Of Magic and Lavish [OC-SI]

[BoombaTheSaint]

England [Mundane]


23-08-1969​

---

Horace Slughorn​

The thin clouds of autumn veiled the blue skies of dawn in the quaint city of Ely, a gray shroud of mist cast in the shadow of the Great River. The pleasant chills of autumn were there too, a barely perceptible breeze its forebear. Moist air touched with the stink of a recent shower, and the wet ground still glistened with the dew of morning only gave credence to that.

Quaint, quiet, and so unlike the bustle one would expect from a city in this day of rest and mingle both.

Another clouded day—though the skies of this most ancient nation had never been known for tropical climates.

Ely suffered from gray too, though it was ever so pleasant that the shrouded heavens gave a tranquil atmosphere to its gloom.

Horace Slughorn was much charmed by the sight, as ages had passed since his last venture into the muggle world. With his posture proper and a shadow of genuine pleasantness on his face, he walked through the budding urban jungle, feeling a slight strain in his feet from the mild exertion.

A hum escaped him, ponderous.

He supposed he had been rather lax with his physique these past few years, though, with the many boons from his efforts, it would be hard not to be. Still, he would need to counteract this indulgence—or at least limit its effects on his constitution.

His polished cane tapped louder against the paved roads in a vain attempt to lessen the strain upon his extremities.

Yet it helped not with the discomfort he felt.

'Should I perhaps be sparse with my indulgence?'

The thought didn't much appeal to him, nor did the idea of taking to the field and straining his muscles. He shook his head slightly, amused by the nature of his musings.

Fitness, exercising. He'd reached an age where such things should not be his concern, much so when the impact they had on his longevity was absent at best and negligent at worst.

Maybe a new brew would serve him well, something that would deprive him of soreness when he moved?

Thoughts for later.

Discarding them, he returned his attention to his venture, soon realizing he had arrived at his destination. Gazing up at the gates of the orphanage, he read the name of the unfortunate establishment on its rusted sign.

"Guiding Light," he murmured softly, frowning a bit as fragments of taught history surfaced in his mind. His eyes flickered to the inconspicuous cross crowning the sign. "Quite uninspired."

Reaching into his raincoat, he produced a small piece of paper where the prospective student's information was scribed.

Perteus Graymort
England, Cambridgeshire, Ely, Guiding Light ​

"This does indeed seem the place." He muttered softly, recalling if he ever came across the child's family name.

He didn't.

In which case it meant the boy might be a progenitor.

It was unsurprising, really. Ely, if he remembered correctly, was a deeply religious place. In the old days, many witches had met their end upon its soils, atrocities provoked by the misguided wizards of old.

No magical would ever entrust their offspring to them, lest the child meet their end on a blazing stake. Not that such acts were still carried, at least not in the current age. But fear persisted, even taught as it was…

He crumbled the paper in his hand, allowing it to fall upon the ground where it quenched itself on the undisturbed dew.

…Horace sometimes wondered what could have inspired such malice and rage in those ancient men to have wanted their own's extinction. Was it ambition, fear, or maybe just a desire for uniqueness?

Bloodshed, how constant it was in humans.

Lucky were they to have been born in this era of relative calm and awareness, though he wondered if such thoughts were echoed by anyone beyond himself.

He frowned further, "Not that time had turned history such misguided individuals."

The fall of Tom still pained him much, and to think Albus had tried to warn him countless times. Was it perhaps arrogance…or envy turned jealousy that turned him deaf to the headmaster's wisdom? Liars were those who claimed no envy for Dumbledore's excellence.

But it mattered little now; he was determined not to repeat the mistakes of his former self.

Walking past the orphanage gates, his green gaze swept over the neglected yard and the clusters of children who called this place home. The children were not so different from one another, all clad in plain uniforms—white and blue dresses for the girls, gray pants and blue shirts for the boys.

Pure, expectant eyes followed him as he approached the building, and Horace felt his heart ache to see them so. Such misfortune was never pleasant to experience, whether for wizards or muggles.

Forcing his thoughts away from the children—for all he was willing to offer was pity—he affixed a convincing smile to his plump face as one of the matron welcomed him into the building proper.

"Good morning, sir. Welcome to Guiding Light. My name is Alice Caldwell—I'm the matron here. How may I be of service?" The woman who seemed about an age with him extended him a hand in greeting.

Horace was quick to accept it, allowing his prior thoughts to be swept away by the gentleness of the woman.

"Ms. Caldwell, a pleasure indeed. Horace Slughorn, at your service. Thank you for receiving me on such short notice." He greeted in return, his voice steady and proper while a small smile danced upon his visage. Charming. He was not unused to social adaptations, especially since his fellows were the aristocratic sort.

This—entertaining an ordinary muggle—was no daunting task.

The matron beckoned him in, guiding him past the prayer hall and further into the back were personal quarters and some such rooms were located.

Along the short journey, he allowed his gaze to wander, though he kept the nature of his true thoughts behind a mask. In the inside, it seemed the building was not too decrepit. And in some places, remnants of recent repairs were evident.

Such simple work made difficult by the absence of magic. By his lonesome, he could have this place restored in just an hour, and all it would cost was a slight soreness in his shoulder.

Truly, life was unfair.

Soon they were within Ms. Caldwell's office.

The workroom—and wasn't that a stretch—was modest, almost spartan in its decor. It was also small, with just a simple desk and two worn out chairs occupying most of the space. In one corner, a file drawer stood, its metal frame slightly worn from years of use.

"Please, Mr. Slughorn, sit."

The matron invited him, and Horace was eager to do so. "Thank you, most kind. And to answer your earlier question, I'm here regarding a young fellow in your care. I wonder if you could tell me a bit about him—his name is Perteus Graymort?"

A brighter look came by the old woman's face, and the potion's professor felt his worry wane at it.

"Ah, Perteus. Yes, I know him well. An intelligent boy, though a bit…reclusive, shall we say. Not that such an inclination stopped him from engaging with the other kids." The matron looked at him, "May I ask what brings you to him, Mr. Slughorn?"

He nodded, reaching once more into his coat for the paperwork given to muggle guardians to explain away such things.

"The boy's parents had arranged for him—or their progeny—to be admitted to a most prestigious school before their deaths," he began, carefully adjusting his tone to suit the current mood. "Regrettably, issues surrounding the boy's identity hindered his early admission, as he ought to have begun attending five years ago."

"A rather unfortunate affair." The woman agreed, though her eyes were still on the papers.

Horace agreed, "To remedy this, the school has agreed to fund the remainder of the boy's academic studies, including those that extend beyond the school's own capabilities."

