A year passed. A year in Wool's Orphanage, a year spent in a vacuum, severed from everything I once loved and considered my life. I won't lie – grief and depression returned to me regularly. That's just life: one day you're up, the next you're down.
As Rocky would say: "Life doesn't hit fair. It hits hard and without warning. It's not about how many times you fall, but whether you get back up and keep going every time."
Paradoxically, what helped me most was that I simply didn't have time for self-pity.
After returning from the hospital, I was swallowed by a relentless cycle of duties. Suddenly, I found myself behind a school desk, surrounded by noisy children. I should have expected it, yet the sudden change caught me unprepared. In the end, it wasn't entirely in vain; school provided a perfect screen behind which I could attempt the impossible – mastering magic.
I spent weeks staring intently at a pen lying on my desk. I tried to move it by sheer force of will, but the world around me remained motionless. Initially, I attributed the failure to poor concentration, or worse, my own incompetence. It bothered me, gnawing at my insides, but I refused to give up. If others could do it, why couldn't I? I refused to be inferior.
The breakthrough didn't come until the summer holidays. August was pivotal. The weather changed constantly – hot sunny days were replaced by classic English foul weather, damp and weeping. I noticed something strange: whenever the air was heavy with humidity or a downpour started, I felt "more like myself." It was as if water acted as a natural catalyst, waking me up.
One Friday, after coming home from school, the heaviest August downpour yet hit. I sat locked in my room, immersed in deep meditation. Rain drummed on the windowpane in a wild rhythm, and I let myself be completely absorbed by the sound. That was the moment it happened. I felt something foreign within me, yet intimately familiar.
If I had to compare it to anything, it would be a small, glowing tennis ball. It wasn't green, as one might expect, but glowed with a deep, electric blue. Through sheer will and absolute focus, I touched it in my mind. In that split second, I understood – this is my magic.
Dozens of questions raced through my head. Do wizards really have something like a magical core? Does its power grow with age, or does it increase with regular training? My original theory – that magic springs from the earth and wizards are just antennas that catch and use it – crumbled to dust. The source was within me.
It immediately dawned on me why my previous attempts at telekinesis or Legilimency were doomed to fail. I had been attempting them like a Muggle. I was just staring blankly and hoping for a miracle, but I wasn't using the tool itself. The source was inside me and had been sleeping until now. This knowledge triggered a wave of pure euphoria and kicked me into even harder training.
The real triumph came in October. It was the first time I used magic consciously and successfully. The whole trick lay in "holding onto the magic, moving it with will," and focusing on what I wanted to do. It was no longer just about wishing; it was about a precise process.
The problem was that even simple levitation of a pen exhausted me incredibly. That pen weighed barely a few grams; I held it in the air for only a few seconds, but I felt as if I had just passed an exam in nuclear physics. When I caught my breath and tried again, it was even worse. I didn't last even half as long as before. How is it possible that it's so demanding? Am I really that weak? It's just a few-gram pen, and I honestly expected more of myself.
The following day, however, brought a discovery. The second attempt went smoother, and on the third, I held the pen for as long as the very first time. By the fourth, I felt significant tension and managed only two-thirds of the time, while the fifth attempt ended in a fiasco after just a few moments.
Despite the exhaustion, I was smiling. It confirmed to me that the magical core works like a muscle – it grows by being pushed to the limit.
Before falling asleep, I spun plans for Legilimency training in my head. At school or in the orphanage, it would be a piece of cake – after all, there are plenty of games built on eye contact. Cards, "staring contests," and the like. I wasn't worried about hurting them; Barlow was perfectly fine after my intervention, he didn't even blink and noticed nothing. Their privacy? I couldn't care less. What could I possibly find in the memories of kids that would be so groundbreaking? Them crying over Pokémon?
The opportunity arose the next morning. It was enough to bet my deskmate on who would look away first. "First one to look away is a donkey." Hah, that always gets kids.
Legilimency was magically incomparably more demanding than levitating a pen. Good thing I tried it in the morning while I was "fresh." Flashes of his breakfast and a scene of his mother helping him pack his school bag flickered before my eyes. For the rest of the day, I felt like a squeezed lemon. It wasn't physical fatigue, nor essentially mental.
It was an empty magical core. I simply felt... drained. That fatigue didn't leave me even the next day, and honestly, it scared the hell out of me. What if I overdid it? What if I permanently deprived myself of magic and became a Squib?
Not until the third day did I start feeling relatively okay. Though I still sensed the fatigue, curiosity was stronger. I couldn't help myself and tried to levitate the pen again. When it rose, I felt a massive sense of relief. At that moment, I promised myself I wouldn't rush into magic so aggressively.
