The following morning, the sun rose over a quiet suburban street in Surrey. It was a mundane, grey English morning, filled with the sound of milk floats and distant traffic.
Inside the cozy living room of Number 4—or rather, the house Alister had repurposed for himself and Astra—the air smelled of toast and fresh coffee.
Alister sat on the sofa, wearing a simple grey hoodie and sweatpants. He looked nothing like the terrifying entity that had frozen a room full of wizards just hours ago. He was flipping through a Muggle car magazine, looking relaxed.
"You're in a good mood," Astra noted, walking in with two mugs. She handed him one, curling her legs up on the cushion beside him. "Did your 'business trip' go well?"
Alister took a sip, the steam rising around his face. A small, secretive smile played on his lips.
"Better than well," he replied softly. "I planted a seed. Now... I'm just waiting for the forest to grow."
He didn't check the magical news. He didn't need to.
He could see it through the data collected by System through World core. The notifications had been scrolling in his peripheral vision since 6:00 AM, a waterfall of text that he had muted to enjoy his breakfast.
[The Name 'The Architect' has been spoken 1.5 million times in the last hour.]
and the data is still on rise.
__________________________________________________
While Alister drank his coffee, the Wizarding World was burning.
The British Media personals Alister invited, terrified of shouldering the burden alone, had panicked. Under pressure from the scared nobility and the Ministry, most importantly the fear Architect intilled in them made them realize they couldn't suppress the story.
So, they did the only thing cowards knew how to do and what Alister expected from them: they shared the fear.
Through backchannels, international portkeys, and emergency owl networks, the British media syndicates sent the story out. They contacted the New York Ghost in America, Le Cri de la Gargouille in France, and The Daily Prophet's affiliates in Asia.
And valuable information, once free, is like a virus.
By 8:00 AM, it wasn't just a British scandal. It was a global crisis.
PARIS, FRANCE.
A wizard sat in a café in Place Cachée, choking on his croissant as he read the headline. "L'ARCHITECTE: LE FIN DE LA TRADITION?" (The Architect: The End of Tradition?) The article described a man and his method which could grant power even to squibs.
The French Purebloods sneered, calling it a hoax, but the squibs serving the tables... their eyes lingered on the page with a desperate, hungry light.
NEW YORK, USA.
In the sleek, art-deco lobby of MACUSA, aurors were running. The New York Ghost was screaming from the newsstands: "MAGIC FOR EVERYONE: TERRORIST OR SAVIOR?"
The President of MACUSA was already on the emergency line with the ICW. The concept of "Mana Circulation" threatened to destabilize the entire Rappaport's Law. If No-Maj-borns could become powerful, their secrecy was doomed.
At first, the majority of the magical population treated it as tabloid trash.
"Circulate mana? Ridiculous. Magic comes from the blood," the elites sneered.
But there are always the brave. There are always the desperate. The people whom the world had chewed up and spat out. The ones limited by chance, born with weak cores, destined to be second-class citizens.
They were the ones who didn't care about safety or tradition. They were the ones ready to grab any opportunity the world threw at them.
In a basement in Berlin, a washout student tried the "Lesser Orbit." Ten minutes later, he successfully cast a levitation charm that smashed his ceiling.
In a slum in Mumbai, a hedge witch felt her stagnant core roar to life for the first time in twenty years.
The news didn't spread by owl; it spread by results.
_______________________________________________
By noon, the name "The Architect" rang in the whole world.
It wasn't just a name; it was a prayer for the weak and a curse for the strong. It was printed in the heart of every wizard.
The fear among the establishment was palpable. The sheer speed of the destabilization terrified them. If anyone could become strong, their entire society—built on lineage and blood purity—would collapse.
Every Ministry of Magic, from London to Moscow, coordinated a simultaneous response. A new poster was magically duplicated and plastered onto every wall, in every language.
[WANTED - GLOBAL PRIORITY]
NAME: UNKNOWN
ALIAS: THE ARCHITECT
CRIMES: Destabilization of the Magical Order, Mass Distribution of Forbidden Knowledge, Incitement of Global Anarchy.
BOUNTY: 500,000 Galleons (Alive or Dead).
STATUS: KILL ON SIGHT.
Back in Surrey, Alister set his empty mug down on the coffee table. The System notifications were scrolling in his peripheral vision so fast they were a blur of blue light.
[Users of 'Lesser Orbit': 14,300 and rising...]
[Magic of whole world is being circulated and becoming active. Soon, world's magic will stop decreasing]
Alister stood up and walked to the window. He looked out at the grey sky, knowing that somewhere out there, thousands of people were taking their first breath of real power.
"The world just woke up," Alister whispered, his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. "They think they can hunt me. But soon they will realize this is just the spark I created and the whole world will soon be lit on fire by me. It will burn with magic like I need it to."