That snapped the woman's attention back to him, eyes wide and jaw slackened. "T..truly?" He nodded, and the act seemed to relieve the woman beyond measure. "Oh, that's wonderful. Immensely so."

"It is the least we could do, I dare say."

Putting the papers down, the matron looked at him proper. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Slughorn. The boy—Perteus—is a very gifted child, and though I'm sure this will appeal to him, if he refuses attendance at this school, I shall not force him."

Now he was even more curious about the lad. "Nor would I want such a thing. This is merely an invitation, and at the end of the day, it is by your allowance, as young Perteus's guardian, that he would be able to attend our school."

Ah, lies. How Horace despised them…at least when they were directed at him.

The woman smiled warmly and extended her hand once more. "Thank you, Mr. Slughorn." He accepted it, mirroring her politeness. "I believe you'll be wanting to meet him."

"If it isn't too much to ask."

"I'm sure Perteus will be glad to hear your news, and perhaps he'll stop worrying about his future and take to the playgrounds like the other kids," the woman said, guiding him out of the room.

---

Perteus Graymort​

It started with a knock on my door. A single tap, neither too harsh nor hurried. Yet my space was silent, and my focus…not too absorbed. The knock rang loud, but before I could send my boon to scan out the imagery of my visitor, the wood barrier jawed open.

The lack of privacy. The ill-manners.

It took much effort and cultivated placidity to reign in my annoyance, depriving my image much judgment. I could not afford the taint of petulance to mar my reputation, lest I be associated with the foolish runts that littered the orphanage.

Turning to the opened door, I beheld Matron Alice's wizened visage peeking into my room, before her entire form followed it proper.

Unsurprising, only she could be so candid with my privacy—a boon of being a caretaker and the highest authority of this institution. It irked me, to be so dependent on a foreign entity for my well being and security both. A familial guardian I would have been more happy with—familial tolerance and sacrifice were a thing after all.

Ms. Caldwell suffered from no such compunctions, and she was ever so liberal with her discipline.

Just another example of life's cruel indifference.

With practiced deftness, I closed the book—one that when into detail regarding the fundamentals of running—and stood proper to receive the matron's instructions.

"Ms. Caldwell," I spoke, measured…polite. "Is there something I could help you with?"

For a moment—barely an instant truly—the woman's lips twitched, and not the kind that spoke of fondness. Annoyance? Irritation? I have yet to master the art of cold reading, even aided by my phantom shroud as I was.

The matron took a single step forward, and her form towered over me. Once more I had to swallow the bitter annoyance invoked by my condition—this reduced stature and restricted freedom.

I did not cower, and I knew that fact displeased the woman.

"There's a visitor—a man—from a fancy school in the capital." No warmth leaked from her voice as she spoke, cold and curt. "He's here for you. An old arrangement by your parents, he said."

Ms. Caldwell paused, and her eyes narrowed. "This is an opportunity, Perteus. One I will not see you waste away like so many others. You will act proper, understood?"

That demand, I did not like it. I did not like being told what to do.

But I knew the matron had no patience to spare for me anymore. Thus, despite my pride, I gave a curt nod and a reply. "Yes, Ms. Caldwell."

Once more, through my shroud, I felt the woman's lips twitch, and this time, I knew the leashed emotion was one of positivity. "You are a smart boy, Perteus. The smartest this home has ever seen. But here, if you linger, you'll never reach your potential, not even a sliver of it."

Not a lie. Yet I was not blind to the manipulation the croneattempted.

Still, I accepted it. And after doing so, the matron left my room, though she did not close the door. I made no attempt to close it too, waiting…thinking.

This development, it through a wrench in my plans.

'What a troublesome reincarnation this is turning out to be.' The thought came and went.

Quickly, I allowed my shroud to withdraw from the ambience, condensing it a few centimetres near my skin. This way, it became something akin to telekinesis, a tangible force easily guided by my untampered mind.

I wore it, and will it to smooth my attire.

Satisfied, I sat back down, and pondered true. The matron's words were not false, Ely offered me no great chances, and if I lingered here, I would only see a fraction of my dreams realised.

But in the capital, London, the road would be much easier.

I looked out my window, to the grey skies heavy with rain. There was a shower yesterday, and a drizzle in the night. Another would happen it seemed, and with a few dozen more after it.

England, this nation, it had ruined the seasons for me. It had ruined winter for me, a season once loved and cherished.

Footfalls interrupted my thoughts, and my head turned towards the door.

This was an opportunity, and I would bedazzle.

That amused me, but the feeling was short lived…

There was a saying about squandered opportunities. About taking things for granted, and not realising the privilege given.

I was the embodiment of that cautionary saying. My life had be nothing but countless regrets and frustrations. It had been an awakening, a glimpse of the opportunities I wasted in my prior existence.

Had I been more productive…motivated, I would have been long on the way to becoming a person of great renown, of riches, power, and so much control and luxuries that only those special few enjoyed.

A great man. An important figure for the rest of the sheep to gaze upon in reverie.

…a man emerged through the door, fat and clothed in fine fashion—an old fashion, even for the late '60s. Still, he wore the clothes well, and despite his unfortunate frame, there was a dignity to his gait and posture. His face was plump and jolly. Welcoming. And his eyes, such a dull green, were settled on me, assessing.

Again, I rose in welcome as the man offered a hand in greeting.

"Mr. Graymort, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." The man spoke, his voice smooth…refined. Proper, even. His grip on the other hand…"My name is Horace Slughorn. A professor at the institution you've been invited to attend."

It took more than a moment for the name to register proper, but when it did, I had to strangle the reaction before it touched upon my exterior.

I failed, but at least my shroud remained stable.

Slughorn laughed, having caught my shock. "Do calm, Mr. Graymort." He said, "This title, I'm afraid it has little to do with…higher learning." There was something there, a bitterness perhaps. The man shook his head, "Not to say you wouldn't be able to achieve such a privilege with how smart you are rumoured to be..."

I paid little mind to his drivel, my mind still reeling from the revelation that ought to have been so obvious in hindsight.

Rebirth. England. Orphanage. Powers.

No, perhaps that was too much of a stretch too. Honestly, despite all the realism of this existence, I had still considered it heaven. My life, the one prior to this, had been one of regret and failure. Thus, it was no wonder that my most desperate wish was a redo, another attempt with the wisdom of years lived.

So when I awoke immediately after my death, and in a time old, I had instantly considered this a dream granted, even if I was 40 years before my initial birth.

And this boon—an ability like telekinesis. Or at least, that was what it had become under my guided cultivation. I had thought little of it, especially since it was not too extreme.

It was just an oddness, a leg up. Compensation for this temporal error.

…Slughorn—he was so unlike the actor who had played him in the pictures—reached within his coat's pocket and withdrew a somewhat familiar letter.

