Special: Hey, Hogwarts is a thousand years old, right? Isn't that around the same age as Oxford?
[] Canterbury: You managed to get into a Polytechnic College here. You like it so far.
-Pro: Money, Social
-Con: Resources, Time
-Special: You feel...lucky here. Like things are finally going your way for once. Don't jinx it.
[] London: You really are drunk. Or are you pretending you didn't flunk all your exams and didn't get into any schools?
-Pro: Money, Time
-Con: Resources, Social
-Special: You live in London. And it's the most realistic choice. You loser NEET.
You grasp your head in your hands, trying to prevent your memories from leaking out. At least that's what it feels like. God, you shouldn't have tried to drink so much so fast.
You forget. What are you studying again? (IF CHOOSING LONDON, IGNORE)
[] Pre-Med
-Logical, methodical, diligent
-Background in the Sciences
-Unique item: Overclocked Hippocampus.
-Watch your QM have nightmares about his own undergraduate!
[] Computer Science
-Rigorous, experimental, random
-Background in Tech.
-Unique item: Programmer's Fingers.
-Watch your QM cry as he watches his players try to create Magi-tech!
[] Finance
-Practical, ambitious, driven.
-Background in Finance.
-Unique item: Ear for Income.
-Watch your QM drink as he tries to make sense of Wizarding economy!
[] Architecture
-Visionary, energetic, impulsive.
-Background in the Arts.
-Unique item: Eyes of Articulation.
-Your QM asks you to stop watching him.
Wait...you don't know your name. What was your name?!
You really shouldn't try drinking so much so soon when you're not used to it.
[] ____ Bell
You shake your head dizzily. Whatever. Not now. Now, you need to take a piss. The world tilts alarmingly as you head there, Table watching you curiously from the counter top.
You reach the bathroom. What position is the toilet seat?
[] Down: ♀
[] Up: ♂
You throw up. Tomorrow's the start of Freshers' Week. You know you're going to hate yourself in the morning.
Welcome to the real world, kid.
In any case, you think you can finally get a grip on your emotions now.
How are you feeling?
[] Bitter: Headstart on Magical Education
-You missed out on seven years of magic, seven years not spent in your hometown, all because of a fucking clerical error?
[] Insightful: Headstart on relationship with Hogwarts
-There seemed to be something...guarded about the Headmistress. You can't put your finger on it, but it may have something to do with the crisis she mentioned, the one when you were born.
[] Wary: Headstart on discovering the Watcher
-It can't be that easy. It's never that easy. Something's wrong.
[] Eager: Headstart on Accustomed to Magical Culture
-Holy shit, Magic is real!
You groan in horror as you remember that you're supposed to meet with the Headmistress next week, in London. Bloody hell.
That's going to be a problem, because you live in...
[] Oxford: OK, you were a little smug when you got the acceptance letter. I mean, it's Oxford!
-Pro: Resources, Social
-Con: Time, Money
-Special: Hey, Hogwarts is a thousand years old, right? Isn't that around the same age as Oxford?
[] Canterbury: You managed to get into a Polytechnic College here. You like it so far.
-Pro: Money, Social
-Con: Resources, Time
-Special: You feel...lucky here. Like things are finally going your way for once. Don't jinx it.
[] London: You really are drunk. Or are you pretending you didn't flunk all your exams and didn't get into any schools?
-Pro: Money, Time
-Con: Resources, Social
-Special: You live in London. And it's the most realistic choice. You loser NEET.
You grasp your head in your hands, trying to prevent your memories from leaking out. At least that's what it feels like. God, you shouldn't have tried to drink so much so fast.
You forget. What are you studying again? (IF CHOOSING LONDON, IGNORE)
[] Pre-Med
-Logical, methodical, diligent
-Background in the Sciences
-Unique item: Overclocked Hippocampus.
-Watch your QM have nightmares about his own undergraduate!
[] Computer Science
-Rigorous, experimental, random
-Background in Tech.
-Unique item: Programmer's Fingers.
-Watch your QM cry as he watches his players try to create Magi-tech!
[] Finance
-Practical, ambitious, driven.
-Background in Finance.
-Unique item: Ear for Income.
-Watch your QM drink as he tries to make sense of Wizarding economy!
[] Architecture
-Visionary, energetic, impulsive.
-Background in the Arts.
-Unique item: Eyes of Articulation.
-Your QM asks you to stop watching him.
Wait...you don't know your name. What was your name?!
You really shouldn't try drinking so much so soon when you're not used to it.
[] ____ Bell
You shake your head dizzily. Whatever. Not now. Now, you need to take a piss. The world tilts alarmingly as you head there, Table watching you curiously from the counter top.
You reach the bathroom. What position is the toilet seat?
[] Down: ♀
[] Up: ♂
You throw up. Tomorrow's the start of Freshers' Week. You know you're going to hate yourself in the morning.
Welcome to the real world, kid.
Last edited:
Character Sheet
Mechanics
Prologue: Elements
- Location
- Canada
The beeping from your phone jerks you awake, and it keeps beeping until you rise from the cold floor to turn it off. You moan in self-pity, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, as you move around your room opening the blinds to the glaring sun. Your place isn't much; a single living room/bedroom with an attached kitchen and separate washroom. It's cramped compared to your old home, but quite frankly you think it's almost too spacious. Aren't university students supposed to be bundled together like logs in dorms? Well, you weren't going to complain. At least this granted you some privacy, even if you had to take the futon out and move the table-
Wait.
Shit.
Meow.
Your table calls at you from the kitchen countertop. You lock eyes with it. The clock ticks in the silence.
"I, uh, don't have anything for you to eat." You say lamely.
You don't know how, but your ex-furniture managed to convey an expression of supreme disdain at you. The dark-stripped tabby cat leaped down from it's resting place and wandered towards the center of your living room, acting as if your existence had ceased to matter. You were just wondering if you should call Animal Control (did the building even allow pets?) when there was a popping sound and the cat turned into your tea table.
You sat down on the sofa. Huh. Guess that wasn't a dream.
-and you still haven't fully digested the fact that you're now Magical-
-than a TAAAAAAABB!
And now you're forced to sing chants before you can go eat lunch. Appalling example of academic hazing.
"It's a bit much, isn't it." A voice to the right of you asks.
You turn. A lanky, dark-skinned student is there, lounging with his hands in his pockets against a wide oak trunk. You brain stutters for a second, before spitting out a name.
"Brian, right?" Your voice, like his, is raw from yelling. "No Driver's license, and scared of squirrels? You lied about the size of your bank account, if I recall correctly."
He gives a friendly grin. "Can't believe you remember that. I mean, I completely forgot everyone else when they were doing theirs."
"Bell." You say, returning his grin and moving down to where the luncheon line is forming. "Pre-Med, Univ."
"Brian Clarke. Jurisprudence, Hertford College." He says, stretching up and coming down to join you. You note he has a few inches on you and his accent is interesting. You see hints of a tattoo peeking out from his collar and sleeve, flame-like.
"Jurisprudence?" You question, before it hits you. "You mean Law?"
He flashes white teeth at you. "Larger words opens larger doors."
You laugh at the joke, as expected. "You sure-"
"There's that fake smile again!"
You blink at the interruption. "I'm sorry?"
Brian waves his hand, brushing the matter aside. "Nothing, nothing. So, Hertford was pretty crazy last night. Anything wild happen at Univ?"
Oh, you have no idea.
You spend the rest of your lunch chatting with Brian and others in your Fresher group. Everyone has the similar stories about the stupid shit people pulled yesterday, the day after moving day. As much as you hate to admit it, you find yourself having fun, joking and ribbing each other over things they claimed to have done. You decline the invitation to a house party later that night, pleading you still have to unpacking problems. Such an excuse will only hold up for a few weeks however.
As lunch breaks and your group heads to the next activity, you feel...
[] Invigorated: Cracking jokes at lunch, laughing at drinking stories, a heady atmosphere of excitement and anticipation. You missed this.
[] Content: Your shoulders are relaxed, your palms open and head up. Now, if you just had a good night's sleep, you would be ready.
***
Wait.
Shit.
Meow.
Your table calls at you from the kitchen countertop. You lock eyes with it. The clock ticks in the silence.
"I, uh, don't have anything for you to eat." You say lamely.
You don't know how, but your ex-furniture managed to convey an expression of supreme disdain at you. The dark-stripped tabby cat leaped down from it's resting place and wandered towards the center of your living room, acting as if your existence had ceased to matter. You were just wondering if you should call Animal Control (did the building even allow pets?) when there was a popping sound and the cat turned into your tea table.
You sat down on the sofa. Huh. Guess that wasn't a dream.
***
[Insightful: You're experiences have given you a keen sense of what makes people tick...]
You cup your hands around the cup of tea you just brewed. You're taking this surprisingly well, all things considered. If you were to guess, you think getting shitfaced last night may have been the right choice, allowing you to release the stress from earth-shattering revelation in the form of dreams. You vaguely remember half a dozen of them, each more bizarre than the last.But you're already forgetting them, the memories melting away in the rising sun like mildew.
However, you remember enough. About the woman-the Headmistress. The offer. The promise. The apology. Your subconscious had an entire night to pour over what had happened, the slight changes in the older woman's expression as the conversation continued, the subtle shifts in body language you had learned through trial and error back in high school.
And unless you were way off base, which you admit you may very well be, it seemed as if the Headmistress wasn't really looking at you. It was hard to put your finger on what exactly made you think this, but your gut tells you that throughout the entire conversation, she didn't see you as a person, but as something else.
You chew on your thumbnail contemplatively. A symbol perhaps? A reminder? The crisis eighteen years ago, on the day you were born; perhaps she would be reminded of that every time she saw you.
[Counter-Trait Gained!]
[Disillusioned: ......and you're not impressed. You have a hard time opening up and letting people in.]
As per usual, people only see what they want to see, not what's actually there. Was the bit about how Hogwarts only discovered you now a lie? It's not like you can trust someone who comes out of the blue proclaiming your a long lost heir or something equally ludicrous.
No matter. You managed to get through both middle school and highschool. Your entire social arsenal consists of weapons to distract and divert attention. Three years under that Headmistress is nothing.
You're going to grab every last snatch of magic you can get your hands on.
You cup your hands around the cup of tea you just brewed. You're taking this surprisingly well, all things considered. If you were to guess, you think getting shitfaced last night may have been the right choice, allowing you to release the stress from earth-shattering revelation in the form of dreams. You vaguely remember half a dozen of them, each more bizarre than the last.But you're already forgetting them, the memories melting away in the rising sun like mildew.
However, you remember enough. About the woman-the Headmistress. The offer. The promise. The apology. Your subconscious had an entire night to pour over what had happened, the slight changes in the older woman's expression as the conversation continued, the subtle shifts in body language you had learned through trial and error back in high school.
And unless you were way off base, which you admit you may very well be, it seemed as if the Headmistress wasn't really looking at you. It was hard to put your finger on what exactly made you think this, but your gut tells you that throughout the entire conversation, she didn't see you as a person, but as something else.
You chew on your thumbnail contemplatively. A symbol perhaps? A reminder? The crisis eighteen years ago, on the day you were born; perhaps she would be reminded of that every time she saw you.
[Counter-Trait Gained!]
[Disillusioned: ......and you're not impressed. You have a hard time opening up and letting people in.]
As per usual, people only see what they want to see, not what's actually there. Was the bit about how Hogwarts only discovered you now a lie? It's not like you can trust someone who comes out of the blue proclaiming your a long lost heir or something equally ludicrous.
No matter. You managed to get through both middle school and highschool. Your entire social arsenal consists of weapons to distract and divert attention. Three years under that Headmistress is nothing.
You're going to grab every last snatch of magic you can get your hands on.
***
Oh, I'd rather be a leper than a Tab!
It's Monday morning.
I'd rather be a leper than a Tab!
You are hungover.
I'd rather be a leper-
You just spent the past hour doing icebreakers with others in your Fresher group-
I'd rather be a leper-
-another hour spent listening to a junior explain about some ridiculous traditions they would be forced to undergo-
Oh, I'd rather be a leper-
-the strangest of which is that students from Cambridge are now called 'Tabs'-
-than a Tab-It's Monday morning.
I'd rather be a leper than a Tab!
You are hungover.
I'd rather be a leper-
You just spent the past hour doing icebreakers with others in your Fresher group-
I'd rather be a leper-
-another hour spent listening to a junior explain about some ridiculous traditions they would be forced to undergo-
Oh, I'd rather be a leper-
-the strangest of which is that students from Cambridge are now called 'Tabs'-
-and you still haven't fully digested the fact that you're now Magical-
-than a TAAAAAAABB!
And now you're forced to sing chants before you can go eat lunch. Appalling example of academic hazing.
"It's a bit much, isn't it." A voice to the right of you asks.
You turn. A lanky, dark-skinned student is there, lounging with his hands in his pockets against a wide oak trunk. You brain stutters for a second, before spitting out a name.
"Brian, right?" Your voice, like his, is raw from yelling. "No Driver's license, and scared of squirrels? You lied about the size of your bank account, if I recall correctly."
He gives a friendly grin. "Can't believe you remember that. I mean, I completely forgot everyone else when they were doing theirs."
"Bell." You say, returning his grin and moving down to where the luncheon line is forming. "Pre-Med, Univ."
"Brian Clarke. Jurisprudence, Hertford College." He says, stretching up and coming down to join you. You note he has a few inches on you and his accent is interesting. You see hints of a tattoo peeking out from his collar and sleeve, flame-like.
"Jurisprudence?" You question, before it hits you. "You mean Law?"
He flashes white teeth at you. "Larger words opens larger doors."
You laugh at the joke, as expected. "You sure-"
"There's that fake smile again!"
You blink at the interruption. "I'm sorry?"
Brian waves his hand, brushing the matter aside. "Nothing, nothing. So, Hertford was pretty crazy last night. Anything wild happen at Univ?"
Oh, you have no idea.
You spend the rest of your lunch chatting with Brian and others in your Fresher group. Everyone has the similar stories about the stupid shit people pulled yesterday, the day after moving day. As much as you hate to admit it, you find yourself having fun, joking and ribbing each other over things they claimed to have done. You decline the invitation to a house party later that night, pleading you still have to unpacking problems. Such an excuse will only hold up for a few weeks however.
As lunch breaks and your group heads to the next activity, you feel...
[] Invigorated: Cracking jokes at lunch, laughing at drinking stories, a heady atmosphere of excitement and anticipation. You missed this.
[] Content: Your shoulders are relaxed, your palms open and head up. Now, if you just had a good night's sleep, you would be ready.
***
It's Tuesday morning.
You're just finished showering and brushing your teeth when there's a knock at your door. You glance at your watch. 7:30. Hm. Today's the day when your college is supposed to have you, instead of the Fresher Committee, when you're supposed to spend the day hanging out with the people who live in the same building as you and grow bonds with them. Same shit, different people.
But that's only supposed to be later. Even breakfast is only at 8:30, in deference to all the partying all the other Freshers did last night. You barely got any studying done because of the noise.
Irregardless, whoever was knocking on the door wasn't mandatory. And you haven't gotten any coffee in you yet for social interaction. You'll just ignore it and hope whoever it is goes away. They can come again this evening if it's so important. Really, they should just use the bulletin board. It's there for a reason.
Also, you just showered and haven't put any clothes on. Not a way to make a good first impression.
By the time you're fully attired, the knocking has moved on. You can vaguely hear further knocking from down the hall. This time, it's accompanied by the cracking noise of a door opening and the grumpy voice of your neighbor. Not a morning person. Good to know. He's answered by a higher pitched voice, muffled but feminine. Whatever. Doesn't sound important from how fast the door slammed shut after.