***
School, cleaning at the home, physical training, and shadowboxing – my daily schedule was taking its toll. However, I made sure to play football with the other kids. After all, it was better to chase a ball (Manchester United, let's goooo!) and socialize a bit than to rot alone in my room and just mechanically practice.
My sudden desire to socialize even surprised Mrs. Benson. The first few times I played football with the others, she watched me warily, as if waiting for me to hurt someone. Riddle had apparently avoided social games like the plague. Over time, however, I caught her watching me with a soft, satisfied smile. It was as if she felt her effort and protectiveness had saved me from the fate of the "exorcised" Riddle. Maybe she was right. Perhaps, if this body had experienced the same treatment as Tom, the original Patrick wouldn't have been "murdered," but would have grown into a tyrant.
Children under eleven were under strict supervision; they simply didn't let us into the city alone. I understood they were trying to protect us from the pitfalls of the outside world, but for me, it was a complication. I needed to find the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley. I couldn't wait to finally get my hands on actual books about magic, but it was clear I couldn't take the Muggles from the home with me.
My escape attempts failed due to the staff's surprisingly sharp instincts. It was as if they had eyes in the back of their heads – they always caught me before I could leave the grounds. When Benson caught me the second time, her look boded no good. I had to solemnly promise her that I wouldn't attempt any secret trips. Although it restricted me, I couldn't feel resentment toward her. In her eyes, I was just a child she was responsible for, and her fear for me was genuine. I decided to act like a man – I gave her my word and made no further attempts to escape.
I decided to handle it delicately. Getting to Diagon Alley before my eleventh birthday was a matter of life and death for me. I used my upcoming birthday and played gently on her emotions – claiming my only wish was to be able to explore London on my own for at least one day. Benson knew I was more mature than the others. I had straight A's in school; it wasn't hard to seem like a genius when I had to study such primitive material.
I felt that I had grown close to her heart over time. She no longer looked at me with suspicion, but rather with maternal pride. Eventually, she took pity on me. It helped especially that I had kept my word for the whole year and didn't attempt any escapes. However, I had to solemnly promise her that I would be careful and be back at the home by evening. I happily promised her that.
***
I set off right after breakfast. I knew the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley were located somewhere in central London, on a street full of theaters and bookstores. Wool's Orphanage was also in the center, but I had never seen it on the way from the hospital or during group outings. Therefore, I was certain I had to go in the exact opposite direction.
The simplest thing was to ask passersby for the theater district. The first gentleman I approached, however, only shook his head. I should have expected that – by his appearance, he looked like neither a fan of literature nor a lover of theatrical art.
An elderly lady in a fur coat became my salvation; she knew exactly which street I meant. She gave me precise instructions on how to get to Charing Cross Road.
The whole way, I prayed silently that the Leaky Cauldron would be right there. My wish came true. From the outside, the inn looked neglected, almost shabby, with old wooden doors that a Muggle would pass without notice. With unconcealed tension, I stepped inside and immediately felt relief. No one paid me any attention. Magic here was practically tangible; not only could I feel it in my bones, but I saw it all around me. Smoky ghosts of dragons and unicorns rose from the tables, while families in robes ate lunch peacefully.
I expected a noise similar to a regular pub, but only quiet chatter echoed from the tables. Were they using silencing charms, or was it something else? I noticed a hunched, balding man serving food and drink to one of the families. "That must be Tom," I thought.
He looked like he had his hands full. I knew that I just had to pass through the back courtyard to find myself at the entrance to Diagon Alley. But I had to wait a while. I didn't have a wand, and although I might have been able to open the gate with raw magic without one, I didn't know the correct sequence of bricks.
Luckily, I didn't wait long. A wizard in a simple black robe didn't even give me a look and tapped the code directly on the wall. It wasn't complicated, and I immediately memorized the movements. When the bricks began to move, I set off right behind him.
I must admit, I didn't expect to be enchanted. Surprised? Definitely. Enchanted? Certainly not. My adult self maintained a distance and logical perspective, but Diagon Alley had something about it that couldn't be ignored. It was an assault on all senses at once.
The stone pavement wound between buildings that seemed to be held together only by sheer will and a good dose of magic – they leaned over the street like old, curious friends. Every storefront was different: from dusty second-hand bookshops with books that flipped their own pages, to shiny displays where the latest broomsticks floated. The air was filled with the hooting of owls, the scent of sulfur from potions, and the muffled clink of Galleons.
What hit me most, however, wasn't the visual chaos, but that feeling in my chest. My magical core, until now accustomed only to levitating a pen in a sterile room, began to practically vibrate here. Magic was tangible here, floating in the air like a fine static tension. It was as if I had stepped into a strong magnetic field that, instead of pain, brought a sense of endless possibilities. The light fell differently here, as if breaking through an invisible dome of a spell that isolated this place from the grey and noisy reality of Muggle London.