The invitation.

"A formal invite from the school you'll be attending." He presented it to me, still jolly. Excitable. I decided there that I liked him. He was…relatable. At least to me.

"Thank you, Mr. Slughorn." I said, formal. Respectful. Retrieving the letter, I quickly broke the wax seal with the assistance of my shroud—it enhanced my physical attributes— and began to read:

———​

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)

Dear Perteus Graymort,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September.

Hogwarts School has a long tradition of excellence in magical education, and we are delighted to welcome you as a new member of our student body. At Hogwarts, you will be sorted into one of the four houses-Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin-each of which has a rich history and values unique traits in its students.

We understand that for Muggle-born students or those unfamiliar with wizarding traditions, this may come as a surprise. As such, our Potion's Master, Professor Horace Slughorn, has kindly offered assistance to new students requiring guidance on how to reach Diagon Alley to purchase their supplies.

Enclosed with this letter is a ticket for the Hogwarts Express, which will depart from Platform 9¾ at King's Cross Station at 11 o'clock sharp on 31 August.

We look forward to seeing you at the start of term.

Warm regards,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster

———​

My heart trembled as I finished. I closed the letter, careful, and placed it beside me before gazing up at the Professor.

---

Horace Slughorn​

The boy was odd.

This was perhaps the most immediate thing Horace discerned about young Perteus—the lad now seated upon his well-made bed, his grayish gaze fixed upon the letter with a blank calmness that ought to have been foreign on a face so childish.

He was well put-together—mannered and groomed—with clothing that would have seemed rustic on any other child. Handsome too, or at least the promise of it in a future yet unlived.

Horace allowed his gaze to drift across the boy's tiny room, finding it bare save for a single bed, a wardrobe with a mirror, and a ill-fashioned study table on which upon was a set of muggle books worn from usage.

He was impressed, that much he could admit. Potential simmered within this boy, the kind of which he'd seldom seen, at least not in younglings such as this.

Brilliant, composed, and that ambition and cunning so evident to he who'd done so much grant engagements and ingratiations.

Already, he could picture the lad in green and silver, bearing his house's serpent proudly as he charmed and nurtured.

"Magic," Perteus murmured. "This is no hoax, is it?" The child gazed upon him, intense. Searching, and perhaps a bit too cautious…wary, of what might come out of his mouth in supplicant.

Horace would have chuckled had the boy not been so taut and smart.

He shook his head. "Perhaps a demonstration to quell your suspicions?" He reached into his pocket and withdrew his wand, smiling at the boy.

For the first time in their meeting, he saw a flicker of awe and hesitation in the child's eyes before Perteus quickly caught himself, forcing his expression back to its blank calmness.

Eerie.

"If it isn't too much to ask, Professor." The child's voice was clear, smooth, and much too articulate. Many aristocrats still struggle with such control, and those who had it were denied the luxuries of childhood.

The Blacks came to mind, for instance.

It barely took a moment for Horace to decide on how to go about bedazzling the lad, capturing. Deliberately, he twirled his trusted companion—grace his motions cultivated from old practice. A rush of warmth flooded his person as the careful invocation of a simple charm took effect with a flourish of theatrics.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" He spoke, twisting his voice so that it reverberated with the majesty of wizardry.

One of the books placed upon the study desk decided to void its contract with gravity, beginning to levitate—moving from the furniture to the space between them under the beckoned of his wand's guidance.

Perteus's attention was stolen, and the child beneath the foreign oddness surfaced once more, captivated. Enchanted.

Horace was much amused by the wonder, the deep hunger yet to be masked under so much blankness and control so infectious.

Touched by the lad's residual emotions, he invoked another form of magic. "Avifors!" He intoned, his wand's movement barely deliberate.

With a flick of his wrist, the book morphed into a dove, which fluttered around them briefly before returning to the desk, where he transformed it back into a book. "I trust that was satisfactory?"

"Quite," the boy agreed, his eyes still fixed on the book. "Though I have a question, if you don't mind?"

Horace smiled, "Feel free, lad." He vanished away his wand, noting that the lad was studying his movements quite closely—and his wand with barely disguised envy.

'The hunger on this boy.'

"What would become of me should I refuse attendance at this school? From what I've surmised, it seems this magic is something kept secret from the rest of society."

You would be Obliviated, he wanted to say, for that was what would happen. Instead, Horace smiled and shook his head. "Little would happen, young Perteus, save for a sworn promise to refrain from using your gifts in the presence of muggles."

The boy allowed an amused smile to claim his face. "Muggles?"

"The mundane. The ordinary. People not gifted with the ability to exercise magic."

"I see," said Perteus, his gaze returning to the desk—to the book once-turned, with a ghost of a smile on his lips. He understood more than he let on, Horace believed—and perhaps, so much more than he ever would reveal. "Then I shall be in your care, Professor."

"Excellent, Perteus." He said, quite honestly relieved, "Very excellent."

---

The Saint: A bit of a dip into the famed magical fandom. Though I must admit my lack of depth with this series and it's lore. Thus, do point out some falsities and some unexplored ideas you might want to see added. As you might have expected, this is a bit of an AU—though this is mainly because of my alteration of the date of births for the significant characters of this era.

Additionally, I want to add that the MC will not be behaving much like a child, misunderstandings be damned. Think of him as your average adult, just with some hunger for wealth and renown. This will not be a power wank fic, but more an magic exploration. Expect some major depth on the functionality of magic and all its nuances. Experiments, Spell Mastery, Mundane Insights, Taboo Pursuits, Inhuman Acts, and perhaps the worst of all, Manipulation.

So some additions: Incantations - you all have no doubt noticed that I added a function to spell words. This is a conscious decision, one that will be explained in depth-if a little scattered

 

[Mithrill]

In regards to Wizarding World lore, I'm personally of the opinion that it's best to pick and choose what elements fit your vision and make up what you need to fill the holes - Fate knows that's more forethought than Rowling gave her work's background logic. So no worries, AU allows you to make any contradiction of canon so long as it makes sense.
And I've always liked a good exploration series. You have my curiosity.

 

[BoombaTheSaint]

England [Magical]

23-08-1969​

---

Perteus Graymort​

Diagon Alley was…odd. The place felt both vast and claustrophobic, with buildings and people only gaining significance when you got close enough to them. It was crowded too, filled with strange folks dressed in equally strange clothes.

"'Tis a wondrous place, isn't it?" Slughorn said beside me. Despite his size, the man was a proper guide, pointing out places of novelty and explaining much and more about them.