Your eyes are drawn to a searingly cyan flyer that's drifted underneath your door. Presumably left by the knocker. You pick it up and give it a once over while brushing down your hair. Something about a party? On Sunday? At night? Don't they know that people have class the next day?
You can barely make out anything else besides those pieces of information. The paper looks like a printer vomited over it. Wordart and pictures of waterfalls adorn the entire thing. You're pretty sure you were making better advertisements in primary school.
Still, the fact that the organizer is calling the party a "cultural exchange" is interesting.
You at least decide to take out your phone and record the date, but you doubt you'll remember, or even decide to go...
[] You set up an appointment in your calendar.
[] You note it down on your To-Do list.
You're just finished showering and brushing your teeth when there's a knock at your door. You glance at your watch. 7:30. Hm. Today's the day when your college is supposed to have you, instead of the Fresher Committee, when you're supposed to spend the day hanging out with the people who live in the same building as you and grow bonds with them. Same shit, different people.
But that's only supposed to be later. Even breakfast is only at 8:30, in deference to all the partying all the other Freshers did last night. You barely got any studying done because of the noise.
Irregardless, whoever was knocking on the door wasn't mandatory. And you haven't gotten any coffee in you yet for social interaction. You'll just ignore it and hope whoever it is goes away. They can come again this evening if it's so important. Really, they should just use the bulletin board. It's there for a reason.
Also, you just showered and haven't put any clothes on. Not a way to make a good first impression.
By the time you're fully attired, the knocking has moved on. You can vaguely hear further knocking from down the hall. This time, it's accompanied by the cracking noise of a door opening and the grumpy voice of your neighbor. Not a morning person. Good to know. He's answered by a higher pitched voice, muffled but feminine. Whatever. Doesn't sound important from how fast the door slammed shut after.
Your eyes are drawn to a searingly cyan flyer that's drifted underneath your door. Presumably left by the knocker. You pick it up and give it a once over while brushing down your hair. Something about a party? On Sunday? At night? Don't they know that people have class the next day?
You can barely make out anything else besides those pieces of information. The paper looks like a printer vomited over it. Wordart and pictures of waterfalls adorn the entire thing. You're pretty sure you were making better advertisements in primary school.
Still, the fact that the organizer is calling the party a "cultural exchange" is interesting.
You at least decide to take out your phone and record the date, but you doubt you'll remember, or even decide to go...
[] You set up an appointment in your calendar.
[] You note it down on your To-Do list.
***
It's Wednesday afternoon.
You're running. You hadn't had the chance to these past few days, and it's one of the few ways you have of staying fit. Today was the day where all the fresher's got their new insurances, filled out a reams of forms and generally had a very dull time.
Which was why you took the time to get some fresh air once you were done and out of the dusty office.
And you have to say, Oxford has some gorgeous running trails. A big factor may be all the beautiful architecture on display, manicured parks, a football-
You grab the projectile instinctively. You somehow manage to block it from hitting your face and leaving a mark, and instead send the ball bouncing away. You stare at where it came from, a group of freshers playing on their college's field, all of them looking back apologetically.
"Balllll..." One warns, jokingly.
You jokingly move to kick the ball away.
"Wait, wait, hold up!" One of the players calls, running over. The same one who made the joke, he's a fit and well-built man, around your height but broader. And American. You think you've seen more foreigners in Oxford in a single day than an entire year in your hometown.
He comes to a stop in front of you, panting. "Listen, sorry about that. We were just goofing off, and the ball bounced off of Caitlin's shoe and it went flying and no one knew where it went until it it had almost hit you and.."
You watch in amusement as he leans down, hands on knees, struggling to catch his breath and panting all the while. He's covered in grass stains and dirt, sweat tracks standing out starkly on his face. He managed to say all that in one go?
He straightens up, pushing back dirty blonde hair back with a one hand. If you gave him a cheeseburger and coke, he could fit on a poster warning against stereotypes. "Name's Bill. You play?" Oh lord, even his name. Next he would be talking about the good old days on his dad's farm.
You shrug nonchalantly, trying not to laugh. "Some. Nothing recent."
He smiles friendly. "That's cool man, it's just for fun. My team still has two spots open, you up for it? I get it if you don't want to, no pressure."
You consider it for a moment, before giving in. What the hell, you could always run tomorrow. Anyways, it did look like fun, and you were crazy about football only a few years ago. And you don't think this is a prank, you don't know any of the players. It should be safe.
"Sure. What spots?"
"Hm, right back and striker. Which one you want?" Bill seems genuinely happy you want to play, and it's putting you on guard.
[] Right Back: This used to be your position, and your body still remembers it somewhat. If you choose this, you're reasonably sure you won't embarrass yourself, even with your rusty skills.
[] Striker: You've never played this position before, and you're unsure of how well you will do. But, as they say, Carpe Diem, and all that.
In any case, you play a few games before you have to call it there, heading back home to eat and get some rest, before the campus-wide night-time scavenger hunt. You're looking forward to it.
Huh. You just called your room "home".
You're running. You hadn't had the chance to these past few days, and it's one of the few ways you have of staying fit. Today was the day where all the fresher's got their new insurances, filled out a reams of forms and generally had a very dull time.
Which was why you took the time to get some fresh air once you were done and out of the dusty office.
And you have to say, Oxford has some gorgeous running trails. A big factor may be all the beautiful architecture on display, manicured parks, a football-
You grab the projectile instinctively. You somehow manage to block it from hitting your face and leaving a mark, and instead send the ball bouncing away. You stare at where it came from, a group of freshers playing on their college's field, all of them looking back apologetically.
"Balllll..." One warns, jokingly.
You jokingly move to kick the ball away.
"Wait, wait, hold up!" One of the players calls, running over. The same one who made the joke, he's a fit and well-built man, around your height but broader. And American. You think you've seen more foreigners in Oxford in a single day than an entire year in your hometown.
He comes to a stop in front of you, panting. "Listen, sorry about that. We were just goofing off, and the ball bounced off of Caitlin's shoe and it went flying and no one knew where it went until it it had almost hit you and.."
You watch in amusement as he leans down, hands on knees, struggling to catch his breath and panting all the while. He's covered in grass stains and dirt, sweat tracks standing out starkly on his face. He managed to say all that in one go?
He straightens up, pushing back dirty blonde hair back with a one hand. If you gave him a cheeseburger and coke, he could fit on a poster warning against stereotypes. "Name's Bill. You play?" Oh lord, even his name. Next he would be talking about the good old days on his dad's farm.
You shrug nonchalantly, trying not to laugh. "Some. Nothing recent."
He smiles friendly. "That's cool man, it's just for fun. My team still has two spots open, you up for it? I get it if you don't want to, no pressure."
You consider it for a moment, before giving in. What the hell, you could always run tomorrow. Anyways, it did look like fun, and you were crazy about football only a few years ago. And you don't think this is a prank, you don't know any of the players. It should be safe.
"Sure. What spots?"
"Hm, right back and striker. Which one you want?" Bill seems genuinely happy you want to play, and it's putting you on guard.
[] Right Back: This used to be your position, and your body still remembers it somewhat. If you choose this, you're reasonably sure you won't embarrass yourself, even with your rusty skills.
[] Striker: You've never played this position before, and you're unsure of how well you will do. But, as they say, Carpe Diem, and all that.
In any case, you play a few games before you have to call it there, heading back home to eat and get some rest, before the campus-wide night-time scavenger hunt. You're looking forward to it.
Huh. You just called your room "home".
***
It's Thursday evening.
"Tutorials are usually the time when you go over the week's work and review. As such, today you will be going over what you did this week and reviewing it." With that, your TA pulls a beer case, grinning at the lot of you.
The rest of your tutorial group cheers in approval. You were supposed to meet with your Tutorial group today, get to know them, and start preparations for the school year.
You're fairly certain that was a load of hogwash by the administration, who's probably the only one who believes that no one will take this time to get a little drunk. Well, except for some of the more boring TAs, and you're glad you haven't got one of those.
The next hour and a half is spent drinking cheap beer and chatting pleasantly. It's only later that you realize your TA is using this time to get to know you, preparing you for the upcoming term. She's just doing it in the guise of drinking. Right now, she's talking about which of the Pre-Med classes are hell and which ones' you can sleep through. Clever. You mention it to the girl sitting next to you, the two of you having drifted away a bit from the rest of the group.
"What, you realize that now? You sure you're in the right university?" She teases.
You groan. "I just know, that once I graduate, some smart ass is going 'And you went to Oxford?' every time I make a little mistake."
She laughs, a sound that reminds you of wind chimes. She twirls her long blonde hair, sinking further into the couch the two of you are relaxing on. Whatever shampoo she's using, it's was nice.
"Well, on the bright side, you would probably be able to fire whoever said that." She says, sipping from her can. Agneta. That was her name, Agneta. Scandinavian, by the sound of it.
"Not for a decade." You grunt. "Three years here, then four years of medical school, then Foundational and then Specialization. A tortuous route if I ever saw one."
"Amen." She replies, clinking her can with yours. "Ten years of studying our hair out, and then a life-time of on-calls and late-night shifts. Well, hopefully the salary will soothe my pains."
You look at her. "Is that why you want to become a doctor? For the salary?"
"Any other reason?" She giggles. "I want the money, the prestige, and a house with a swimming pool fit for a queen."
You chuckle. As far as you can tell, she's being truthful. "Those are rather mundane reasons."
She shrugs and looks up at you from her low position. "If I wanted to help people, I would go into volunteering. I wanted to be a pilot when I was a little girl, really. You know, see new places and meet new people. Then I found I was scared of heights. Becoming a doctor is the next best thing."
You're interrupted by the sound of cheering, as one of your fellow Tutorial members starts chugging a can shotgun style.
"Why do you want to be a doctor then?" She asks, deep blue eyes gazing at you curiously. The light from the setting sun reflects off them. "For mundane or magic?"
You very carefully do not react to her phrasing.
[] Mundane: You agree with Agneta. You're in it for the money, good job prospects and a host of other, selfish but reasonable reasons.
[] Magic: You admit it. There's something romantic about being a doctor. About saving people's lives, about being important. You're like a real life hero.
"Tutorials are usually the time when you go over the week's work and review. As such, today you will be going over what you did this week and reviewing it." With that, your TA pulls a beer case, grinning at the lot of you.
The rest of your tutorial group cheers in approval. You were supposed to meet with your Tutorial group today, get to know them, and start preparations for the school year.
You're fairly certain that was a load of hogwash by the administration, who's probably the only one who believes that no one will take this time to get a little drunk. Well, except for some of the more boring TAs, and you're glad you haven't got one of those.
The next hour and a half is spent drinking cheap beer and chatting pleasantly. It's only later that you realize your TA is using this time to get to know you, preparing you for the upcoming term. She's just doing it in the guise of drinking. Right now, she's talking about which of the Pre-Med classes are hell and which ones' you can sleep through. Clever. You mention it to the girl sitting next to you, the two of you having drifted away a bit from the rest of the group.
"What, you realize that now? You sure you're in the right university?" She teases.
You groan. "I just know, that once I graduate, some smart ass is going 'And you went to Oxford?' every time I make a little mistake."
She laughs, a sound that reminds you of wind chimes. She twirls her long blonde hair, sinking further into the couch the two of you are relaxing on. Whatever shampoo she's using, it's was nice.
"Well, on the bright side, you would probably be able to fire whoever said that." She says, sipping from her can. Agneta. That was her name, Agneta. Scandinavian, by the sound of it.
"Not for a decade." You grunt. "Three years here, then four years of medical school, then Foundational and then Specialization. A tortuous route if I ever saw one."
"Amen." She replies, clinking her can with yours. "Ten years of studying our hair out, and then a life-time of on-calls and late-night shifts. Well, hopefully the salary will soothe my pains."
You look at her. "Is that why you want to become a doctor? For the salary?"
"Any other reason?" She giggles. "I want the money, the prestige, and a house with a swimming pool fit for a queen."
You chuckle. As far as you can tell, she's being truthful. "Those are rather mundane reasons."
She shrugs and looks up at you from her low position. "If I wanted to help people, I would go into volunteering. I wanted to be a pilot when I was a little girl, really. You know, see new places and meet new people. Then I found I was scared of heights. Becoming a doctor is the next best thing."
You're interrupted by the sound of cheering, as one of your fellow Tutorial members starts chugging a can shotgun style.
"Why do you want to be a doctor then?" She asks, deep blue eyes gazing at you curiously. The light from the setting sun reflects off them. "For mundane or magic?"
You very carefully do not react to her phrasing.
[] Mundane: You agree with Agneta. You're in it for the money, good job prospects and a host of other, selfish but reasonable reasons.
[] Magic: You admit it. There's something romantic about being a doctor. About saving people's lives, about being important. You're like a real life hero.
***
It's Friday night.
You're lying in bed, still wearing the clothes you had on all day, feeling the tiredness drain out of you.
You spent the day attending the compulsory Matriculation ceremony, which lasted hours.
Then there was a feast, in which you and the rest of your college stuffed themselves.
And then there was a massive, final party, a last hurrah as Fresher week ended and people began to settle down for the upcoming term.
"Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord....Ooxxfooooord..." You mumble sleepily into your pillow. Your throat hurts from all the chanting you did. They seemed less awkward...and embarrassing...now...
"Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord..."
Huh....You had almost forgotten about the trip tomorrow, to London....You're pretty sure you set up the alarm on your phone...
"Ooxxfooooord... Ooxxfooooord..."
Your thoughts were slowing down, unwinding...
"Ooxxfooooord..."
You're asleep.
Something isn't.
...Ooxxfooooord...
New Title: [Oxford Medical Student]!
QM: This is getting a bit ridiculous. I was hoping there would be a definite winner by the time I woke up. Someone roll a 1d2 for me. 1 means you're a girl, 2 means you're a boy. I pretty much wrote this entire update not knowing which gender the player character would be, meaning you may come off as a tad bit bisexual.
Anyway, I was planning to split this up into two updates, but I decided to just write the whole thing in one go and finish off Fresher week. Next up is your trip to Diagon Alley, which will probably just as long, and the choices there will seem less like a personality quiz and more of a shopping list. May take a bit longer, as I need to work out your finances.
You're lying in bed, still wearing the clothes you had on all day, feeling the tiredness drain out of you.
You spent the day attending the compulsory Matriculation ceremony, which lasted hours.
Then there was a feast, in which you and the rest of your college stuffed themselves.
And then there was a massive, final party, a last hurrah as Fresher week ended and people began to settle down for the upcoming term.
"Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord....Ooxxfooooord..." You mumble sleepily into your pillow. Your throat hurts from all the chanting you did. They seemed less awkward...and embarrassing...now...
"Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord...Ooxxfooooord..."
Huh....You had almost forgotten about the trip tomorrow, to London....You're pretty sure you set up the alarm on your phone...
"Ooxxfooooord... Ooxxfooooord..."
Your thoughts were slowing down, unwinding...
"Ooxxfooooord..."
You're asleep.
Something isn't.
...Ooxxfooooord...
New Title: [Oxford Medical Student]!
QM: This is getting a bit ridiculous. I was hoping there would be a definite winner by the time I woke up. Someone roll a 1d2 for me. 1 means you're a girl, 2 means you're a boy. I pretty much wrote this entire update not knowing which gender the player character would be, meaning you may come off as a tad bit bisexual.