______________________________________________
(A/N: hogwarts in my fanfic has 3 terms, sept-dec, jan-mar, apr-june with holidays between them)
The grey skies of late March hung low over London, a chilly drizzle slicking the pavement outside King's Cross Station. The Easter holidays were over, marking the end of Term 2.
It was time to return for the final stretch—Term 3.
Alister stood near the barrier, his trolley packed. The past few weeks of "holiday" had been anything but restful; they had been a calculated firestorm of distributing the Mana Method and watching the world ignite. But now, he had to slip back into the role of the student.
He looked down.
Astra was standing there, gripping the edge of his sleeve so tight her knuckles were white. Her head was bowed, hiding her face, but he could see the tremble in her shoulders. When she finally looked up, her eyes were rimmed with red, swimming with unshed tears.
She hated the goodbyes. She hated being left behind in the silent house while he went back to that castle.
Alister's expression, usually a mask of cold indifference to the outside world, softened instantly. He ignored the bustle of commuters rushing past them. He let go of his trolley and slowly got down on one knee on the cold station floor, bringing himself to eye level with her.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice gentle.
He reached out, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down her pale cheek.
"Don't look at me like that. You know I can't leave if you look at me like that."
Astra sniffled, leaning into his warm hand, trying to be brave but failing. "It feels like you just got back. Now you're leaving again."
Alister smiled, a rare, genuine warmth that only she ever saw.
"It's the final term, Astra. Term 3. It goes by faster than you think."
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, locking eyes with her.
"You just need to wait for three months. That's it. By the time the summer sun hits the Black Lake, everything will be different."
He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial promise.
"Three months. And when I come back, I'm not coming back to stay here. Next time... you will be coming to Hogwarts with me."
Astra's wet eyes widened slightly, a spark of hope cutting through the sadness. "Really?"
"you'll be 11," he reminded her with a smirk. "I am sure you will be getting letter from Hogwarts soon and If I say you're coming, you're coming."
He stood up, brushing the dust off his knee, and placed a hand on her head.
"Now, go back. Keep the wards strong. Study the method I taught and manuals I left you. I'll see you in July."
Astra wiped her eyes with her sleeve, nodding firmly. "Three months."
"Three months," Alister agreed.
He turned, grabbed his trolley, and marched toward the barrier. He stepped through the brick wall, leaving the Muggle world behind and ready to enter the steam-filled chaos of Platform 9 3/4, ready to witness how the spark he created will affect Hogwarts and to continue adding fuel to that spark.
________________________________________________________
Alister stepped through the barrier, bracing himself for the usual wall of noise—the screeching of owls, the yelling of parents, the thundering of steam.
It didn't come.
Instead, he stepped into a strange, hollow version of Platform 9 3/4.
The scarlet steam engine was there, belching white smoke into the vaulted ceiling, but the platform itself was jarringly empty. Usually, at the start of a term, it was shoulder-to-shoulder chaos. Now, there were wide, open gaps on the cobblestones.
Alister paused, his eyes scanning the scene.
The demographic shift was immediate and undeniable.
The crowds of Pureblood families—usually the ones dominating the platform with their trunks and loud farewells—were decimated. The few that were there looked terrified, hurrying their children onto the train with furtive glances at the shadows, as if The Architect might jump out from behind a pillar.
But the biggest change was the absences.
"Looks like Hogwarts will welcome loads of late students. That add another rule indirectly broken by me," Alister murmured to himself, a cold smirk touching his lips.
He began to walk down the platform, his trolley rattling in the relative quiet.
He passed a group of Seventh Years huddled together. They weren't talking about N.E.W.T.s. They were holding crumpled copies of the Daily Prophet, whispering about "cycles" and "core compression."
He saw a Muggleborn mother arguing with her husband near a pillar. "Why send him back, John? He learned more from that manual in a week than he did in six years at that school!"
Alister suppressed a chuckle. The monopoly was breaking.
But if Hogwarts still wants to be at the forefront, Hogwarts or rather Dumbledore will be forced to make changes and adapt to the world he is building.
For centuries, Hogwarts had been the only option. If you wanted to be a wizard, you went to school. Now? Alister had given the world a correspondence course in godhood. Why pay tuition to learn how to change a teacup into a tortoise when you could stay home, circulate your mana, and learn to create your own magic?
This method will make experimenting and controlling magic safe directly nurturing the creativity wizards lose due to fear of magic accident.
He boarded the train.
The corridors, usually a gauntlet of students fighting for space, were eerie. He walked past compartment after compartment.
Empty. Empty. Half-full. Empty.
The train wasn't just quiet; it was skeletal. It looked like a transport during wartime.
He found a compartment near the back, slid the door open, and stowed his trunk. He had the entire bench to himself. In fact, he likely had the entire carriage to himself.
He sat down by the window, watching the few remaining students.
Soon, Alister's quiet compartment was bombarded by twins and cho chang who came late.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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