"It is," I agreed, still reeling from the day's events. It had only been a short while since the Potions professor revealed the nature of my new reality. Excluding my own oddness and the man's demonstration, I had already experienced two magical wonders—both of the spatial sort.

And now, I was in the alley of Diagon, here to stock on supplies.

And our first stop—

"Ah, it seems we're here. And just after they opened too," the professor said.

Before the storefront, we stood, our motion halted by my wonderment. The bloated professor indulged me, allowing me to soak in this imagined sight with great patience—a grand favor.

Madam Malkin's shop. One of the key spots from the books and pictures.

I gave it a proper look and saw the cracks in the depictions, the maturity not yet etched upon its image. It was still young, still clear. The hue of the shopfront was still deep and glossy, its purple paint unmarred by blemishes or cracks. The clear windows, bewitched with charm, were untouched by damage or taint.

I breathed, my heart drumming to a spasming rhythm. My shroud was there, infused with the ambience, caressing at the wooden front of the store and identifying the twisted existence knitted within it.

The unreality that was magic.

It dwindled away, a piece at the time. The order of the universe still enforced itself upon it, though the beauty still stood.

My heart ceased its erratic thrumming. Calming and taking to a more composed experience.

The seamstress's love, her pride, was still heavy—the full brunt of it bleeding from every square. Her passion would endure, but this care, this untarnished attention, would one day fade. This charm would flee with it—as it was the wont of time's avarice—though I wondered if the awe of tomorrow would hold a lesser significance.

I turned to look at the animated mannequins. They moved no different from living people, clothed in fashions so queer and yet undeniably tasteful.

It made me wonder about Dumbledore, his fashion. So flamboyant was it, the mask of his pain. I dared not begrudge him, of course.

Perhaps sensing my satiation, the professor began his walk, the tap of his spell-made footwear drawing me out of my funk. He pushed at the doors, the bell within chiming with the same oddness loud within incantations.

Magic.

It forced attention upon me, causing me to look back at the entrance as if I were the proprietor. I immediately withdrew my shroud, and the magical-reinforced urge whisked away.

'I need to reconfigure my instincts.'

My cultivated boon was quick to intermingle with foreign magic. I knew, of course, that the shop's urge was triggered by distance, and my awareness—my pseudo-presence—had been further within the shop proper via the telekinetic shroud.

"Oh, hello there," came a soft, light tone from a lean young woman of rather average height. She had vibrant amber eyes and a pleasant, heart-shaped face adorned with a warm smile. "How might we assist you?"

She was no Madam Malkin, I decided. However, no disappointment simmered in my breast at that fact. The store owner was not much of a famed character, nor someone of significance.

The good professor stepped forward, a mirror smile on his face. I was still a fair bit impressed by Slughorn, the man more pleasant than my imagined character of him. He was not blinded by flowery words, nor did he favour so fiercely. No, he acted more like an adult ought to act. He saw and deduced with acquired wisdom, though his vices were still there.

This, of course, made me even more curious of Tom's charisma…or was it manipulation. The dark lord was barely a young adult when he acquired the knowledge of horcruxes, after all.

The professor's voice killed my thoughts. "Ah, Ms. Selpie. How have you been?" He greeted, his joyous regard banishing the girl's previous query.

I let them talk, not particularly curious, and chose instead to survey the store properly. It was… more akin to a tailor's shop—a mundane one at that. I wandered its corners, brushing against the fabrics with a hint of appraisal lingering in my shroud.

The spellwork imbued within the material felt contradictory to my senses, and deep inside, I knew that understanding it would take time—replication even more so.

Magic was its own reality, though its rules—if it had any—were malleable, easily overrun by intent, desire, and, in most cases, belief. My shroud was the third, born from my belief in what it should be and how it ought to function. I wondered if I should feel proud for choosing something so versatile, or be ashamed for limiting my capabilities.

"Come now, young Perteus, you've a fitting to go through."

And so I did.

I was led to a round, elevated platform and instructed to remain still and calm as measuring items flew around me. They wrapped around my form, squeezing my extremities to varying degrees, as though measuring something beyond my current stature.

"Will the clothes grow with me?" I asked the young woman nearby. A notebook and quill floated beside her, scribbling down notes and curiosities.

"That, and a few other things," she answered, smiling up at me. "Are you perhaps new to the magical world?"

I nodded. "It was only today that I was made aware of its existence." I watched as a measuring tape stretched to a height beyond my current one before shrinking to less than my actual height. "It's all so incredible."

"It is," she affirmed. "I was just as bright eyed when I was first introduced." Her face took a reminiscent look, a past wonder replaying.

I looked at her. "So you weren't born into it?"

"No." Her shoulders slumped slightly. "My pa was, though. He was a squib—a non-magical wizard-born—so he took to the mundane world to spare his family the shame."

A simple "no" would have sufficed, I believed.

Nevertheless, her tale made me ponder the discrimination embedded in the magical world. Personally, I was indifferent to it—not invested enough to oppose it, nor attached enough to embrace it. To me, this side of the world was merely a novelty…a limited wonder.

I certainly wouldn't dedicate my life to it as Ms. Selpie had. So, I simply hummed in response—my age afforded me that leeway.

Another lull of silence settled between us, one I decided was of the comforting kind. It lingered until the fitting was done. I was informed that the preparations of my uniform would take a couple of hours—another point to magic's vast potential.

…And thus our venture continued.

---

Outside the clothing store, I had thought our destination would be the other shops to pick up the stationery required for first-years. My heart burned with the thirst for arcane knowledge, the eagerness so thick it bled into my shroud—now housed within my body…

I was quite certain now that my brain was spell-touched, as I had my wits and persona about me mere minutes after my birth. Unfortunately, my other senses were not so mature, and it took some months for them to develop proper.

Alas, my parents—those of this life—had already gone by the time they did, and thus my knowledge of them was nonexistent, and so too was the origin of my strangeness.

An infant with the mind of an adult—a toy for an entity. Such was the cliché of these scenarios. Thus, I had consciously ignored the implications, and forced normality unto my existence.

But I digress.

What I meant to say was that my intellect was much sharper now, and when it came to cognitive development, I was more gifted than in my prior incarnation. Though I was still not a genius—or rather, I was not willing to label myself as such.

This boosted mind, it was fed by my curiosity, the lust for the primary secrets of wizardry, and the nature…the phenomenon that was magic. It was my key—the way in which I could achieve my fullest dreams and desires without significant effort or debts on my part.

All I had to do was channel my new intellect into the mysteries and inspire my works with the developments and ingenuity of the mundane.

…the good professor moved beside me and pointed. "We'll be making way to Gringotts now, Mr. Graymort. The other purchases will require immediate payment."