Anyway, I was planning to split this up into two updates, but I decided to just write the whole thing in one go and finish off Fresher week. Next up is your trip to Diagon Alley, which will probably just as long, and the choices there will seem less like a personality quiz and more of a shopping list. May take a bit longer, as I need to work out your finances.
Last edited:
Prologue: Shopping
- Location
- Canada
You raise the coffee cup to your lips, leaning against the side of a bakery and away from the press of the crowd. It's Saturday morning and London is bustling.
Despite almost sleeping through your alarm, you managed to get up, get dressed and get here by 9:30. You don't really have an idea when the Headmistress will come, but it's not like you have anything else to do today.
Distracted, you put away your phone and it's games, opting instead to watch the crowd to calm your nerves. It's been almost a week since you first learned about the existence of magic, and besides waking up to a cat that turned into a table, it's been a very normal week. It honestly wouldn't be surprising if you had chalked up the entire thing to an alcohol infused dream and not spent the bus fare to come here.
But being a scientist meant trusting in what you can see. Well, usually. Sometimes. It's more of a metaphor, really. In any case, you doubt the cat hair on your counter is an optical illusion. At least you think it's cat hair. It's not yours at least, too coarse and short. Then again, it could have been hair from strays that had clung onto and-
Alright, you admit it. You're a bit nervous about all this. You're scared of how this day will change you, of what you're going to learn. A whole new world of magic isn't exactly like going to university. A woman turned your tea table into a cat by touching it with a stick! There is a very high chance you're insane, but the fact that you haven't seen anything 'untoward' during Fresher week speaks against it.
A black stray meows at you as it stalks by. You meow back.
You take another sip of the warm coffee. You're starting to regret your decision to wear you "interview clothes", as you called them. A black collar shirt, charcoal dress pants and polished business shoes, the ensemble that helped you get onto the Oxford register but is now killing you slowly in the heat. You've been standing out here for a good while, and it's only been getting worse; people are starting to stare. You would have avoided the hot drink, but you need your wits to be as sharp as possible.
Your eyes still wandering unconsciously, you drain the last dregs of coffee, check the lid if you had won anything, then throw the cup into a nearby bin. You step further into the shade, trying to find to keep yourself cool. Really, it's been half an hour, surely there would be...some...sign....
There's something wrong with the street.
No, not with the street itself. Not the pavement, or the sidewalk or even the cars. No, there's... something weird about the people. They all look normal, shoppers and families and friends all out and about on a Saturday morning. It's the same crowd you would see anywhere in London, or the country for that matter.
No, it's something about the way they're moving. Some hint of coordination, something deeper about their movements that shouldn't exist. It's like watching ants marching; an act deeply inhuman in it's nature. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and something tells you that all this is wrong, that the street shouldn't make sense, that Charing Cross is a street that you shouldn't be on-
"They can't see the pub." A voice states cheerfully next to you.
You jump in fright, and then stare at the woman who appeared next to you. It's her. Headmistress McGonagall, and she now looks more like a witch than before. Probably the hat.
"I hope you weren't waiting for too long, Mr. Bell." She says, eating a bun between sentences. "There was a sale on spiced buns and it's been a rather long time since I had one of these delightful Muggle inventions."
You stare at her in shock and confusion, your thoughts disordered. Muggle? What's a Muggle? You vaguely recall her saying something about Muggleborns at your first meeting, but you never had the presence of mind to ask her about it. Just one more question to the pile. You regain control of yourself.
"Headmistress," You say, as respectfully as you can. "It is good to see you again."
She looks over at you critically. "Hm. Can't say the same. We can't have you walking into Diagon Alley like this."
"Beg pardon?" You ask, confused. "Is there something wrong with my clothes? Do I need a hat?"
As an answer, she takes out the same stick as last time and taps you on the shoulder before you can react. Suddenly, your clothes change around you, becoming cooler, more airy. The sleeves widen until you can hide a textbook inside, your pants loosens and untucks your shirt, which swallows it's own buttons and flows down until it reaches shoes.
As you look down in growing shock, you find your clothes have turned into a similar style of the clothing the Headmistress is wearing.
"Better?" She asks. "And I don't think a hat would suit you, Mr. Bell."
You look around wildly. The crowd seems oblivious to the world-record wardrobe change that had just been performed. You glare back at the witch, trying to calm your heart.
"You know, you could have warned me!"
"If such a little thing surprises you, Mr Bell," She takes out her stick, taps it to the wrapping of the bun she had just finished eating, and it folds itself into a hummingbird. It flies around up to you for a moment, pecks you on the nose, and then dives into the nearest wastebin. "Then I'm afraid today is going to be a very long day for you."
Despite almost sleeping through your alarm, you managed to get up, get dressed and get here by 9:30. You don't really have an idea when the Headmistress will come, but it's not like you have anything else to do today.
Distracted, you put away your phone and it's games, opting instead to watch the crowd to calm your nerves. It's been almost a week since you first learned about the existence of magic, and besides waking up to a cat that turned into a table, it's been a very normal week. It honestly wouldn't be surprising if you had chalked up the entire thing to an alcohol infused dream and not spent the bus fare to come here.
But being a scientist meant trusting in what you can see. Well, usually. Sometimes. It's more of a metaphor, really. In any case, you doubt the cat hair on your counter is an optical illusion. At least you think it's cat hair. It's not yours at least, too coarse and short. Then again, it could have been hair from strays that had clung onto and-
Alright, you admit it. You're a bit nervous about all this. You're scared of how this day will change you, of what you're going to learn. A whole new world of magic isn't exactly like going to university. A woman turned your tea table into a cat by touching it with a stick! There is a very high chance you're insane, but the fact that you haven't seen anything 'untoward' during Fresher week speaks against it.
A black stray meows at you as it stalks by. You meow back.
You take another sip of the warm coffee. You're starting to regret your decision to wear you "interview clothes", as you called them. A black collar shirt, charcoal dress pants and polished business shoes, the ensemble that helped you get onto the Oxford register but is now killing you slowly in the heat. You've been standing out here for a good while, and it's only been getting worse; people are starting to stare. You would have avoided the hot drink, but you need your wits to be as sharp as possible.
Your eyes still wandering unconsciously, you drain the last dregs of coffee, check the lid if you had won anything, then throw the cup into a nearby bin. You step further into the shade, trying to find to keep yourself cool. Really, it's been half an hour, surely there would be...some...sign....
There's something wrong with the street.
No, not with the street itself. Not the pavement, or the sidewalk or even the cars. No, there's... something weird about the people. They all look normal, shoppers and families and friends all out and about on a Saturday morning. It's the same crowd you would see anywhere in London, or the country for that matter.
No, it's something about the way they're moving. Some hint of coordination, something deeper about their movements that shouldn't exist. It's like watching ants marching; an act deeply inhuman in it's nature. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and something tells you that all this is wrong, that the street shouldn't make sense, that Charing Cross is a street that you shouldn't be on-
"They can't see the pub." A voice states cheerfully next to you.
You jump in fright, and then stare at the woman who appeared next to you. It's her. Headmistress McGonagall, and she now looks more like a witch than before. Probably the hat.
"I hope you weren't waiting for too long, Mr. Bell." She says, eating a bun between sentences. "There was a sale on spiced buns and it's been a rather long time since I had one of these delightful Muggle inventions."
You stare at her in shock and confusion, your thoughts disordered. Muggle? What's a Muggle? You vaguely recall her saying something about Muggleborns at your first meeting, but you never had the presence of mind to ask her about it. Just one more question to the pile. You regain control of yourself.
"Headmistress," You say, as respectfully as you can. "It is good to see you again."
She looks over at you critically. "Hm. Can't say the same. We can't have you walking into Diagon Alley like this."
"Beg pardon?" You ask, confused. "Is there something wrong with my clothes? Do I need a hat?"
As an answer, she takes out the same stick as last time and taps you on the shoulder before you can react. Suddenly, your clothes change around you, becoming cooler, more airy. The sleeves widen until you can hide a textbook inside, your pants loosens and untucks your shirt, which swallows it's own buttons and flows down until it reaches shoes.
As you look down in growing shock, you find your clothes have turned into a similar style of the clothing the Headmistress is wearing.
"Better?" She asks. "And I don't think a hat would suit you, Mr. Bell."
You look around wildly. The crowd seems oblivious to the world-record wardrobe change that had just been performed. You glare back at the witch, trying to calm your heart.
"You know, you could have warned me!"
"If such a little thing surprises you, Mr Bell," She takes out her stick, taps it to the wrapping of the bun she had just finished eating, and it folds itself into a hummingbird. It flies around up to you for a moment, pecks you on the nose, and then dives into the nearest wastebin. "Then I'm afraid today is going to be a very long day for you."
***
"Good evening Hannah." The Headmistress says warmly, greeting the pub's owner as both of you enter the establishment. It's pleasantly cool inside, but in a manner that's different from a building being air conditioned. There's no wind.
"Headmistress!" The woman, Hannah, cries from behind the bar. She's tall and blonde, hair tied in a braid that she hangs over her left shoulder and wearing a starch white apron over a light pink bathro-er, robe. Her expression is one of pleasant surprise. "Would you be needing anything? A room, or if you want I could whip something-"
"Not today dear. Just passing through. Slow day, is it?"
"Slow week more like." Hannah says, nodding at the room. There's seating and tables for a full twenty to thirty people, but they're all vacant. Rather clean though.
The entire room is very clean in fact, now that you're taking a good look. There's no windows curiously, but some rather archaic lanterns provide clear, steady illumination for any corner of the room. Although made almost entirely out of wood, the entire place is polished and burnished into a brassy sheen that reflects the light spectacularly and the smells wafting from the door behind Hannah is making your mouth water. The kitchen probably, the remnants of breakfast. But the most interesting thing about the place are perhaps the portraits, or rather how they're placed. A dozen or so, each with tables pushed up against them so the frame is resting the top and facing the patrons, it's almost as if-
What. The. Fuck.
You wrench your attention away from a painting where a plump woman in orange-enameled armor had just winked at you saucily and try to focus on the conversation between your new Headmistress and the owner of a magical pub.
"It's always like this at this time of year, Professor, with the new term coming up and everyone done their shopping. It's nothing to worry about." Hannah is saying. "Most of Diagon Alley is like this as well, most shopkeeps deciding to close up and go on a little holiday."
"Well, it's a good thing I've reserved ahead of time then, isn't it." The Headmistress nods to Hannah and gestures you to follow her further into the pub. "The clock is ticking and we must be off. Good day then Hannah, give my regards to little Edmond."
"Good day to you, Professor!" Hannah responds cheerily. She looks at you curiously, but the fact that the Headmistress hadn't yet introduced you prevents her from giving you more than a simple nod. You nod back jerkily.
You follow the Headmistress as she leads you through a long corridor that opens up into a weedy, overgrown courtyard. You're still struggling to understand all you've seen lately that you can't help but be dragged along. You had plans, you were going to act like the perfect student, show off your intellectual side and convince her she had made the right choice in enrolling you. Now you can barely get a word in edgewise because even the paintings are startling you.
You shake your head, trying to focus. Now's not the time to loose your cool. Calm down. Relax. Cent-
"Toffee?"
You blink up at the Headmistress, who is holding out a very ordinary looking bag of sweets. She shakes the bag a bit.
"It's rather relaxing and good for your jaw." She advises. Her expression is neutral, except for a slight glint in her eye.
What the heck. You nod gratefully and plop one into your mouth, not noticing the Headmistress taking out her stick and taping one of the bricks. You had just started chewing when the first bricks started to fall down in rain of masonry, intensifying until the rain became a downpour and the hole in the wall becomes a doorway.
"Now then, Mr Bell. Shall we begin?"
It's only because the toffee has glued your jaws together that you aren't gaping in astonishment.
"Headmistress!" The woman, Hannah, cries from behind the bar. She's tall and blonde, hair tied in a braid that she hangs over her left shoulder and wearing a starch white apron over a light pink bathro-er, robe. Her expression is one of pleasant surprise. "Would you be needing anything? A room, or if you want I could whip something-"
"Not today dear. Just passing through. Slow day, is it?"
"Slow week more like." Hannah says, nodding at the room. There's seating and tables for a full twenty to thirty people, but they're all vacant. Rather clean though.
The entire room is very clean in fact, now that you're taking a good look. There's no windows curiously, but some rather archaic lanterns provide clear, steady illumination for any corner of the room. Although made almost entirely out of wood, the entire place is polished and burnished into a brassy sheen that reflects the light spectacularly and the smells wafting from the door behind Hannah is making your mouth water. The kitchen probably, the remnants of breakfast. But the most interesting thing about the place are perhaps the portraits, or rather how they're placed. A dozen or so, each with tables pushed up against them so the frame is resting the top and facing the patrons, it's almost as if-
What. The. Fuck.
You wrench your attention away from a painting where a plump woman in orange-enameled armor had just winked at you saucily and try to focus on the conversation between your new Headmistress and the owner of a magical pub.
"It's always like this at this time of year, Professor, with the new term coming up and everyone done their shopping. It's nothing to worry about." Hannah is saying. "Most of Diagon Alley is like this as well, most shopkeeps deciding to close up and go on a little holiday."
"Well, it's a good thing I've reserved ahead of time then, isn't it." The Headmistress nods to Hannah and gestures you to follow her further into the pub. "The clock is ticking and we must be off. Good day then Hannah, give my regards to little Edmond."
"Good day to you, Professor!" Hannah responds cheerily. She looks at you curiously, but the fact that the Headmistress hadn't yet introduced you prevents her from giving you more than a simple nod. You nod back jerkily.
You follow the Headmistress as she leads you through a long corridor that opens up into a weedy, overgrown courtyard. You're still struggling to understand all you've seen lately that you can't help but be dragged along. You had plans, you were going to act like the perfect student, show off your intellectual side and convince her she had made the right choice in enrolling you. Now you can barely get a word in edgewise because even the paintings are startling you.
You shake your head, trying to focus. Now's not the time to loose your cool. Calm down. Relax. Cent-
"Toffee?"
You blink up at the Headmistress, who is holding out a very ordinary looking bag of sweets. She shakes the bag a bit.
"It's rather relaxing and good for your jaw." She advises. Her expression is neutral, except for a slight glint in her eye.
What the heck. You nod gratefully and plop one into your mouth, not noticing the Headmistress taking out her stick and taping one of the bricks. You had just started chewing when the first bricks started to fall down in rain of masonry, intensifying until the rain became a downpour and the hole in the wall becomes a doorway.
"Now then, Mr Bell. Shall we begin?"
It's only because the toffee has glued your jaws together that you aren't gaping in astonishment.
***
"What you must understand Mr Bell, is that the Magical community tends to be fairly insular, introspective. We are concerned with our problems, and being coerced into helping others would be ill-advised. Besides, Muggles seemed to have done quite alright by themselves. In fact, I would say they're doing far more than alright. Why, I remember my father speaking about the horrors of the Great War-"
You have practice in keeping an ear and an eye focused on different tasks, such as during note-taking, but even you find it difficult in following the Headmistress' sudden history and cultural lesson. The toffee had been gradually broken down by a few minutes of consistent chewing, and by that time you were no longer gaping like a fish and could actually ask questions.
And the questions you had! Everywhere you looked, there was a new sight to see, a different store to browse and examine. Entire fields of magic were unraveling before you, and the only thing that prevented you from going inside to thoroughly examine each is your self-control and the fact that many of the shops weren't open. Their doors were locked tight, signs proclaiming their short hiatus left out front. Even that was enough to capture your attention, as many of the signs were animated and the very names of shops were compelling and mysterious. Magical Menagerie? Codwall's Cauldrons and Containers? The Ergonomic Apothecary? It didn't help that many of the signs had figures that looked as if they were on smoke breaks, though they waved at you lazily if you happened to glance at them.