I looked at the pointed building, though I did not awe much at it—the Malkin's store took much of my wonder, and I was rationing whatever remained for my yet-to-be conduit. The bank was as splendid and odd as the other buildings, though I remember there being a pale dragon atop it.

It was not there, and that was a right shame.

We were there in no time, and Slughorn handled the talking. He left me by the waiting seats, and I was there with a few individuals. I did not initiate conversation, nor did I think I desired one. No, I was more interested in the twisted little creatures dubbed goblins.

They were not quite the…generic depiction of their representation in fantasy, and I dared say these odd things fitted more the part of a dwarf than a goblin.

The greed. The metal work. The stature.

"Young Perteus," Slughorn's voice sounded, beckoning. I did not dally, picking up my small bag and joining him a bit farther to a private booth where a lone goblin waited, its face frozen in a perpetual sneer. "Come, sit. The good banker here will need to see if your lineage is registered with their establishment before attempting to open an account for you."

I did just so, minding my movements as I settled upon the chair, my blank gaze upon the magical creature. "Might I ask what is to happen if an existing lineage is found?" The question was more a way for me to introduce something other than the awkwardness that sought to become a prophecy.

The goblin was the one to answer, as the bloated professor had excused himself from the booth. "Then you would know of your family," it paused, the sneer on its face growing. "And if you're lucky, perhaps inherit the fortune they have left behind."

I hummed, thinking.

Personally, I was not much hopeful of such a thing coming to pass. No average magical would leave their offspring in the flickering arms of the muggles. Too much risk, not to mention Ely was a christian city with a history of witch hunts.

"Your hand." The goblin demanded. I did not begrudge his request, though I made sure to offer my less dominant arm. The creature grabbed it, its palm like a buck with how rough it was.

A device was pricked into my thumb, and it was only by the reinforcement of my shroud that my reaction did not touch upon my exterior.

'Note yourself, add some torture to your regiment to enhance tolerance.'

The procedure complete, I pulled back my arm and inspected the wound on my finger . It was still there, an echo of pain lingering, though it did not bleed. I guided a sliver of my shroud to it, forcing it to close so that it did not blemish when it healed.

From my dulled sense of the ambience, I felt the goblin twitch slightly at the exercised magic. An interesting discovery, though one wholly expected. Goblins were a magical race and likely possessed exceptional sensitivity to the eldritch reality.

The same was true for elves—the servant creatures able to utilise magic without the aid of conduits.

The device concluded, and the goblin read its results…somehow. "It'd seem you've no lineage to speak of, not even in communities outside Magical Britain." It announced, a twist on its lips that seemed somewhere between disgusted and amused.

I decided right there that if chance presented itself, I was extincting the foul creatures. And this was not a desire spawned by its mistreatment of me, but the unpleasantness of its appearance. They were too twisted and removed from human aestheticism for my comfort.

"Unsurprising," I responded, denying the thing the satisfaction. "Now if you could open an account in my name—Perteus Graymort. I've also some funds to see exchanged, I believe that's something you can help me with?" I knew my speech had strayed far from that of even inspired kids.

The goblin nodded, "I can."

---

"We've only four more stores to visit, though I feel I should handle the other three while you head over to Ollivanders for your wand. That will probably occupy you for some time," the professor announced as we stepped out of the bank.

I twitched—at least my arm did. I didn't want that. My curiosity for the magical literature of this reality was immense. The Potterverse had always intrigued me with its magic.

"I'd rather come with you to the bookstore, Professor," I countered, or rather requested. He looked at me, prompting me to elaborate. "The subjects mentioned in the letter—I'm intrigued by them. I would be most thankful for a chance to survey and purchase some books beyond those recommended."

A moment passed in silence after that.

"You've an eloquence about you, Mr. Graymort. A maturity seldom seen in kids your age," Slughorn said, his jovial expression shifting into something more inscrutable.

My posture shifted slightly, discomforted. Whether it was suspicion or interest, I could not tell. I could not read expressions quite as clearly, though I cared little for the skill.

"Thank you, Professor," I decided to say in response. The thought of deception crossed my mind, but I was unwilling to expend the effort. "Matron Caldwell was ever so willing to instruct us on proper manners, and I found an interest in the discipline."

His expression changed, bleeding into something more wistful. "Diligent too," he almost chuckled, but a shake of the head recentred him. "You're a model, young Perteus. A dream child for every parent."

Another shift of discomfort, and I was starting to wonder if I was unable to take compliments.

"Alright then, we shall journey for the bookstore together." The man smiled, "Though we shall not linger there. Have you any clue in what kinds of subjects you hold interest?"

A proper question, and one I could answer freely. "The mysteries of magic, the brewing of potions, and the nature of runes and enchantments."

These were not just curiosity-sparked interests, but pursuits that would be the foundation for my renown, wealth, and strength. In both societies.

I was not willing to abandon the mundane—in fact, I found it far more intriguing than the stagnant magical society.

"Might I ask why those subjects in particular?"

"They correspond quite beautifully with my dream, Professor. And the opportunities they offer are endless, with ample room for innovation," I replied as we passed by a family on a similar mission. I couldn't help but notice, however, that the child in the group seemed far from enthused by the proceedings.

Potential squandered, ignored, seen as normality. I wished I could begrudge the youth, insult his ignorance. However, his regard was one I harboured in my life before, and I knew I could not force upon him a love for something that was not fascinating to him.

Slughorn smiled at the family, perhaps his previous students. "You're rather forthcoming with your ambitions, young Perteus."

"I see little reason not to be." I reached into my pocket, where my pouch rested snugly, a smile tugging at my lips. The conversion of my funds yielded little in the way of galleons—not nearly enough for a lavish lifestyle. However, it was sufficient, especially in this economy.

We passed through the bookstore's entrance, and the first thing I noticed was the derangement of space. The interior was a library, vast and spanning. Before I could deplete my wonderment, the good professor pulled at me, guiding.

A moment later, we stood at the front desk, where a stern man served as the receptionist.

"Horace," the man said, his tone utterly impersonal.

It drew my attention to him, and I could see the tedium in his eyes. "Is there something I can get you?"

"Ah, Gilbert," the professor replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. "I see you're still as vibrant as ever." He chuckled at the last part, entirely unbothered by the other man's dry look.

That moment passed, however. "Anyway, I've a student here—a first-year. Could you supply him with the usual package?" Slughorn dropped a pouch full of coins, "And could you provide us the introductory list, the young lad is the studious type."

The receptionist attention drifted towards me, and for an instant, something else burned in his dry gaze. "Have you a name, lad."

"Perteus Graymort, sir." I said with much formality.

He looked at me, assessing. I did not much fear his regard or judgment, my garments were so impeccable. "Graymort, huh? I can't say I've heard the name," the man muttered. "So, Mr. Graymort, have you decided on what house you want to end up in?"

"Not yet, sir."

He held my gaze for a second longer, then he scoffed. "You'd probably end up with the snakes if your eyes are anything to go by."

I wondered if I should be offended by that, though a part of me knew that he was right. Beside me, Slughorn broke into a laugh, his belly trembling at the effort.

The man, Gilbert, ignored the professor, his attention going to the pouch.

In a swift display of grace, the man flicked his wrist, and a greyish wand shot out of his sleeve. He caught it effortlessly and swiped it through the air, a buildup of magic at its tip.

"Convoque!" The man intoned, that odd speech doing…something to him. I had still yet to understand what exactly incantations were. It was obvious they were not just words, even if they echoed like such to the ears.

An instant later, a scroll popped into existence just a few centimetres from the receptionist. "Your list," he threw the scroll towards me, and I almost reached for the item with my telekinesis.

The moment I caught the scroll, a barely perceptible sensation brushed against my chest and face. A shudder washed through me, and I knew the stupid thing had somehow violated my privacy.

'Fuck!'

The item unraveled, unsurprisingly stopping at a section detailing subjects aligned with my expressed interests: Magical Flow. The category featured books like:

• "The Flow of Magic: An Invisible Current" by Esmond Whispermere

• "Magical Pathways: A Study of Energy Channels in Spellwork" by Drusilla Greenleaf

• "Wands and the Flow of Power" by Draumik Ollivander

• "Harmonics of the Arcane: The Resonance of Energy in Magic" by Felix Chanterly

• "Channeled Power: Advanced Applications of Magical Flow" by Lyra Flamelight

• "Elemental Flows: Harnessing Nature's Magic" by Sylphine Meadows

• "Energy Loops and Magical Burnout" by Sebastian Aetherwell

• "Symphony of the Arcane: Balancing the Flow of Magic" by Cassandra Seren

• "Runic Channels: Magical Flow in Ancient Scripts" by Edwina Glyphwell

• "The Ripple Effect: How Magical Flow Affects the World" by Thaddeus Rippleton

Suddenly, I felt the pouch in my pocket lose its heft. These books were exactly the kind I was looking for. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to waste my coins on them—not without jeopardizing my plans for the coming week.

I'll have to choose wisely, I decided, glancing back at the receptionist, who now had a set of books stacked on his counter.

"Have you come to a decision, young snake?"

A pure smile spread across my face. "I believe I have."

---

The Saint: I'm trying to establish the personality of the MC, and because of that, things are dragging. I'm not dissatisfied with it, but I won't begrudge anyone for finding the pace tedious. Also, I'll like to add that not all of the MC's deductions are spot on, though I intend to disprove his misconceptions quickly, granted those deductions don't interfere with the mystery aspect of the story.

And remember, if you find any inconsistencies, errors, or just have some creative suggestions, do share. I'm not opposed to altering previous chapters if the ideas are interesting enough. And if you do find yourself craving additional chapters, I have advanced chapters on my Patreon.

Anyway, bye!

 

[Mithrill]

So, leaning heavily into the invocating nature of magic, words affecting reality, harmonizing with the underpinnings of the world... Enchanting (pardon the pun), if I may say so.

 

[BoombaTheSaint]

England [Magical]

23-08-1969​

---

Perteus Graymort​

The small café three blocks east of the bookstore was the unassuming sort, tucked away from the bustling crowds and filled with the comforting aroma of roasted beans and freshly baked bread. The tables were average—simple wood polished to a shine—yet I found appeal in them, this era having inspired a new appreciation within me.

This might as well be luxury to my current self, the orphanage's bland stews and occasional dry feasts having taken their toll.

I watched as the good professor sank into his chair across from me, a twitch of mirth on his moustache. His robes had stretched at the seams from the indulgence, yet that grace of his was still there. He gestured for me to eat, and I hesitated only briefly before biting into the warm, buttered roll set before me.

The flavor was simple, rich, and perfect.

Slughorn smiled warmly, unfolding his napkin. "It's no grand feast, mind you, but I find this little spot to be just the thing after a good bit of shopping, no?"

I nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "It's…wonderful."

The meal was not grand by any standard—roast beef sandwiches, pickled vegetables, and a pot of strong tea—but it felt…feasible, certainly more flavourful than anything I had in this life.

I took every bite with deliberation, savoury my intention. A part of me felt undeserving of this indulgence, I would admit, not when my fellow orphans at the home enjoyed no such fancies. It was not guilt, exactly. More of a longing to introduce them to such a lifestyle, to save them from the curse of struggle.

Could I change things for them one day?

I could, that I knew with certainty. However there was still much I could not amend. The absence of care and love would stay with them until proper assistance could be rendered. Yet even that would not be enough, far from it even.

That soured my mood a fair bit.

Responsibilities, how I loathed them.

"You're quiet," Slughorn said, breaking my thoughts. "Sickle for them?"

I struggled with the amusement for a moment before setting my teacup down and straightening. "I was just thinking about Hogwarts. What it's like. What to expect." The lie came so beautifully, and by the time I completed it, the curiosity was genuine.

The professor's fat cheeks stretched, his whole face lighting up. "Ah, a most excellent topic! Hogwarts, my boy, is like nothing you've ever seen. A castle, grander than you can imagine, and filled with secrets that even I, after all my years, haven't fully uncovered. Why, the library alone is worth the journey."

It seemed the bit of linger at the bookstore painted me as a book enthusiast in his eyes. An assessment that was incorrect…at least that was what I liked to think.

Still, I decided to focus on the stray topic.

"What about the houses?" I asked, leaning forward. I had read about them, of course, but I wanted to hear it from someone who had been there, someone who…knew.

"Ah, the houses!" Slughorn exclaimed, eyes alight with old joy. "It's an exceptional rivalry, though the most noteworthy is between Slytherin—the house of the cunning and proud, a shelter of mine when I was still a lad—and Gryffindor—the eager and brave, the headmaster was once a member of the house, and he's the exceptional sort." He took a breath, "You'll no doubt find yourself in Slytherin, my boy. That would be a great place for a person of your character."

He said it with a wink, but I caught the eager in his voice. "And the classes?" I asked, steering the conversation forward.

"Oh, you'll find no shortage of fascinating subjects. Professor Dittany teaches Herbology these days—has a remarkable gift with magical plants that one. Then there's Ironstaff, he's to be the professor of DADA this year. History of Magic is taught by Old Binns—you'll need to personally put the work in that, the old ghost is a bit of a bore. And let's not forget Potions." He tapped his nose. "Taught by yours truly."

I smiled faintly…falsely, "You make it sound like paradise."