Your fascinated mind was brought back by the sound McGonagall's voice.
"-And here we are. Our first stop: Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank. You, Mr Bell, need to open an account."
You look up at the massive, marble-white building that looms over the shops around it. If one were to look at shoppers like flies, then the ordinary shops were like honey. Gringotts was a 1000 watt bulb. You had no doubt that there were more people on the street, the entrance would be jam-packed. Something about the building proclaimed security, stability, wealth. The unadorned walls lent it a certain dignity that was absent in many of the shops you had passed, no matter how interesting they were.
But at the moment, the streets were empty save for you, the Headmistress, a pair of old women lounging on a nearby bench and a harassed looking father carrying a crying baby past. Rather anticlimactic, but you can't really complain.
You head up the polished stairs, trying not to feel trepidation as the shadow of the building swallows you.
You have practice in keeping an ear and an eye focused on different tasks, such as during note-taking, but even you find it difficult in following the Headmistress' sudden history and cultural lesson. The toffee had been gradually broken down by a few minutes of consistent chewing, and by that time you were no longer gaping like a fish and could actually ask questions.
And the questions you had! Everywhere you looked, there was a new sight to see, a different store to browse and examine. Entire fields of magic were unraveling before you, and the only thing that prevented you from going inside to thoroughly examine each is your self-control and the fact that many of the shops weren't open. Their doors were locked tight, signs proclaiming their short hiatus left out front. Even that was enough to capture your attention, as many of the signs were animated and the very names of shops were compelling and mysterious. Magical Menagerie? Codwall's Cauldrons and Containers? The Ergonomic Apothecary? It didn't help that many of the signs had figures that looked as if they were on smoke breaks, though they waved at you lazily if you happened to glance at them.
Your fascinated mind was brought back by the sound McGonagall's voice.
"-And here we are. Our first stop: Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank. You, Mr Bell, need to open an account."
You look up at the massive, marble-white building that looms over the shops around it. If one were to look at shoppers like flies, then the ordinary shops were like honey. Gringotts was a 1000 watt bulb. You had no doubt that there were more people on the street, the entrance would be jam-packed. Something about the building proclaimed security, stability, wealth. The unadorned walls lent it a certain dignity that was absent in many of the shops you had passed, no matter how interesting they were.
But at the moment, the streets were empty save for you, the Headmistress, a pair of old women lounging on a nearby bench and a harassed looking father carrying a crying baby past. Rather anticlimactic, but you can't really complain.
You head up the polished stairs, trying not to feel trepidation as the shadow of the building swallows you.
***
"Now then, Mr Bell, I ask that you press your thumb into the box here." Tilclaw points at the open square next your signature.
Trying not to wince, you press your bloody thumb into the crisp white space, marring it with your impression. As soon as you lift it up, the blood on your thumb vanishes and the pain disappears. Huh. Convenient.
"So, uh, Mr Tilclaw?" You ask hesitantly. The Headmistress is sitting next to, eating a plate of candied nuts that you're sure is reserved for children, but otherwise seemingly content to let you ask questions. You're a cramped office, the tables, chairs and walls just slightly off human dimensions to make things uncomfortable. "How does this work?"
"Just Tilclaw please," growls the goblin. "My people don't use your forms of address."
"Ah, apologies." You say hastily. "So, how does all this work?"
The goblin signs. He looks like a very short man, like someone suffering from dwarfism, except for his pointed ears, pitch black eyes and double jointed fingers. They resembled an insect when they moved, and watching him move his fingers around your newly signed bank contract reminded you strongly of two spiders fighting to the death.
"Mr Bell, we are a bank. You give us money, we do clever things with it to make it grow, and you can take it out again." His voice was higher-pitched than a human, but no less sarcastic. "We even offer loans and insurance, but I do not believe you will be needing them now."
He rolls up the contract and slides his finger down the side, sealing it tight. "At this point, I would offer to show you down to Vault 1014, which is your vault now, if you haven't realized yet. However, there does seem to be an issue in that your vault is completely empty. And by completely empty, I mean it doesn't exist yet. Traditionally, one would first deposit a lump sum of money with us first before contracting, which would finance the construction of the vault and allows us to actually place something inside once it's built."
He does...something with the contract in his hands, peels it apart in a manner which makes your eyes hurt, and suddenly there are two sealed cylinders of parchment where there was once one. He hands one to you and plops the other into the chute that is sticking out of desk.
"Truthfully Mr Bell, we would not even be meeting today, if it weren't for certain...promises that were offered in return for your unorthodox contract." At this he glares at the Headmistress. "Promises that haven't come to fruition yet."
"You'll get yours, goblin." She responds casually, unfazed by the enraged look Tilclaw is giving her. "Just do your part."
Tilclaw visibly restrains himself, and then turns to you. "As such, if you return to Gringotts after a week's time, you will find a Basic Vault assigned to you, and goblins to lead you there. This vault only offers basic protection, and relies more on Gringotts defenses than any ones personalized to the vault. Furthermore, you will find that many of the lucrative services we offer you will be substandard compared to the ones offered to the more...substantial vaults. Of course, Gringotts defenses are more than adequate to deal with the brand of thieves your vault will accrue, Mr Bell."
"Uh, thanks." You say. "How are the vaults protected, by the way?"
Tilclaw stares at you for a moment. "Mr Bell, are you a Muggleborn?"
The Headmistress coughs politely. "It would be best to assume he's from abroad. Remember the deal, goblin."
"Goblins never forget, witch." Tilclaw barks back. He studies you for a moment, before speaking. "A key will be given to you the next time you come here. That is all you need to concern yourself with. Furthermore, if I am to consider you as a foreigner, be advised that Gringotts provides currency exchange services, irrespective of vault status. We can provide exchanges for any amount upto 100 Galleons or equivalent, larger sizes requiring appointments. Gringotts offers exchanges in over 250 currencies, both Muggle and Magical, including hag-favors, riverbed stones, and coagulated blood shards for-."
"How much in pounds?" You cut in, recognizing a sale pitch when you hear it.
"Around 37.99 pounds per Galleon," He states brusquely. "2.23 pounds per Sickle and 0.07 a Knut. Is that all Mr Bell?"
Nowhere near. But it's enough for today, so you nod and make to leave, the Headmistress already at the door and waiting impatiently.
"And one more thing Mr Bell." The goblin's voice calls out to you. You pause, halfway to the door.
"Even though you aren't a Muggleborn," With this, he inclines his head towards the Headmistress, "I will say this. Gringotts is growing increasingly tired of explaining to Muggleborns why they cannot bring in their gold and silver and expect us to turn it into Galleons and Sickles at the drop of a nail. It seems it is difficult for their tiny heads to understand that there is a difference in the gold we use here and the gold in circulation in the Muggle economy. Please do not have a tiny head, Mr Bell."
Despite yourself, you find yourself asking, "What's the difference between them?"
Tilclaw leers. "Magic."
Trying not to wince, you press your bloody thumb into the crisp white space, marring it with your impression. As soon as you lift it up, the blood on your thumb vanishes and the pain disappears. Huh. Convenient.
"So, uh, Mr Tilclaw?" You ask hesitantly. The Headmistress is sitting next to, eating a plate of candied nuts that you're sure is reserved for children, but otherwise seemingly content to let you ask questions. You're a cramped office, the tables, chairs and walls just slightly off human dimensions to make things uncomfortable. "How does this work?"
"Just Tilclaw please," growls the goblin. "My people don't use your forms of address."
"Ah, apologies." You say hastily. "So, how does all this work?"
The goblin signs. He looks like a very short man, like someone suffering from dwarfism, except for his pointed ears, pitch black eyes and double jointed fingers. They resembled an insect when they moved, and watching him move his fingers around your newly signed bank contract reminded you strongly of two spiders fighting to the death.
"Mr Bell, we are a bank. You give us money, we do clever things with it to make it grow, and you can take it out again." His voice was higher-pitched than a human, but no less sarcastic. "We even offer loans and insurance, but I do not believe you will be needing them now."
He rolls up the contract and slides his finger down the side, sealing it tight. "At this point, I would offer to show you down to Vault 1014, which is your vault now, if you haven't realized yet. However, there does seem to be an issue in that your vault is completely empty. And by completely empty, I mean it doesn't exist yet. Traditionally, one would first deposit a lump sum of money with us first before contracting, which would finance the construction of the vault and allows us to actually place something inside once it's built."
He does...something with the contract in his hands, peels it apart in a manner which makes your eyes hurt, and suddenly there are two sealed cylinders of parchment where there was once one. He hands one to you and plops the other into the chute that is sticking out of desk.
"Truthfully Mr Bell, we would not even be meeting today, if it weren't for certain...promises that were offered in return for your unorthodox contract." At this he glares at the Headmistress. "Promises that haven't come to fruition yet."
"You'll get yours, goblin." She responds casually, unfazed by the enraged look Tilclaw is giving her. "Just do your part."
Tilclaw visibly restrains himself, and then turns to you. "As such, if you return to Gringotts after a week's time, you will find a Basic Vault assigned to you, and goblins to lead you there. This vault only offers basic protection, and relies more on Gringotts defenses than any ones personalized to the vault. Furthermore, you will find that many of the lucrative services we offer you will be substandard compared to the ones offered to the more...substantial vaults. Of course, Gringotts defenses are more than adequate to deal with the brand of thieves your vault will accrue, Mr Bell."
"Uh, thanks." You say. "How are the vaults protected, by the way?"
Tilclaw stares at you for a moment. "Mr Bell, are you a Muggleborn?"
The Headmistress coughs politely. "It would be best to assume he's from abroad. Remember the deal, goblin."
"Goblins never forget, witch." Tilclaw barks back. He studies you for a moment, before speaking. "A key will be given to you the next time you come here. That is all you need to concern yourself with. Furthermore, if I am to consider you as a foreigner, be advised that Gringotts provides currency exchange services, irrespective of vault status. We can provide exchanges for any amount upto 100 Galleons or equivalent, larger sizes requiring appointments. Gringotts offers exchanges in over 250 currencies, both Muggle and Magical, including hag-favors, riverbed stones, and coagulated blood shards for-."
"How much in pounds?" You cut in, recognizing a sale pitch when you hear it.
"Around 37.99 pounds per Galleon," He states brusquely. "2.23 pounds per Sickle and 0.07 a Knut. Is that all Mr Bell?"
Nowhere near. But it's enough for today, so you nod and make to leave, the Headmistress already at the door and waiting impatiently.
"And one more thing Mr Bell." The goblin's voice calls out to you. You pause, halfway to the door.
"Even though you aren't a Muggleborn," With this, he inclines his head towards the Headmistress, "I will say this. Gringotts is growing increasingly tired of explaining to Muggleborns why they cannot bring in their gold and silver and expect us to turn it into Galleons and Sickles at the drop of a nail. It seems it is difficult for their tiny heads to understand that there is a difference in the gold we use here and the gold in circulation in the Muggle economy. Please do not have a tiny head, Mr Bell."
Despite yourself, you find yourself asking, "What's the difference between them?"
Tilclaw leers. "Magic."
***
"No textbooks?" You ask cautiously, trying not to break your neck as the tape measure winds around you. Your clothes have reverted back to their ordinary look once you entered the shop (Malcom's Robes or some such, you were too engrossed in your own thoughts to pay attention).
The Headmistress' eyes peer at you over the top of a magazine she was reading. Transfiguration Today, if your eyes didn't fool you. Which may be a possibility.
"As term is starting in a few days, most families have already come and picked the shops clean. Florish and Blotts was hit the hardest, it is doubtful a trip there would be useful." The tape winds around your torso eerily, and then begins measuring your shoulder blades. "No matter; Hogwarts will supply your school books, Mr Bell. You should find, when you arrive home, a parcel containing all necessary books for your core subjects that should last you until the Fifth year. Shrunken, of course."
"Fifth year?" You ask in surprise. "Not all seven?"
"Education becomes a bit more complicated after the Fifth year, Mr Bell. Hopefully, it won't take as long for you to reach that standard. In truth, you should be able to finish your Hogwart's education within three years."
You stare at the Headmistress, trying not to notice the tape measuring the length of your eyelashes. Seven years of education, compressed down to three? Is she crazy? Well, you are rather clever, but even you have limits.
But then again, you begin to reconsider as the tape tilts your head up and to the side. Education starts at Hogwarts at age eleven, correct? You're eighteen, far older and more capable. That should increase your learning rate if you-
"Mary dear, can you please stop ogling Mr Bell and start bringing out his robes? Three is more than enough times to measure someone's face." The Headmistress' sharp voice cuts through your thoughts.
There is a short 'eep' and then the girl who had been directing the tape measure with her wand darts into the back room, letting the tape fall forlornly onto the floor. You let your outstretched arms fall back down and turn to look at the Headmistress.
"My apologies for that Mr Bell. I was hoping for a bit more professionalism, but it seems Madame Malkin is on sabbatical today, and her daughter isn't made of the same stern stuff she is."
You nod, still confused. Who's Malkin?
"Although I must ask you to be more discrete with the circumstances surrounding your admission into Hogwarts. For your own good, you understand. Many people will not take kindly to someone as old as you being granted a wand and being given free reign to practice magic. It may make things a wee bit troublesome." There is no change in her voice, no implicit threat or warning you can detect. Nevertheless, you still shiver.
Mary rushes in from the backroom, red in the face and probably not just from the running. She quickly gives you a small bag containing the "Self-Repairing" Robe the Headmistress had picked out for you- a plain, black attire that looks more functional than decorative. You duck into a changing room to switch out of your regular clothes and into the actual robe. The feeling is almost identical to how it felt this morning, when the Headmistress altered your clothes
"I can pay for myself." You say, more a question than a statement, as the Headmistress drops a Galleon onto the counter and bids Mary goodbye. You both step out the store, letting the heat wash over you. She looks unfazed, while you can already feel the sweat sprouting out of your skin.
"You are." She responds simply. "All of this is being financed by a fund that was set up in your name a few weeks ago. It's not much, but it should be enough to get you started. It's already paid for your tuition and all your books, and there's still enough left over for a wand. The last bit is going into your vault, so as to begin collecting interest."
You nod distractedly for a moment, trying to process this, when something she just said clicks.
"Wand?"
The Headmistress' eyes peer at you over the top of a magazine she was reading. Transfiguration Today, if your eyes didn't fool you. Which may be a possibility.
"As term is starting in a few days, most families have already come and picked the shops clean. Florish and Blotts was hit the hardest, it is doubtful a trip there would be useful." The tape winds around your torso eerily, and then begins measuring your shoulder blades. "No matter; Hogwarts will supply your school books, Mr Bell. You should find, when you arrive home, a parcel containing all necessary books for your core subjects that should last you until the Fifth year. Shrunken, of course."
"Fifth year?" You ask in surprise. "Not all seven?"
"Education becomes a bit more complicated after the Fifth year, Mr Bell. Hopefully, it won't take as long for you to reach that standard. In truth, you should be able to finish your Hogwart's education within three years."
You stare at the Headmistress, trying not to notice the tape measuring the length of your eyelashes. Seven years of education, compressed down to three? Is she crazy? Well, you are rather clever, but even you have limits.
But then again, you begin to reconsider as the tape tilts your head up and to the side. Education starts at Hogwarts at age eleven, correct? You're eighteen, far older and more capable. That should increase your learning rate if you-
"Mary dear, can you please stop ogling Mr Bell and start bringing out his robes? Three is more than enough times to measure someone's face." The Headmistress' sharp voice cuts through your thoughts.
There is a short 'eep' and then the girl who had been directing the tape measure with her wand darts into the back room, letting the tape fall forlornly onto the floor. You let your outstretched arms fall back down and turn to look at the Headmistress.
"My apologies for that Mr Bell. I was hoping for a bit more professionalism, but it seems Madame Malkin is on sabbatical today, and her daughter isn't made of the same stern stuff she is."
You nod, still confused. Who's Malkin?
"Although I must ask you to be more discrete with the circumstances surrounding your admission into Hogwarts. For your own good, you understand. Many people will not take kindly to someone as old as you being granted a wand and being given free reign to practice magic. It may make things a wee bit troublesome." There is no change in her voice, no implicit threat or warning you can detect. Nevertheless, you still shiver.
Mary rushes in from the backroom, red in the face and probably not just from the running. She quickly gives you a small bag containing the "Self-Repairing" Robe the Headmistress had picked out for you- a plain, black attire that looks more functional than decorative. You duck into a changing room to switch out of your regular clothes and into the actual robe. The feeling is almost identical to how it felt this morning, when the Headmistress altered your clothes
"I can pay for myself." You say, more a question than a statement, as the Headmistress drops a Galleon onto the counter and bids Mary goodbye. You both step out the store, letting the heat wash over you. She looks unfazed, while you can already feel the sweat sprouting out of your skin.
"You are." She responds simply. "All of this is being financed by a fund that was set up in your name a few weeks ago. It's not much, but it should be enough to get you started. It's already paid for your tuition and all your books, and there's still enough left over for a wand. The last bit is going into your vault, so as to begin collecting interest."
You nod distractedly for a moment, trying to process this, when something she just said clicks.
"Wand?"
***
You try not to act conspicuous as you wait at the entrance to the shop. Ollivanders, a wand shop that somehow has been in business longer than empires, is completely empty. Of people. There are stacks of boxes littering the shop that you can see, however.
The Headmistress had declined to see you within, unlike the last two times, saying something about some "interesting situations occurring". That this had occurred after a paper airplane had flown upto her and unfolded to become a letter did nothing to decrease the suddenness of her departure, nor assuage your nerves.
"Mr Bell, I presume?" A dry, crackling voice arose from within the depths of the shop. It spoke volumes about the number of surprises the day had brought that you barely reacted. "I was told you would be coming today. It is strange, I admit, your...circumstances."
The voice resolves into a hunched old man, white hair sticking out of him like he had just been shocked. He was wearing a dusty and disheveled brown robe, and his eyes were a cold, clear blue.
"I'm afraid you have my at a disadvantage, Mr...?" You say, trying not to feel intimidated. The store was rather creepy, shelves filled with dusty boxes covering every wall and blocking the windows. There had to be some magic involved, to make an atmosphere so chilly and dark in the middle of the day.
"Ollivander. Garrick Ollivander, wandmaker and proprietor of this ancient shop." The man seemed to almost glide towards you, unnoticed of the tripping hazard the pile of boxes around him created. "Like many before you, you have come to claim one of the most potent magical instruments for yourself, no?"
"Ah yes." You shift uncomfortably for a moment. "Bit late to start for me now, I know, but-"
"Mr Bell." The bone-dry voice stops you cold. "I am aware of your tardiness. And the reason behind it, the regrettable damage to Hogwarts' Nativity Record. Such as marvelous artifact it is. But, you do not need to pretend otherwise."
"Oh. I see." You say, relaxing by inches.
"Yes, truthfully it would be hard to conceal such a deception from me while trying to enlist my efforts to procure a wand for you. As you are well aware, wands are given to a wizard or witch when they're first eleven; when they're mind and personalities are still forming. It allows the wand to imprint on them easier, see? Now, hold out your wand hand."
You raise your right hand uncertainly. A much older and worn tape measure sets to work wrapping itself around your arm. Ollivander hums and clicks his teeth speculatively, watching it critically. "Acting as a foreigner is well and good, Mr Bell, but foreigners have no use for wands; it is a strictly European tool."
"Really?" You ask, interested. "What do they use then?"
"Substandard tools." The wandmaker says, derision dripping off his voice. "Fools brandishing instruments and foci that are better suited to a Vanishing pit than for any serious magic. I would not worry about it, Mr Bell. A wand is what a wizard needs, not trinkets. That's enough now."
He gestures empty handed at the tape and it rolls itself up neatly and slots itself into a corner.
"Now then, Mr Bell. Let's begin today's task, shall we?" Ollivander rubs his hands together, a curious gleam rising in his eyes.
"Well, alright." You say, still on your guard. "What are my options?"
Choose a Wandcore and a Wandwood:
[] Phoneix TailFeather: Stability
[] Unicorn Manehair: Complexity
[] Dragon Heartst-
"Oh, no no no, Mr Bell. That isn't how this works." He sighs. "The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around! Come, let's start large."
With that, he swipes one of the boxes laying at his fight and hands you a wand from within.
"Cherry, Dragon heartstring. 12 inches. Just hold it carefully."
The pink wand is in your hand for a brief second before Ollivander grabs it away quickly.
"Hm. How about a Chestnut, 10 inches and a Phoneix tailfeather? For those with a gift with the living."
Again, the wand is in your hands just long enough for you to get a feel for the wood before it's taken away.
"Difficult. This is going to be very difficult. Dogwood, perhaps? 11 inches and a Unicorn manehair?"
This time, the moment the wand touches your hand, it shoots off like a rocket deeper into the store.
"Hah!" Ollivander chuckled. "I can tell this is going to be exciting."
The Headmistress had declined to see you within, unlike the last two times, saying something about some "interesting situations occurring". That this had occurred after a paper airplane had flown upto her and unfolded to become a letter did nothing to decrease the suddenness of her departure, nor assuage your nerves.
"Mr Bell, I presume?" A dry, crackling voice arose from within the depths of the shop. It spoke volumes about the number of surprises the day had brought that you barely reacted. "I was told you would be coming today. It is strange, I admit, your...circumstances."
The voice resolves into a hunched old man, white hair sticking out of him like he had just been shocked. He was wearing a dusty and disheveled brown robe, and his eyes were a cold, clear blue.
"I'm afraid you have my at a disadvantage, Mr...?" You say, trying not to feel intimidated. The store was rather creepy, shelves filled with dusty boxes covering every wall and blocking the windows. There had to be some magic involved, to make an atmosphere so chilly and dark in the middle of the day.
"Ollivander. Garrick Ollivander, wandmaker and proprietor of this ancient shop." The man seemed to almost glide towards you, unnoticed of the tripping hazard the pile of boxes around him created. "Like many before you, you have come to claim one of the most potent magical instruments for yourself, no?"
"Ah yes." You shift uncomfortably for a moment. "Bit late to start for me now, I know, but-"
"Mr Bell." The bone-dry voice stops you cold. "I am aware of your tardiness. And the reason behind it, the regrettable damage to Hogwarts' Nativity Record. Such as marvelous artifact it is. But, you do not need to pretend otherwise."
"Oh. I see." You say, relaxing by inches.
"Yes, truthfully it would be hard to conceal such a deception from me while trying to enlist my efforts to procure a wand for you. As you are well aware, wands are given to a wizard or witch when they're first eleven; when they're mind and personalities are still forming. It allows the wand to imprint on them easier, see? Now, hold out your wand hand."
You raise your right hand uncertainly. A much older and worn tape measure sets to work wrapping itself around your arm. Ollivander hums and clicks his teeth speculatively, watching it critically. "Acting as a foreigner is well and good, Mr Bell, but foreigners have no use for wands; it is a strictly European tool."
"Really?" You ask, interested. "What do they use then?"
"Substandard tools." The wandmaker says, derision dripping off his voice. "Fools brandishing instruments and foci that are better suited to a Vanishing pit than for any serious magic. I would not worry about it, Mr Bell. A wand is what a wizard needs, not trinkets. That's enough now."
He gestures empty handed at the tape and it rolls itself up neatly and slots itself into a corner.
"Now then, Mr Bell. Let's begin today's task, shall we?" Ollivander rubs his hands together, a curious gleam rising in his eyes.
"Well, alright." You say, still on your guard. "What are my options?"
Choose a Wandcore and a Wandwood:
[] Phoneix TailFeather: Stability
[] Unicorn Manehair: Complexity
[] Dragon Heartst-
"Oh, no no no, Mr Bell. That isn't how this works." He sighs. "The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around! Come, let's start large."
With that, he swipes one of the boxes laying at his fight and hands you a wand from within.
"Cherry, Dragon heartstring. 12 inches. Just hold it carefully."
The pink wand is in your hand for a brief second before Ollivander grabs it away quickly.
"Hm. How about a Chestnut, 10 inches and a Phoneix tailfeather? For those with a gift with the living."
Again, the wand is in your hands just long enough for you to get a feel for the wood before it's taken away.
"Difficult. This is going to be very difficult. Dogwood, perhaps? 11 inches and a Unicorn manehair?"
This time, the moment the wand touches your hand, it shoots off like a rocket deeper into the store.
"Hah!" Ollivander chuckled. "I can tell this is going to be exciting."
***
"The problem, Mr Bell, is that you're too old." The venerable wandmaker's voice comes from deeper in the store, where he had gone to pick out some more stock. "Your sense of self is largely set already. Newly made wands will dislike that, we need something made of sterner stuff."
"You speak as if the wand has a mind of it's own." You call, lounging against a shelf. "As if it's more of a pet than a tool."
"Exactly!" The cry came. "A wand and it's wizard grow together, they influence each other! A bond tighter than family, closer than friendship! But no wand will be able to influence you, Mr Bell. Instead, it will be the one influenced, molded by you. It is a one way street, one which very few wands will wish to cross-aha!"
The wandmaker came hurrying back to the front of the store, carrying a single box. You had been expecting, like the last few times, half a dozen, not one.
"Is this it?" You ask, cautiously. Your feet are starting to hurt.
"Perhaps." Ollivander whispers. "Here, give it a flick."
He gives you the wand. Compared to previous wands you've tried, this one looks more subdued. It doesn't have a grip, or a handle or any other extra features. It is simply a smooth, brown, tapering stick.
You take a deep breathe, and then carefully flick the wand, like you've done so many times before with no effect.
Lighting crackles.
Streams of electricity twirl out of the wand's tip, lazily twisting in the air like snakes. The effect grows, the streams interlocking and moving in complex, fractal patterns that mesmerize you, even as they burn your retinas. You watch, entranced, as they move, dance, and fade away.
You look at Ollivander, trying to blink away the spots in your vision. He smiles.
"I believe we've found your wand, Mr Bell. Acacia, 11 inches and a Unicorn Manehair. A peculiar combination, I must say."
"Peculiar?" You question.
"Acacia is a wood that is subtle, hides it's true nature. It dislikes extravagant, flashy magic and prefers the complex, abstract arts. Acacia does not concern itself with who it's wielder is, rather in what they can do. Coupled with a manehair from a unicorn? Well, that's a peculiar wand for peculiar wizards, a combination which I sell rarely. A wand that is suitable for, no demands the most complex of magic from it's wielder, even if the magic is Dark."
"Dark?"
"Dark Magic. Evil. Vile. Tell me Mr Bell, you are aware of the circumstances surrounding your birth?"
You nod slowly. "There was a crisis at Hogwarts, and the Nativity Record turned off-I mean went dark, wait no-"
"I understand what you mean. The Record went to sleep and you were born during that time. A most unfortunate coincidence, no? But look at the greater picture, Ashton Bell. Do you know what happened that night, to shake Hogwarts so?"
You stare. "...No."
And so he tells you. He speaks to you of a battle, a Siege. A devastating conflict that tore at the lives of an entire generation of the magical community. Where the entire faculty of a school took up arms against a Dark Lord and his forces. The Dark Lord, Voldemort.
You sit down on a chair. "I...I thought it was an earthquake or...something that would have jostled the foundations, not-" You shake your head.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Ollivander smile is wide. "Because I find it interesting that, Mr Bell, that you have been chosen by a wand that may one day be capable of performing magic of a similar caliber."
"You speak as if the wand has a mind of it's own." You call, lounging against a shelf. "As if it's more of a pet than a tool."
"Exactly!" The cry came. "A wand and it's wizard grow together, they influence each other! A bond tighter than family, closer than friendship! But no wand will be able to influence you, Mr Bell. Instead, it will be the one influenced, molded by you. It is a one way street, one which very few wands will wish to cross-aha!"
The wandmaker came hurrying back to the front of the store, carrying a single box. You had been expecting, like the last few times, half a dozen, not one.
"Is this it?" You ask, cautiously. Your feet are starting to hurt.
"Perhaps." Ollivander whispers. "Here, give it a flick."
He gives you the wand. Compared to previous wands you've tried, this one looks more subdued. It doesn't have a grip, or a handle or any other extra features. It is simply a smooth, brown, tapering stick.
You take a deep breathe, and then carefully flick the wand, like you've done so many times before with no effect.
Lighting crackles.
Streams of electricity twirl out of the wand's tip, lazily twisting in the air like snakes. The effect grows, the streams interlocking and moving in complex, fractal patterns that mesmerize you, even as they burn your retinas. You watch, entranced, as they move, dance, and fade away.
You look at Ollivander, trying to blink away the spots in your vision. He smiles.
"I believe we've found your wand, Mr Bell. Acacia, 11 inches and a Unicorn Manehair. A peculiar combination, I must say."
"Peculiar?" You question.
"Acacia is a wood that is subtle, hides it's true nature. It dislikes extravagant, flashy magic and prefers the complex, abstract arts. Acacia does not concern itself with who it's wielder is, rather in what they can do. Coupled with a manehair from a unicorn? Well, that's a peculiar wand for peculiar wizards, a combination which I sell rarely. A wand that is suitable for, no demands the most complex of magic from it's wielder, even if the magic is Dark."
"Dark?"
"Dark Magic. Evil. Vile. Tell me Mr Bell, you are aware of the circumstances surrounding your birth?"
You nod slowly. "There was a crisis at Hogwarts, and the Nativity Record turned off-I mean went dark, wait no-"
"I understand what you mean. The Record went to sleep and you were born during that time. A most unfortunate coincidence, no? But look at the greater picture, Ashton Bell. Do you know what happened that night, to shake Hogwarts so?"
You stare. "...No."
And so he tells you. He speaks to you of a battle, a Siege. A devastating conflict that tore at the lives of an entire generation of the magical community. Where the entire faculty of a school took up arms against a Dark Lord and his forces. The Dark Lord, Voldemort.
You sit down on a chair. "I...I thought it was an earthquake or...something that would have jostled the foundations, not-" You shake your head.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Ollivander smile is wide. "Because I find it interesting that, Mr Bell, that you have been chosen by a wand that may one day be capable of performing magic of a similar caliber."
***
You are subdued outside the store, cradling your new wand carefully. The feel of the wood on your skin is electrifying, as if some dormant part of you is being defibrillated. Perhaps it is, you muse thoughtfully, tracing the smooth varnish on the wand. I haven't used magic for seven years-
You spot the Headmistress waving at you from a nearby bench, the one the twin witches were sitting. You walk over to her, feeling troubled.
"Ice cream?" She holds out a cone to you, the cream staying fresh despite the heat. "It will cool you down, Mr Bell. How is the new wand?"