He chuckled. "Well, it's not without its challenges. The castle has a mind of its own, you know. Staircases that change when you least expect it. Hidden passages and trick doors. But that's part of the charm, I like to believe. Hogwarts is alive, young Perteus." He finished, his mind far away.

I took another bite of my sandwich, savoring the words as much as the food. Slughorn spoke of Hogwarts with such reverence that it was hard not to feel a tremble of anticipation…well, more anticipation than I had initially harboured.

"And the history?" I asked. "The founders? The wars?"

He nodded approvingly. "Ah, the history. You're a curious one—good, good. The castle has stood for centuries, built by the great four: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. It's seen its share of triumphs and tragedies—wars, betrayals, alliances. Each stone in its walls has a story, if you know how to listen."

I knew Slughorn was aiming for a sage-like presentation, his words touched by that cryptic blend of profundity and advice. Yet, I was no blind child, nor was I ignorant of the secrets of the ancient castle…

The sandwich lost another piece, a napkin coming by my mouth to wipe away the remnants.

…still, I wondered what it would be like to walk those halls, to be part of a tale once read. The films, while not entirely identical, did somewhat still capture this alley of Diagon. Would the same be true for Hogwarts? I somehow doubted that.

Rowling's vision, I wanted to see that. The splendour untainted by the veil of inspiration.

As we finished the meal, Slughorn wiped his hands and leaned back, patting his stomach with satisfaction. "Well, young Perteus, I'd love to escort you the rest of the way, but I've a few other stops to make before the day is done. I'll need you to visit Ollivander's on your own."

I would have been frightened had I been a true child.

He placed a few gleaming galleons in my hand and gave me precise directions to the wandmaker's shop. "Follow the road down, turn left past the apothecary—a disturbingly yellow shop—and you'll find it. Can't miss it—the sign's as old as the shop itself."

I nodded, slipping the coins into my pocket, noticing that he gave me more than necessary. "Thank you…for the meal, and for everything," I told him. The appreciation was true.

He waved a hand dismissively but smiled warmly. "Think nothing of it, Perteus. You're an intriguing lad, and I've no doubt you'll do great things. Now off you go. Ollivander's awaits, and a wand is not something to keep waiting."

And so I did, glancing back at him one last time before stepping out into the bustling alley.

---

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as I stepped into Ollivanders.

It was quieter than I had expected, the sound muffled by the heavy ambiance of the shop. Shelves towered over me, stacked high with slim, dust-laden boxes, their contents jittering and pulsating with excitement and much promise.

It bled into me like the flu, the eager and anxiety spiking to just the right amount to facilitate dependancy and addiction.

My shroud crescendoed within my body, humming…rippling. For a moment, I considered dispersing it, freeing myself from it for the first time since my infancy. But my logic swiftly cannibalized that idea, and I resolved instead to use the temptation as an opportunity to hone my will and discipline.

The conduits continued their murmurs, their voices like ghostly whispers carried on a wind howling with incomprehension.

Behind the counter stood Garrick Ollivander, his hair streaked with silver, his frame slightly stooped, but his sharp eyes seemed to pierce right through me. He studied me for a moment, his lips curling into a smile.

"Ah," he said, his voice soft but carrying. "Another aspirant of Hogwarts. I was wondering if I would get one today."

The way he spoke, the weight of his gaze. It was unsettling…and a tad bit mysterious—and was not that a chagrined admittance. I let calm enrich my face, my pride denying me external fright. "Perteus Graymort, Mr. Ollivander." I said with a nod, a slow one.

His lips twitched, "One so mannered too…though I suppose such was to be expected." His eyes twinkled as he stepped around the counter. "But enough of that. You're here for a wand."

I watched him walk, his gait so familiar with the layout of his shop.

"That would be the idea," I replied smoothly. "I trust you've got something in stock."

He chuckled, a dry, almost ancient sound, and began scanning the shelves. "It is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr. Graymort. Or so the saying goes." He looked back at me, that gaze of his surfacing again. He plucked a box from the shelf and opened it with a practiced hand. "Let's begin, shall we?"

I neared him slowly, internally telling myself that his sight could not peer beyond this veil I wore so freely.

The first wand he offered was a pale wood, almost golden in the light.

"Cedar, dragon heartstring core, eleven inches. Solid and reliable. A wand for those who inspire trust… or demand it." He recited, his towering attention upon me.

I took it and immediately froze. In my infancy, when I first surfaced in this world, I had always been aware of a rift within me—a phantom portal from which poured the eldritch vigor I had used to fashion my beloved shroud. After recent revelations, I now understood this rift to be the source of magic, or at least the abnormality we used to shape it.

Never in all those years had I been able to manipulate, expend, or even touch that rift. It had always remained the same, granting me a consistent amount of vigor since infancy. This was the reason for my fine control over magic…this fabledprecision.

Yet now, as I held this hostile wand—actively attempting to sprout thorns to pierce my hand—I felt as though my rift had been drenched in menthol. Its presence swelled, sharper and more intense than ever before.

I took a breath, flooding the dragon conduit with my shroud and calming it. It fought, as it was its nature, but I was aware, beloved by the magics. My essence clamped at the core of the conduit, and almost immediately, I felt my reach expend…my control.

Yes, I could work wi—

Before I could even break into a grin, the old fossil took the thing away from my hand. "Passable, but no spark of destiny there, hmm?"

"What? Hey!," I tried to reach out with my enhanced telekinesis—the suppressed childishness surfacing—but the wand maker simply evaded. Perhaps that should have provoked my suspicions.

He took a minute in search before returning.

This next wand was darker, sleeker.

"Blackthorn and unicorn hair, twelve inches. A wand for the independent, for those who chart their own course." He explained, presenting it with a frown.

I was calmer now, and I tried not to overreach…to not subjugate.

This one felt colder, sharper in my grip. The magic stirred again, but it was distant, like trying to grasp something through glass. I tried to funnel my eldritch intent through it, but the wand's response was sluggish, almost…blind?

"It's… indifferent," I said after a moment.

Ollivander nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Indeed. A decent match for some, but it doesn't trust you."

I did not disagree with him, and honestly, I felt as though I would not find my trusted partner here. I needed something that spoke to me, a death-touched. Perhaps a thestral, or something of that nature.

Still, I did not despair. The echoes of the wand I had subjugated rang through me. I could somewhat mimic the feeling of its weight with my shroud.

Probably.

The third and fourth wands were no better. One, willow with veela hair, felt too light and impulsive. The other, oak with a griffin feather core, was cautious and hesitant, its power quick to quiver and too measured. Each time, Ollivander studied my reaction with quiet intrigue, as if he already knew how this would end.