You accept it wordlessly, sitting down next to her and resting your feet. The cream is delicious after the long day. "Acacia and unicorn manehair."
"Hm," The Headmistress licks her own cone thoughtfully. "I prefer Dragon heartstring. The potency, you understand, although that may just be bias talking. And Acacia is a solid wood, good for Transfiguration."
She finishes her cone quickly, letting the wrapping vanish into thin air. "I do believe we are done the most important errands today, Mr Bell, and we still have some of your money left over. Would you care to buy something extra from any of the open shops?"
You look at her for a moment. "Ashton. Call me Ashton."
She snorts. "Young man, if this is some ill-guided attempt to worm your way into my good graces, then you are sorely mistaken. I will address you as I will. You will address me as Professor."
You chuckle quietly. What Ollivander had said changed your view. Made you look at things differently. The mistrust you harbored towards the Headmistress was still there, but you didn't feel quite so bitter now. You were willing to make some allowances. Accept that it may have been an honest mistake.
Doesn't mean you're not going to drain Hogwarts of every little speck of magic you can learn.
"Well, I have some ideas on what to buy."
Available Budget: 5 Galleons (Unspent will be placed in Vault)
Note: Buying the academic items ahead of time will allow you a headstart on that subject, but without the supervision of a trained professional. Also note that some of these items you may not even need, given Oxford's facilities.
[Knockturn Alley Locked]
[Low Funds Lock]
[Bad Timing Lock]
[Bad Timing Price Increase]
[Currency Breakdown]
1 Galleon = 17 SicklesYou spot the Headmistress waving at you from a nearby bench, the one the twin witches were sitting. You walk over to her, feeling troubled.
"Ice cream?" She holds out a cone to you, the cream staying fresh despite the heat. "It will cool you down, Mr Bell. How is the new wand?"
You accept it wordlessly, sitting down next to her and resting your feet. The cream is delicious after the long day. "Acacia and unicorn manehair."
"Hm," The Headmistress licks her own cone thoughtfully. "I prefer Dragon heartstring. The potency, you understand, although that may just be bias talking. And Acacia is a solid wood, good for Transfiguration."
She finishes her cone quickly, letting the wrapping vanish into thin air. "I do believe we are done the most important errands today, Mr Bell, and we still have some of your money left over. Would you care to buy something extra from any of the open shops?"
You look at her for a moment. "Ashton. Call me Ashton."
She snorts. "Young man, if this is some ill-guided attempt to worm your way into my good graces, then you are sorely mistaken. I will address you as I will. You will address me as Professor."
You chuckle quietly. What Ollivander had said changed your view. Made you look at things differently. The mistrust you harbored towards the Headmistress was still there, but you didn't feel quite so bitter now. You were willing to make some allowances. Accept that it may have been an honest mistake.
Doesn't mean you're not going to drain Hogwarts of every little speck of magic you can learn.
"Well, I have some ideas on what to buy."
Available Budget: 5 Galleons (Unspent will be placed in Vault)
Note: Buying the academic items ahead of time will allow you a headstart on that subject, but without the supervision of a trained professional. Also note that some of these items you may not even need, given Oxford's facilities.
[Knockturn Alley Locked]
[Low Funds Lock]
[Bad Timing Lock]
[Bad Timing Price Increase]
[Currency Breakdown]
1 Sickle = 30 Knuts
1 Galleon = 510 Knuts
37.99 £/G; 2.23 £/S; 0.07 £/K
Choose:
[] Basic Potion Ingredients Kit (1 Galleons)
A large parcel of common potion ingredients, useful for the novice to the enthusiast. Gives the ability to brew potions up toa Third Year Hogwarts student.
-[] Subscription (15 S/month)
Owl-Delivered parcels that arrive at the beginning of each moon. Smaller than the Potion kit, but consistent deliveries.
-[] Bulk Purchase (4 Galleons, 10 Sickles)
For the entrepreneur, a 5X parcel deal!
[] Wand Holster (1 Galleon)
A wrist equipped mount, this allows the prepared witch or wizard to carry their wands with them at all times!
-[] Wrist Support (+5 Sickles)
Grants steadier and smoother spellcasting over those without.
-[] Quick Draw (+2 Galleons)
Some say this is a frivolous addition. That the ability to have one's wand shoot out from the holster and into one's palm with a flick and return with a similar gesture is useless and downright dangerous. They are fools. FOOLS.
-[] Invisibility Enchantment (+4 Galleons)
Not true invisibility, perhaps, but this Disillusionment Enchantment grants the holster the ability to blend in with the wearer's skin, hiding both itself and the wand. Warning: Magic only works when the wand is holstered. Not recommended for children.
[] Wardrobe Upgrade (Upgrade Robe)
-[] Form Fitting (1 Galleon)
Your robe will always change itself so it is worn comfortably and attractively, no matter your bodyshape.
-[] Self-Cleaning (1 Galleon)
You can actually skip baths while wearing this. Doesn't mean you should.
-[] Self-Ironing (1 Galleon)
Your robe always looks fresh and crisp. No post-ironing coziness though.
-[] Color-Changing (10 Sickles)
Your robe can shift through a variety of different colors based on preset triggers. Warning: More colors and complex triggers will cause a faster decay in the enchantment.
-[] Morphing (3 Galleons)
Your robe can change it's shape into a different attire entirely. Due to it's complexity, each "morph" requires a separate purchase, upto a maximum of four. Useful for Muggleborns or Aurors.
-[] Extra Sets (Base Cost: 1 Galleon)
More robes, yo. These ones come with Self-Repair like your current one, but you can remove that for a 7 Sickle price reduction.
[] Cauldron (2 Galleon)
-[] Size Upgrade (10 Sickles)
Upgrade your cauldron from a size 2 to a size 3, allowing for larger batch brewing.
-[] Collapsible (12 Sickles)
Your Cauldron collapses down into flat circle. Great for transport, but weakens the cauldron's structure.
-[] Self-Cleaning (15 Sickles)
Tap your wand on the lip deliberately and the contents will vanish automatically!
-[] Self-Stirring (1 Galleon)
Your Cauldron will now accept orders, on the rate and directions the liquid is to swirl at.
-[] Self-Heating (1 Galleon)
A little knob on one of the legs allows you to do away with dangerous fires.
-[] Quality Upgrade (2 Galleons)
Your Cauldron is now made of better materials, meaning less chance of leakage, breakage and gives the option to work with more dangerous materials.
[] Telescope (1 Galleon)
-[] Collapsible (5 Sickles)
Your telescope can now fit into your luggage case comfortably.
-[] Handhold (10 Sickles)
You no longer need a stand to view the night skies. Comes with an Aim Steadier, and if taken with Collapsible, will fit into your pocket.
-[] Clear Skies Enchantment (2 Galleons)
Clouds? What Clouds?
-[] Nighttime Enchantment (2 Galleons)
What do you mean I can't stargaze during the day?
-[] Enhanced Zooming (3 Galleons)
You can now see the moons of Mars from Earth!
[] Pet -LOCKED-
-You don't think your building allows pets...
1 Galleon = 510 Knuts
37.99 £/G; 2.23 £/S; 0.07 £/K
Choose:
[] Basic Potion Ingredients Kit (1 Galleons)
A large parcel of common potion ingredients, useful for the novice to the enthusiast. Gives the ability to brew potions up toa Third Year Hogwarts student.
-[] Subscription (15 S/month)
Owl-Delivered parcels that arrive at the beginning of each moon. Smaller than the Potion kit, but consistent deliveries.
-[] Bulk Purchase (4 Galleons, 10 Sickles)
For the entrepreneur, a 5X parcel deal!
[] Wand Holster (1 Galleon)
A wrist equipped mount, this allows the prepared witch or wizard to carry their wands with them at all times!
-[] Wrist Support (+5 Sickles)
Grants steadier and smoother spellcasting over those without.
-[] Quick Draw (+2 Galleons)
Some say this is a frivolous addition. That the ability to have one's wand shoot out from the holster and into one's palm with a flick and return with a similar gesture is useless and downright dangerous. They are fools. FOOLS.
-[] Invisibility Enchantment (+4 Galleons)
Not true invisibility, perhaps, but this Disillusionment Enchantment grants the holster the ability to blend in with the wearer's skin, hiding both itself and the wand. Warning: Magic only works when the wand is holstered. Not recommended for children.
[] Wardrobe Upgrade (Upgrade Robe)
-[] Form Fitting (1 Galleon)
Your robe will always change itself so it is worn comfortably and attractively, no matter your bodyshape.
-[] Self-Cleaning (1 Galleon)
You can actually skip baths while wearing this. Doesn't mean you should.
-[] Self-Ironing (1 Galleon)
Your robe always looks fresh and crisp. No post-ironing coziness though.
-[] Color-Changing (10 Sickles)
Your robe can shift through a variety of different colors based on preset triggers. Warning: More colors and complex triggers will cause a faster decay in the enchantment.
-[] Morphing (3 Galleons)
Your robe can change it's shape into a different attire entirely. Due to it's complexity, each "morph" requires a separate purchase, upto a maximum of four. Useful for Muggleborns or Aurors.
-[] Extra Sets (Base Cost: 1 Galleon)
More robes, yo. These ones come with Self-Repair like your current one, but you can remove that for a 7 Sickle price reduction.
[] Cauldron (2 Galleon)
-[] Size Upgrade (10 Sickles)
Upgrade your cauldron from a size 2 to a size 3, allowing for larger batch brewing.
-[] Collapsible (12 Sickles)
Your Cauldron collapses down into flat circle. Great for transport, but weakens the cauldron's structure.
-[] Self-Cleaning (15 Sickles)
Tap your wand on the lip deliberately and the contents will vanish automatically!
-[] Self-Stirring (1 Galleon)
Your Cauldron will now accept orders, on the rate and directions the liquid is to swirl at.
-[] Self-Heating (1 Galleon)
A little knob on one of the legs allows you to do away with dangerous fires.
-[] Quality Upgrade (2 Galleons)
Your Cauldron is now made of better materials, meaning less chance of leakage, breakage and gives the option to work with more dangerous materials.
[] Telescope (1 Galleon)
-[] Collapsible (5 Sickles)
Your telescope can now fit into your luggage case comfortably.
-[] Handhold (10 Sickles)
You no longer need a stand to view the night skies. Comes with an Aim Steadier, and if taken with Collapsible, will fit into your pocket.
-[] Clear Skies Enchantment (2 Galleons)
Clouds? What Clouds?
-[] Nighttime Enchantment (2 Galleons)
What do you mean I can't stargaze during the day?
-[] Enhanced Zooming (3 Galleons)
You can now see the moons of Mars from Earth!
[] Pet -LOCKED-
-You don't think your building allows pets...
Last edited:
Interlude: Grey Manes
- Location
- Canada
"Scandalous Sojourns! Headmistress caught in Salacious Rendezvous with Mysterious Stranger! Full details on page 17!"
McGonagall looked annoyed. "Page 17? Really? That's it?"
The woman sitting opposite her stifled a chuckle and flipped the pages to continue reading.
"In what appears to be a shocking turn of events, the esteemed Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was seen yesterday in Diagon Alley, consorting with a tall, handsome wizard as they traversed the solitary streets! Who, or more sinisterly, what is this mysterious figure who seems to enjoy a close relationship with the Headmistress of the school of our children? Our reporters indicate that-"
"It seems a bit out of order," McGonagall interrupted, looking pensive. "I feel a scandal involving a major educational figure would at least merit a front page paragraph."
"The Weekend Watchtower is not the most esteemed of newspapers, Professor. Their priorities differ." The woman put the newspaper down flat on her desk. There was a small picture of McGonagall and the "handsome stranger" near the top of the page, the figures in it looking furtive and shameful. "But the matter is, you were spotted and there will be questions. Nothing serious, but I must warn you that not hitting the right mix of contempt and annoyance will only draw more."
"Mrs. Granger, I fear you've forgotten the days when you were my student." Said McGonagall, a hint of the old sternness coming through.
The current Minister of Magic gave a wry smile at that, before smoothing her features again. "How was he?"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Ashton? Mrs Granger, don't tell you actually believe these insinuations-"
"Professor."
A tired sign. "Would you happen have anything to wet an old woman's throat?"
Hermione made no movement, but suddenly a tray appeared in mid-air, positioned between the two women, laden with beverages and cups. McGonagall nodded in thanks and poured herself a glass of Gillywater.
A few minutes passed as the Professor sipped her drink.
"Distant. He's clever, anyone can see that, but he holds himself away from others. Like there's an invisible line he does not wish to cross. I do not know if he's always like this, that his aloofness is part of his personality or if he does not trust me, does not trust the Magical world yet."
"That tells me nothing." Hermione frowned.
McGonagall shrugged. "It's because I have nothing. If you want a breakdown on his character, I would have just put the Sorting Hat on his head and be done with it."
"That would have upset matters. Bell cannot be sorted." Hermione said.
"I know, I know." McGonagall waved away the warning. "An idle hope. Hogwarts is meant to be a home, and I hoped we could have provided some semblance of the fact."
"That aside," Hermione's voice was firm. "Were there any warning bells? Anything that would require attention?"
"No. Aside from the distance, Ashton is polite and well-mannered. He follows the rules, can act independently and has enough curiosity for a Ravenclaw. I can see no issues arising between him and my staff." McGonagall took another sip from her glass.
Hermione breathed. "That's some relief."
She got up from the plain looking chair and took a glass of Firewhiskey from the tray, heading to the window. The room they were in was not the official meeting room of the minister, all polished bronze and tasteful paintings. This was the room were actual work got done, not just simple diplomacy. Spartan, it had no decorations and furniture only when it was needed. A single window hung behind the simple desk (when there was one), enchanted to look out onto whatever vistas the Minister wished to see.
At the moment, it looked onto a sun-drenched plain of spreading wheat, with a storm on the horizon.
"It's been five years, hasn't it?" Hermione's voice was soft. "Time is so fleeting, it feels like we were having arguments over this boy just yesterday."
McGonagall took another swig. "That sounds like regret, Mrs Granger."
"Not regret. Just melancholy. Our part is done; now everything rests on Bell's shoulders."
"Ashton." McGonagall said quietly, too soft to be heard. Hermione looked at her questioningly, but the Headmistress shook her head. "Forgive me, my old feet are dragging."
"Professor, you can't-" Hermione began, concerned.
"No dear, I understand how important this is. You wouldn't have my support otherwise. I'm just tired. I'm not made for all this scheming. I'm a teacher, not a politician." McGonagall poured another shot of Gillywater into her now empty cup. "Doubts grow like weed in minds like mine."
"If it will make you feel any better," Hermione took her again, facing Mcgonagall. "What's done is done. The charade has been pulled off, the dice has been thrown. You don't need to lie anymore."
A moment passed in silence, as both women contemplated their drinks. McGonagall was the first to speak.
"The Head of a House feels little pride when a student is Sorted into their house. We have no knowledge of what they are capable of, how they will benefit our House. It is almost like opening a present, discovering what kind of people they are, and finding ways to help them grow."
Hermione put down her drink. McGonagall didn't notice, too absorbed in her glass and the past.
"When you started winning all those points, Mrs Granger, I was so proud. It is rare for a Gryffindor to earn House points in classrooms. We tend to earn them on the field and in meetings with the Head of House, after doing brave, reckless things. And then there you were, earning point after point, triumphing over even Ravenclaws. I must admit, I teased poor Filius greatly over that." McGonagall smiled wryly.
"I just never thought, never considered, that despite all your brilliance, your cleverness and love of learning. That despite all that, you were Sorted into Gryffindor."
Hermione took a deep breath. "Are you regretting the choice now?"
McGonagall looked up, shocked. "Good heavens, no! Don't you ever think that, Mrs Granger!"
Hermione took up her drink again. "Very well. Then, what was the point behind your reminiscence?"
"It just seemed to me that only a Gryffindor would be brave enough to think of a plan like this."McGonagall said, leaning back in her chair.
"As cold as it sounds, five years of a boy's life is a small sacrifice to pay for what Magical Britian may gain." Hermioned frowned. "It doesn't mean I have to like it."
McGonagall nodded quietly. "Three years, is it? Three years, and if he hasn't graduated, then the whole thing collapses?"
"Not so much collapses as vanishes. Lies became the truth, you and I pretend this never happened and I find my work increased tenfold." Hermione signed. "But yes. If all goes well, Bell won't even need to see me. He can complete his education without being none the wiser, about what's going on behind the curtain or that we knew of him when he was thirteen. From now on, we're hands off."
McGonagall looked at Hermione, at the woman that once been the eager, bright little girl all those years ago. She felt anachronistic. "Just so we're clear, Hogwarts will always have a place for Ashton, even if it takes him ten years to finish his education."
Hermione smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
McGonagall put down her drink with a clink on the desk and straightened herself. "Now then. You can't have called me on such short notice just for him. Something else is going on."
Hermione straightened herself as well. Gone was the woman who was having drinks with an old mentor, and it was not replaced by the smiling, friendly Minister mask she wore in public. This expression was hardened, haunted, a remnant of the Second Wizarding War.
"Tang is sending out another expedition into the Dreamtime."
McGonagall's fingers whitened on her glass. "Have they gone mad? What about Ashoka? Rus'? How are they reacting? The ICW? Will Europe-"
"Most of Europe wants to erect the strongest Continental Shield Charm we can cast and hope that whatever happens, it will only affect the East. Some are even hoping this will knock the Tang off their pedestals." Hermione's voice was grim.
"Fools." McGonagall whispered. "How long do we have?"
"I don't know. My sources say they'll be breaching the first Songline within a month but beyond that? Well, you know how time works there. They could have reached the fifth Songline, if there is a fifth, and we won't know about it until months or years later." Hermione took a deep breath.
"I take it the only thing we can do for now is organize?" Asked McGonagall cautiously.
"There is a list of people I need contacting, but not yet There are still a few key pieces of intel we need before we can start moving." Hermione smiled. "It's Sunday evening, Professor. It's not a time for working. Ron's even having a little get together. I suggest you follow suit and try to get some rest. You're going to need it."
Annabelle slammed down her tankard a scant few seconds before her sister. "Hah! I still got it!"
Amelie glared at her, her eyes unfocused down to the alcohol. "Yeah, well I'm an Auror! Who's the loser now!"
"Ames, you it's been a month since you got your Auror certs, you can't keep bragging about it." Annabelle responded, gesturing to the bartender for another round. "Seriously, everyone stopped caring after a week."
"I care!" cried Amelie. She began sobbing into her empty tankard. The bartender gave one look, and handed only Annabelle a new drink. "I care so much!"
"Alright, there there." Amelie rubbed her sister's back. She was the older, by a year, and she was always better at holding her liquor. This wasn't a new phenomenon for her. "You're a good Auror, yes you are. And good Aurors don't cry, do they?"
"Yes they do." moaned Amelie. "It's very important for our psy-psych-psychosis! Harry Potter even says so!"
"Really?" said Annabelle, amused. Everyone who knew Amelie was aware of the young girl's hero worship of her mentor. "And what else does the great Harry Potter say?"
"He's not here, silly." Her sister giggled and then hiccuped. "I asked if he had wanted to come, but he said no...said he had to finish some work on the Nadir case...and then go to a dinner party..."
Amelie trailed off morose, and then slowly started to list to the side. "Stupid Nadir and stupid parties..."
Annabelle made sure the Privacy Charm was up around her and her sister before continuing. It probably wasn't anything important, but being a Herbologist taught her to always be careful. "Nadir? Isn't that the burglar you ran into a few weeks back? The one the Aurors have never laid eyes on? You still searching for her?"
"Noooppe." grinned Amelie proudly. "Me and Harry Potter laid eyes on her. Almost caught her *hic* too, but she got away at the last *hic*..."
She hiccuped again. "Stupid."
"Huh." Annabelle murmured, glad she had put up the Privacy charm now. "That wasn't in the papers. I thought you had missed her by seconds."
"We diiid-" This time, it was more a blech than a hiccup. "Shot a few spells ba-back and forth, but they all missed, and then, and then she was gone."
She spread her hands slowly, as to emphasize exactly how the thief had vanished.
"Really?" Annabelle said, amused. "A simple thief managed to flee from both Harry Potter and his plucky protegee?"
Amelie pouted, and then her eyes started to droop dangerously. Her sister never really got the hang of drinking.
"Alright, we're done here. Let's get you home." Annabelle dropped a few Sickles onto the countertop and heaved her sister up onto her shoulder. The bar was just beginning to get lively, a dozen people were in and more were trickling through by the minute. But her sister was having a rough week and she needed to get her home. Perhaps she could come back later, after she had tucked Amelie in.
Annabelle grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder, whispered the name of Amelie's house into it and threw it into the bar's fireplace. Grunting a bit, she used a bit of magic to help shift her sister's rapidly comatose form into the green flames.
Amelie woke up again as they exited the warmth of the flames, and blinked bleary eyes as her lamps came on. "Whazza?"
"It's your home, Ames. Please try and remember, otherwise I'll be arrested for kidnapping an Auror." She took out her wand and used it to open the door to her sister's bedroom. "Now, I'm going to lock things up and leave you a note, so don't freak out on me tomorrow OK?"
Her sister gurgled, and then vomited.
Annabelle rolled her eyes and set to work Vanishing the vomit. Internally, she was still mulling over what Amelie had let slip earlier. It was...weird really. Maybe it was one of those super secret Auror rules? Not informing the press when their Head was outsmarted by a lowly thief? Whatever, not her business. As long as Amelie was always there for an evening of drinking, Annabelle tried not to get too involved in her sister's field of work, or her famous mentor.
It took a few more seconds to clean everything up and then tuck Amelie in, and casting a few quick charms on herself to freshen up, before she felt ready to head back to the bar. Who knows, she may even get lucky and find someone nice to spend the night with.
Of course, that was when her sister just had to start prophesying.
"It has come," The voice that issued from her sister's mouth was both intimately familiar and terrifyingly alien. "It will come. It has passed. The lightning will regain it's promise before the world has returned here twice, for it is not the-the-the-"
Amelie's eyes suddenly rolled into the back of her head and a keening sound came out of her mouth, before they snapped shut. And then, painfully slow, her eyes opened to look up at Annabelle's worried face.
"Ann? Wha-? Am I back home? What happened?" Amelie's voice was normal, holding none of the eerie acoustics her "Seer" voice had. "Did you drag me from the bar? Merlin, Ann, you know you can just cast a spell to get rid of-"
"Ames." Annabelle interrupted. "You had a vision. It looked big. And then you were interrupted."
Amelie looked up at her sister. "Fuck."
Annabelle nodded solemnly and went to grab some water and parchment. This was looking to be a long night, and not in the way she had planned.
GM: Ok, first month planning coming up next. I'll need to finalize your character sheet before then, the budget and time allotment is being finicky.
The big thing you should take away from this update is that your Insightful trait isn't omnipotent; there are still things that you may miss or falsely attribute due to you not knowing the person well enough. That, and Ron's driving test is coming up. Shit's intense.
Oh, and a bit of a teaser, but I was doing some background rolls for Ashton last update and rolled for Attractiveness on a flat d100. You critted. Twice. Unfortunately, Ashton is the type that dislikes attention so he isn't that aware of it, but whenever he decides to doll himself up (like for the last update), he literally turns heads.
McGonagall looked annoyed. "Page 17? Really? That's it?"
The woman sitting opposite her stifled a chuckle and flipped the pages to continue reading.
"In what appears to be a shocking turn of events, the esteemed Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was seen yesterday in Diagon Alley, consorting with a tall, handsome wizard as they traversed the solitary streets! Who, or more sinisterly, what is this mysterious figure who seems to enjoy a close relationship with the Headmistress of the school of our children? Our reporters indicate that-"
"It seems a bit out of order," McGonagall interrupted, looking pensive. "I feel a scandal involving a major educational figure would at least merit a front page paragraph."
"The Weekend Watchtower is not the most esteemed of newspapers, Professor. Their priorities differ." The woman put the newspaper down flat on her desk. There was a small picture of McGonagall and the "handsome stranger" near the top of the page, the figures in it looking furtive and shameful. "But the matter is, you were spotted and there will be questions. Nothing serious, but I must warn you that not hitting the right mix of contempt and annoyance will only draw more."
"Mrs. Granger, I fear you've forgotten the days when you were my student." Said McGonagall, a hint of the old sternness coming through.
The current Minister of Magic gave a wry smile at that, before smoothing her features again. "How was he?"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Ashton? Mrs Granger, don't tell you actually believe these insinuations-"
"Professor."
A tired sign. "Would you happen have anything to wet an old woman's throat?"
Hermione made no movement, but suddenly a tray appeared in mid-air, positioned between the two women, laden with beverages and cups. McGonagall nodded in thanks and poured herself a glass of Gillywater.
A few minutes passed as the Professor sipped her drink.
"Distant. He's clever, anyone can see that, but he holds himself away from others. Like there's an invisible line he does not wish to cross. I do not know if he's always like this, that his aloofness is part of his personality or if he does not trust me, does not trust the Magical world yet."
"That tells me nothing." Hermione frowned.
McGonagall shrugged. "It's because I have nothing. If you want a breakdown on his character, I would have just put the Sorting Hat on his head and be done with it."
"That would have upset matters. Bell cannot be sorted." Hermione said.
"I know, I know." McGonagall waved away the warning. "An idle hope. Hogwarts is meant to be a home, and I hoped we could have provided some semblance of the fact."
"That aside," Hermione's voice was firm. "Were there any warning bells? Anything that would require attention?"
"No. Aside from the distance, Ashton is polite and well-mannered. He follows the rules, can act independently and has enough curiosity for a Ravenclaw. I can see no issues arising between him and my staff." McGonagall took another sip from her glass.
Hermione breathed. "That's some relief."
She got up from the plain looking chair and took a glass of Firewhiskey from the tray, heading to the window. The room they were in was not the official meeting room of the minister, all polished bronze and tasteful paintings. This was the room were actual work got done, not just simple diplomacy. Spartan, it had no decorations and furniture only when it was needed. A single window hung behind the simple desk (when there was one), enchanted to look out onto whatever vistas the Minister wished to see.
At the moment, it looked onto a sun-drenched plain of spreading wheat, with a storm on the horizon.
"It's been five years, hasn't it?" Hermione's voice was soft. "Time is so fleeting, it feels like we were having arguments over this boy just yesterday."
McGonagall took another swig. "That sounds like regret, Mrs Granger."
"Not regret. Just melancholy. Our part is done; now everything rests on Bell's shoulders."
"Ashton." McGonagall said quietly, too soft to be heard. Hermione looked at her questioningly, but the Headmistress shook her head. "Forgive me, my old feet are dragging."
"Professor, you can't-" Hermione began, concerned.
"No dear, I understand how important this is. You wouldn't have my support otherwise. I'm just tired. I'm not made for all this scheming. I'm a teacher, not a politician." McGonagall poured another shot of Gillywater into her now empty cup. "Doubts grow like weed in minds like mine."
"If it will make you feel any better," Hermione took her again, facing Mcgonagall. "What's done is done. The charade has been pulled off, the dice has been thrown. You don't need to lie anymore."
A moment passed in silence, as both women contemplated their drinks. McGonagall was the first to speak.
"The Head of a House feels little pride when a student is Sorted into their house. We have no knowledge of what they are capable of, how they will benefit our House. It is almost like opening a present, discovering what kind of people they are, and finding ways to help them grow."
Hermione put down her drink. McGonagall didn't notice, too absorbed in her glass and the past.
"When you started winning all those points, Mrs Granger, I was so proud. It is rare for a Gryffindor to earn House points in classrooms. We tend to earn them on the field and in meetings with the Head of House, after doing brave, reckless things. And then there you were, earning point after point, triumphing over even Ravenclaws. I must admit, I teased poor Filius greatly over that." McGonagall smiled wryly.
"I just never thought, never considered, that despite all your brilliance, your cleverness and love of learning. That despite all that, you were Sorted into Gryffindor."
Hermione took a deep breath. "Are you regretting the choice now?"
McGonagall looked up, shocked. "Good heavens, no! Don't you ever think that, Mrs Granger!"
Hermione took up her drink again. "Very well. Then, what was the point behind your reminiscence?"
"It just seemed to me that only a Gryffindor would be brave enough to think of a plan like this."McGonagall said, leaning back in her chair.
"As cold as it sounds, five years of a boy's life is a small sacrifice to pay for what Magical Britian may gain." Hermioned frowned. "It doesn't mean I have to like it."
McGonagall nodded quietly. "Three years, is it? Three years, and if he hasn't graduated, then the whole thing collapses?"
"Not so much collapses as vanishes. Lies became the truth, you and I pretend this never happened and I find my work increased tenfold." Hermione signed. "But yes. If all goes well, Bell won't even need to see me. He can complete his education without being none the wiser, about what's going on behind the curtain or that we knew of him when he was thirteen. From now on, we're hands off."
McGonagall looked at Hermione, at the woman that once been the eager, bright little girl all those years ago. She felt anachronistic. "Just so we're clear, Hogwarts will always have a place for Ashton, even if it takes him ten years to finish his education."
Hermione smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
McGonagall put down her drink with a clink on the desk and straightened herself. "Now then. You can't have called me on such short notice just for him. Something else is going on."
Hermione straightened herself as well. Gone was the woman who was having drinks with an old mentor, and it was not replaced by the smiling, friendly Minister mask she wore in public. This expression was hardened, haunted, a remnant of the Second Wizarding War.
"Tang is sending out another expedition into the Dreamtime."
McGonagall's fingers whitened on her glass. "Have they gone mad? What about Ashoka? Rus'? How are they reacting? The ICW? Will Europe-"
"Most of Europe wants to erect the strongest Continental Shield Charm we can cast and hope that whatever happens, it will only affect the East. Some are even hoping this will knock the Tang off their pedestals." Hermione's voice was grim.
"Fools." McGonagall whispered. "How long do we have?"
"I don't know. My sources say they'll be breaching the first Songline within a month but beyond that? Well, you know how time works there. They could have reached the fifth Songline, if there is a fifth, and we won't know about it until months or years later." Hermione took a deep breath.
"I take it the only thing we can do for now is organize?" Asked McGonagall cautiously.
"There is a list of people I need contacting, but not yet There are still a few key pieces of intel we need before we can start moving." Hermione smiled. "It's Sunday evening, Professor. It's not a time for working. Ron's even having a little get together. I suggest you follow suit and try to get some rest. You're going to need it."
***
Annabelle slammed down her tankard a scant few seconds before her sister. "Hah! I still got it!"
Amelie glared at her, her eyes unfocused down to the alcohol. "Yeah, well I'm an Auror! Who's the loser now!"
"Ames, you it's been a month since you got your Auror certs, you can't keep bragging about it." Annabelle responded, gesturing to the bartender for another round. "Seriously, everyone stopped caring after a week."