He probably did.

Finally, he paused, his gaze drifting to a corner shelf. He seemed to hesitate, then reached up to retrieve a box that looked older than the others.

"This one," he said, his voice quieter, "is different. The wood is Aelanthir—a tree that lived and died over a millennium ago. Its kind hasn't grown since. Extremely rare. The core is phoenix feather."

He set the box before me and opened it. The wand inside was elegant, its surface smooth and gleaming, the color of rich, dark amber.

I hesitated, my shroud subconsciously withdrawing within me.

"Aelanthir and phoenix feather," he murmured. "Thirteen inches. Balanced. A wand for precision, versatility, and, above all, potential."

The moment I touch the wand, I felt completion…contentment. It felt as though a missing part of me was returned, and with it, the shackles that denied me true growth and renewal were lost. My fears, replaced by acceptance and peace I could not find words to express.

My vigour churned, and I felt more…the potent nothingness that clung to my soul thrice boosting my perception of Presence. There was also the profound Twist I now enjoyed…the secondary ability that existed outside of the conduit's presence.

Then came the power, the wand's active benediction: Ideal Incarnation. With it in my grasp, I felt more complete, able to summon and amplify my attributes and talents to their fullest extent.

This wand, there was an undeniable dependability to it, an understanding as if the wand knew me, knew the contradictions of my existence. The fear of endless rebirths was swallowed by the wonders of endless tries and never-permanent failures.

It was foreign acceptance…false acceptance, one I knew I would have never achieved in this state of mine so flawed and lamented.

I breathed, and clutched my wand, shrouding it and infusing it with my permanence through instinctual guidance. The sensation grew, flooding my rift with vigour.

Ollivander smiled, the faintest hint of pride in his expression. "Ah, yes. That's the one."

"It's…Alive," I said softly, more to myself than to him. That eldritch flavour of speech was there too, my attunement with the mystic thrice as great.

An inherent ability, perhaps?

He inclined his head. "Not alive, Mr. Graymort. Attuned. It recognizes something in you—a mind both sharp and tempered. A wand for someone who understands the art in the craft of magic."

He did not know, not really.

I turned the wand in my hand, marveling at the subtle warmth that pulsed through it. It did not feel like a tool. It felt like a fragment long lost, an old appendage given life once more.

"This will do," I said, trying for nonchalance.

Ollivander's smile widened, and I mirrored it. This whole and boosted, I could sense the threads of his shop, the siphons of desire that attached themselves to my heart. They tingled like the scroll, though their violation was not so great or unwanted.

Ollivander had them too, the shop speaking to him.

"It will do far more than that, I suspect," he said quietly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Take care with it, Mr. Graymort. Great ambition is a powerful thing, but it can be… unpredictable."

I did not regard him, my attention still consumed. I had held four wands before this one. Of all those wands, three were of the same make, and one was removed from the same resonance. This wand was the same queer as the other, if still of different make.

Yet, even despite all that. There was one thing all these conduits shared, a tamper of the wand maker's creation, I felt.

The Trace, perhaps. Or something that facilitated it.

I smiled, and it was a joyful thing. "So can I."

For the first time, Ollivander chuckled a proper laugh, one that came straight from the tummy. "Then I daresay the two of you will get along splendidly."

---

The sun had dipped slightly as I stepped out of the wand shop.

My mood was unusually light, and I felt it showed in the ease of my movements. On my wrist rested my wand, secured by the shrinking holster the skilled wand-maker had sold me. I had assumed that contact with the conduit would allow for the same projection proper holding permitted, but it seemed that wasn't the case.

Still, the proximity was welcome—pleasant, even.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the professor. He stood a fair distance away near a sweets stand, a handful of candy in his hand. Beside him, on the ground, was a small, pale green trunk edged with silver.

I immediately knew what it was—an enchanted trunk, and one that was almost too on the nose. Yet, despite its overt appearance, I was still charmed by it, even if I deprived my face of such emotions.

I neared the man, my gait rather free.

"Ah, there you are!" Slughorn exclaimed at my appearance, throwing in a piece of candy in his mouth. "I trust everything went smoothly?"

"Quite so, professor," I affirmed, flexing my wrist for the wand to spring out. "Aelanthir and phoenix feather. 13 inches, and sufficiently flexible." I held it by the middle and showed it.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" Slughorn nodded his head, his round face splitting into a grin. "A good wand is the start of all great wizarding journeys, my boy. A fine choice for someone with promise." There was genuine joy in his voice, that…probably should not have surprised me.

I gestured to the trunk. "What's this?" I subtly changed the conversation, tapping the wand back into its holster.

Slughorn gave the trunk a little nudge with his foot, the silver edges catching the light. "Ah, just a little something I had arranged while you were inside. You'll need a proper trunk for Hogwarts, of course. This one's enchanted—lightweight, compact, and more spacious inside than it looks. Perfect for a young wizard on the rise."

I let my emotions bleed out. "You didn't have to—"

"Nonsense!" he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Consider it an investment. I make it a habit to spot talent early, you see, and I believe you'll make quite the impression at Hogwarts. Besides, it's a small thing, really."

It was not…probably.

"Thank you," I said finally, meeting his gaze. My voice had dropped a few decibels than I intended, but I meant it.

Slughorn nodded, he seemed pleased. "Think nothing of it, my boy. Now then," he said, finishing the candy, "we've no time to dawdle. Plenty more to do before the day is out. Best we get a move on."

I picked up the trunk—it was indeed charmed, weighing as much as a feather—and fell into step beside him.

---

The Saint: This is my first official upload this year, thus I'm obliged to bit you all a happy new year. Now, I personally like how the chapter came out, despite the confusing drivel happening about during the wand acquisition. I will explain it.

So, here's the gist of it. The wand grants him relief-to be a person without troubles or fear. With it, he is his ideal self. This is the core aspect of the wand. That's the Ideal Incarnation he's referring to.

The second ability is the Twist-this is just a colourful way of saying control. Now, this is more interesting. Because our MC has once been without anything on a more truer level, what he has now he can feel with great clarity. His shroud, his body, his existence. And through his shroud, he can malform his body. It's nothing to excessive, just a sharpening of features and a rejection of unreasonable limitations.

The MC will say some wild crap to describe his experiences. Example: [I neared him slowly, internally telling myself that his sight could not peer beyond this veil I wore so freely.] What all of this means is that he doesn't think anyone could see through his rebirth.

And remember, if you find any inconsistencies, errors, or just have some creative suggestions, do share. I'm not opposed to altering previous chapters if the ideas are interesting enough. And if you do find yourself craving additional chapters, I have four advanced chapters on my Patreon.

Anyway, bye!