"I care!" cried Amelie. She began sobbing into her empty tankard. The bartender gave one look, and handed only Annabelle a new drink. "I care so much!"
"Alright, there there." Amelie rubbed her sister's back. She was the older, by a year, and she was always better at holding her liquor. This wasn't a new phenomenon for her. "You're a good Auror, yes you are. And good Aurors don't cry, do they?"
"Yes they do." moaned Amelie. "It's very important for our psy-psych-psychosis! Harry Potter even says so!"
"Really?" said Annabelle, amused. Everyone who knew Amelie was aware of the young girl's hero worship of her mentor. "And what else does the great Harry Potter say?"
"He's not here, silly." Her sister giggled and then hiccuped. "I asked if he had wanted to come, but he said no...said he had to finish some work on the Nadir case...and then go to a dinner party..."
Amelie trailed off morose, and then slowly started to list to the side. "Stupid Nadir and stupid parties..."
Annabelle made sure the Privacy Charm was up around her and her sister before continuing. It probably wasn't anything important, but being a Herbologist taught her to always be careful. "Nadir? Isn't that the burglar you ran into a few weeks back? The one the Aurors have never laid eyes on? You still searching for her?"
"Noooppe." grinned Amelie proudly. "Me and Harry Potter laid eyes on her. Almost caught her *hic* too, but she got away at the last *hic*..."
She hiccuped again. "Stupid."
"Huh." Annabelle murmured, glad she had put up the Privacy charm now. "That wasn't in the papers. I thought you had missed her by seconds."
"We diiid-" This time, it was more a blech than a hiccup. "Shot a few spells ba-back and forth, but they all missed, and then, and then she was gone."
She spread her hands slowly, as to emphasize exactly how the thief had vanished.
"Really?" Annabelle said, amused. "A simple thief managed to flee from both Harry Potter and his plucky protegee?"
Amelie pouted, and then her eyes started to droop dangerously. Her sister never really got the hang of drinking.
"Alright, we're done here. Let's get you home." Annabelle dropped a few Sickles onto the countertop and heaved her sister up onto her shoulder. The bar was just beginning to get lively, a dozen people were in and more were trickling through by the minute. But her sister was having a rough week and she needed to get her home. Perhaps she could come back later, after she had tucked Amelie in.
Annabelle grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder, whispered the name of Amelie's house into it and threw it into the bar's fireplace. Grunting a bit, she used a bit of magic to help shift her sister's rapidly comatose form into the green flames.
Amelie woke up again as they exited the warmth of the flames, and blinked bleary eyes as her lamps came on. "Whazza?"
"It's your home, Ames. Please try and remember, otherwise I'll be arrested for kidnapping an Auror." She took out her wand and used it to open the door to her sister's bedroom. "Now, I'm going to lock things up and leave you a note, so don't freak out on me tomorrow OK?"
Her sister gurgled, and then vomited.
Annabelle rolled her eyes and set to work Vanishing the vomit. Internally, she was still mulling over what Amelie had let slip earlier. It was...weird really. Maybe it was one of those super secret Auror rules? Not informing the press when their Head was outsmarted by a lowly thief? Whatever, not her business. As long as Amelie was always there for an evening of drinking, Annabelle tried not to get too involved in her sister's field of work, or her famous mentor.
It took a few more seconds to clean everything up and then tuck Amelie in, and casting a few quick charms on herself to freshen up, before she felt ready to head back to the bar. Who knows, she may even get lucky and find someone nice to spend the night with.
Of course, that was when her sister just had to start prophesying.
"It has come," The voice that issued from her sister's mouth was both intimately familiar and terrifyingly alien. "It will come. It has passed. The lightning will regain it's promise before the world has returned here twice, for it is not the-the-the-"
Amelie's eyes suddenly rolled into the back of her head and a keening sound came out of her mouth, before they snapped shut. And then, painfully slow, her eyes opened to look up at Annabelle's worried face.
"Ann? Wha-? Am I back home? What happened?" Amelie's voice was normal, holding none of the eerie acoustics her "Seer" voice had. "Did you drag me from the bar? Merlin, Ann, you know you can just cast a spell to get rid of-"
"Ames." Annabelle interrupted. "You had a vision. It looked big. And then you were interrupted."
Amelie looked up at her sister. "Fuck."
Annabelle nodded solemnly and went to grab some water and parchment. This was looking to be a long night, and not in the way she had planned.
***
Ron poured three rounds of Butterbeer into three different cups and frowned. The Cooling Charms were wearing out on them, the drinks were losing heat quickly. Well, that's what happened when you tried enchanting your own kitchenware instead of sending it to a professional.
Of course, Hermione refused to accept that her job as the Minister of Magic was causing her Charmwork to get rusty, and simply complained that they needed to buy better kitchenware. Oh well, that's marriage. He checked the time left on the chicken before taking the cups out to the front porch.
"Oi, no talking shop now." He called out to Hermione and Harry, both of whom were talking very seriously over a sheet of heavily scribbled parchment. They both looked up and grinned at the full cups he was carrying. "Chicken is still cooking, but I got drinks while we wait. Ginny coming?"
"Not till later. Cheers mate." Harry snagged a cup and started chugging it down. By the time he had put it down, the cup was already slowly refilling itself. He signed. "Rough week."
"Stop! I don't want to hear about it." Ron groaned. Hermione took her own cup and snuggled up against him. "I didn't leave the Ministry to just to have you two bring it home."
"Ron, I am the Ministry." Hermione said, mock sternly. "Are you saying I should just stay at the office and never come home?"
"If you do that, me and the kids will just move in with you." Ron snorted. "Good luck getting any work done then."
Everyone chuckled at that mental image, and then fell into a comfortable silence. The sun was setting, the wind was warm, and Harry had put up the strongest wards he could to prevent any insects from reaching their food. A fairly standard Sunday evening.
Oh Merlin, Ron realized. I was supposed to go to that Driving Class today.
Driving Class. A dreaded part of the week where Ron sat in a car for one to two hours, subject to an endless tirade by his instructor as his car barely missed other cars, the pavement, pedestrians and one time, an adult Hippopotamus. Ron blamed that accidental piece of Conjuration on the fact that his instructor had been on a lecture for the past ten minutes and also because he had taken up the habit of leaving his wand in the backseat for fear of him jinxing the man one day.
And now, he would get another earful for skipping out on his appointment completely unannounced.
Hermione noticed her husband's body tensing up. "What's wrong? You forgot the chicken?"
"Hah! Like I would do that," Ron said, sweating. "It's, uh, nothing. Back, it's just my back. Acting up"
Hermione stared up at Ron suspiciously for moment, then shrugged and continued to lean back. "I'll find out sooner or later, you know."
"Yes dear." Ron said, stroking his wife's hair. Harry was watching the sun go down, the sky painted in orange and purple, content to think his own thoughts.
For a brief moment, Ron wondered if he should tell his friends that he might not pass the upcoming driving test. Hermione had been anticipating him getting his license, and Harry had mentioned he was thinking of taking some classes as well.
Eh, best not to tell them. Would only make them worry.
It'll be fine.
Of course, Hermione refused to accept that her job as the Minister of Magic was causing her Charmwork to get rusty, and simply complained that they needed to buy better kitchenware. Oh well, that's marriage. He checked the time left on the chicken before taking the cups out to the front porch.
"Oi, no talking shop now." He called out to Hermione and Harry, both of whom were talking very seriously over a sheet of heavily scribbled parchment. They both looked up and grinned at the full cups he was carrying. "Chicken is still cooking, but I got drinks while we wait. Ginny coming?"
"Not till later. Cheers mate." Harry snagged a cup and started chugging it down. By the time he had put it down, the cup was already slowly refilling itself. He signed. "Rough week."
"Stop! I don't want to hear about it." Ron groaned. Hermione took her own cup and snuggled up against him. "I didn't leave the Ministry to just to have you two bring it home."
"Ron, I am the Ministry." Hermione said, mock sternly. "Are you saying I should just stay at the office and never come home?"
"If you do that, me and the kids will just move in with you." Ron snorted. "Good luck getting any work done then."
Everyone chuckled at that mental image, and then fell into a comfortable silence. The sun was setting, the wind was warm, and Harry had put up the strongest wards he could to prevent any insects from reaching their food. A fairly standard Sunday evening.
Oh Merlin, Ron realized. I was supposed to go to that Driving Class today.
Driving Class. A dreaded part of the week where Ron sat in a car for one to two hours, subject to an endless tirade by his instructor as his car barely missed other cars, the pavement, pedestrians and one time, an adult Hippopotamus. Ron blamed that accidental piece of Conjuration on the fact that his instructor had been on a lecture for the past ten minutes and also because he had taken up the habit of leaving his wand in the backseat for fear of him jinxing the man one day.
And now, he would get another earful for skipping out on his appointment completely unannounced.
Hermione noticed her husband's body tensing up. "What's wrong? You forgot the chicken?"
"Hah! Like I would do that," Ron said, sweating. "It's, uh, nothing. Back, it's just my back. Acting up"
Hermione stared up at Ron suspiciously for moment, then shrugged and continued to lean back. "I'll find out sooner or later, you know."
"Yes dear." Ron said, stroking his wife's hair. Harry was watching the sun go down, the sky painted in orange and purple, content to think his own thoughts.
For a brief moment, Ron wondered if he should tell his friends that he might not pass the upcoming driving test. Hermione had been anticipating him getting his license, and Harry had mentioned he was thinking of taking some classes as well.
Eh, best not to tell them. Would only make them worry.
It'll be fine.
***
It is the dead of night.
"Dammit."
The city is sleeping.
"Damm."
Whatever moved silently through it's empty streets were things that hated the light of day and reveled in it's absence.
"Goddammit."
A category which many university students would find themselves unwillingly thrust into as the term went on. A rather special one found himself already at that stage.
"Bloody hell."
In a small, dimly lit apartment, a young man was reading from an open book and cursing at the piece of wood he was waving around. It had been hours since he had touched it to a miniature copy of the book that now lay flat on his apartment floor, and yet he still hadn't managed to work out what he was doing wrong.
"Er, ok. Lumos."
His pronunciation seemed fine. His wand movement looked perfect. So why wasn't this working?
"Fuck! Lumos!"
Later, he wasn't sure if it was his frustration boiling over or his body finally realizing what he wanted to do, but he suddenly felt something deep within in him change...and something outside changed as well.
Light.
Harsh, cold blue light slowly came into existence. It was different than regular light, fluctuating and dipping at what looked to be in random patterns.
It brought into view the assortment of empty energy drinks scattered around the floor, many of them next to open textbooks. A few of which had pictures that moved.
The young man didn't care. His eyes were fixated at the end of his wand, staring at the small sphere of shifting light at it's end. It cast his features into sharp relief, his tired, bloodshot eyes looking particularly haggard.
But at the moment, the only expression on his face was that of wild-eyed excitement.
"Let there be Light."
This would great for his utility bill.
[Title Gained: Hogwarts Distance Student]
"Dammit."
The city is sleeping.
"Damm."
Whatever moved silently through it's empty streets were things that hated the light of day and reveled in it's absence.
"Goddammit."
A category which many university students would find themselves unwillingly thrust into as the term went on. A rather special one found himself already at that stage.
"Bloody hell."
In a small, dimly lit apartment, a young man was reading from an open book and cursing at the piece of wood he was waving around. It had been hours since he had touched it to a miniature copy of the book that now lay flat on his apartment floor, and yet he still hadn't managed to work out what he was doing wrong.
"Er, ok. Lumos."
His pronunciation seemed fine. His wand movement looked perfect. So why wasn't this working?
"Fuck! Lumos!"
Later, he wasn't sure if it was his frustration boiling over or his body finally realizing what he wanted to do, but he suddenly felt something deep within in him change...and something outside changed as well.
Light.
Harsh, cold blue light slowly came into existence. It was different than regular light, fluctuating and dipping at what looked to be in random patterns.
It brought into view the assortment of empty energy drinks scattered around the floor, many of them next to open textbooks. A few of which had pictures that moved.
The young man didn't care. His eyes were fixated at the end of his wand, staring at the small sphere of shifting light at it's end. It cast his features into sharp relief, his tired, bloodshot eyes looking particularly haggard.
But at the moment, the only expression on his face was that of wild-eyed excitement.
"Let there be Light."
This would great for his utility bill.
[Title Gained: Hogwarts Distance Student]
End of Prologue
GM: Ok, first month planning coming up next. I'll need to finalize your character sheet before then, the budget and time allotment is being finicky.
The big thing you should take away from this update is that your Insightful trait isn't omnipotent; there are still things that you may miss or falsely attribute due to you not knowing the person well enough. That, and Ron's driving test is coming up. Shit's intense.
Oh, and a bit of a teaser, but I was doing some background rolls for Ashton last update and rolled for Attractiveness on a flat d100. You critted. Twice. Unfortunately, Ashton is the type that dislikes attention so he isn't that aware of it, but whenever he decides to doll himself up (like for the last update), he literally turns heads.
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Part One: Rising Winds
- Location
- Canada
Your jaws stretch in a yawn as you brush your teeth. The face that stares out at you from the bathroom mirror is unshaven, unwashed and very puffy. You had fallen asleep on the floor of your apartment, collapsed is probably a better word, after you had gone through all the first year Hogwarts textbooks and tried your very first spell. You rinse out your mouth and grab your wand, which has been in your pant pocket ever since you woke up.
"Lumos", you concentrate and the tip of your wand alights. At the moment, the light is still the same cold, clear blue it had been last night. You hadn't timed it, but the light had vanished by the time you had woken up.
Still holding your wand, you walk out of your bathroom into the kitchen, grabbing the toast as it jumps out of the toaster. What had the old wandmaker said? Your wand was supposed to be able to do more complex magic, right? It would be as stable or as powerful, but you should be able to do more things with your spells than other wands.
You ponder for a second, concentrate, and then tap your lit wand on a wall.
Nothing happens.
You frown, look at your wand, and then very firmly, tap it against the wall.
There is a brief moment of...you don't know how to describe it. Feedback? Resonance? You feel something from your wand, something like a rubber band snapping.
This time, the light stays on the wall.
You nod in satisfaction, then begin spreading butter on toast in the light from your new lamp. You quickly scroll through the messages on your phone (which, for some reason had turned off last night) while eating. You have a few messages from acquaintances you met over Fresher week; Brian invited you out for drinking this Friday, Bill has a football game this weekend and Agneta sent a text asking if you wanted to be study buddies. Hm. Were you forgetting something?
Oh right, McGonagall asked you to visit Hogwarts to meet all the professors. She didn't give a timeline, but hinted that it should be "soon". She also gave you smooth, odd-colored stone. Apparently, it was something called a "Port-key" and would allow you to go to and from Hogwarts by simply holding it a certain way. Interesting. How would that work? Does it call a demon from Hell to give you a lift there? A shining ray of light hits you from the heavens, disintegrating your body and letting your spirit fly unimpeded? Or is it just simple-
Your musings are interrupted by a chime on your phone informing you that the first class of the morning starts in ten. You hurriedly gulp down the rest of breakfast and grab your things. You're halfway to the door when you pause, turn back and snag your wand from where it was lying on the countertop. You carefully place it in your pocket.
Now then. Let's begin.
September Planning Session
Possible Actions:
[] Explore
-[] Diagon Alley
-[] Hogwarts
-[] Univ College
-[] Writein
[] Shopping
-[] Writein: List out what you're shopping for and I'll give you options
[] Practice/Learn Skill
-[] Writein
[] Meet your Hogwarts Professors
[] Spend time with
-[] Writein
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