"It's organized chaos," I smiled to myself. Despite the mess everywhere, I finally felt like I was home.
I decided to walk through the entire Diagon Alley first. I wanted to take a good look at the shop windows of the main stores to get at least somewhat oriented. Right after that, however, another, much more important step awaited me: getting money. What was the point of access to all these magical wonders if I couldn't afford anything? In the orphanage, it worked strictly – all allowances went straight into savings accounts that we were to access only at eighteen to have something for a start. No pocket money existed; although we got everything necessary, my pockets were completely empty.
But I was a Rosier. I knew it was an ancient pure-blood family, so it was almost certain they had a vault at Gringotts Bank. The only problem was the key. I didn't have it. In the world of magic, however, there had to be a way for descendants of a house to access their wealth even if they lost the key. Identity must be provable in other ways in this world.
"I have no choice," I thought and stepped decisively toward the bank.
It was a grand, imposing building of snow-white marble. Even at first glance, it radiated elegance and power. Before the doors, I noticed the familiar engraving with a warning for thieves. I skimmed it quickly and ignored it. I didn't care. I didn't come to steal; I just came for what rightfully belongs to me.
I entered without hesitation. The hall was huge, cold, and entirely of white marble. It radiated power and luxury; it was a completely different world from the one with cheap metal windows and creaking desks at the orphanage. Around me echoed guttural laughter and a harsh language I didn't understand, the scratching of quills, and the clinking of coins on scales. The hall was almost empty, except for one wizard in the distance. That played into my hands. Without hesitation, I walked to the nearest counter marked "Available."
I found it funny how goblins needed to compensate for their height. They sat on significantly elevated chairs, just so they could look down on wizards. It amused me rather than intimidated me.
"Good day," I said clearly and loudly.
After a moment, the goblin leaned over the edge of his counter. For child customers, this architecture wasn't exactly ideal. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. Was he surprised I even greeted him?
"Good day. How can I help you?" he asked with cold professionalism.
I honestly didn't expect such professionalism. I assumed that relations between goblins and wizards were, diplomatically speaking, on the rocks.
"My name is Patrick Evan Rosier," I introduced myself. "I currently live in an orphanage, but I am sure of my heritage. I want to know if my family has a vault in this bank, and if so, how I can access it," I asked directly.
The goblin raised his eyebrow even higher. "It is possible to perform an inheritance test. If it is confirmed that you are an heir or a member of the house, we will assign you a new key and determine a withdrawal limit according to your status. The price of the test is five Galleons. Do you have them with you?"
"No, I don't," I replied calmly. "However, I am certain of my heritage. After the test, I will gladly pay you even ten Galleons."
"I must warn you," the goblin continued just as matter-of-factly. "In the event that you do not have the funds for payment after the test, you will become our debtor. That means forced labor until you work off the amount. And it isn't exactly a small sum."
"I understand. I am sure," I confirmed without the slightest worry. I had no idea why I ended up in the home, but the name Evan Rosier was a household name in this world. My father is dead, and I, as his son, am the rightful heir. There was no risk for me.
"Very well then, wait a moment, I will inform the Rosier family banker. He will be right here," he said calmly.
Those few minutes of waiting passed like a second. Perhaps I was under deeper stress than I was willing to admit. When firm footsteps echoed behind me, I turned calmly. A taller, broad-shouldered goblin walked toward me. Authority radiated from every movement and his confident gaze.
"Good day, Mr. Rosier. It is a pleasure to see you," he greeted me surprisingly politely. "Please, come to my office. We will discuss our matters in private."
I felt he meant it sincerely, which startled me. What goblin would be sincerely happy about the presence of a wizard?
The office was small but felt like a vault. The walls were lined with massive stone shelves full of numbered files and heavy silver boxes. An obsidian desk dominated the room, on which there was no object other than a single blank parchment and a silver dagger. The air here was heavy, smelling of old metal and ink. There was no unnecessary luxury, only Spartan efficiency.
I didn't look around much; I focused only on the expected inheritance test.
"Sit down, please. Would you like something to drink? Juice, tea, or plain water?" the goblin offered.
"No, thank you. I only came for the test," I refused in a firm voice.
"Of course, it will be right away. It's a simple process," he smiled. "By the way, you bear a striking resemblance to your father. Except for that nose; you have your mother's elegant one. You have nothing to fear."
He took a quill from the desk. I immediately sensed it wasn't ordinary. Magic pulsed in it, and I caught a sharp taste of iron in the air.
"Simply write your full name on the parchment," he said and slowly pushed the quill and parchment in front of me.
"Is it safe? I feel magic from it," I asked cautiously.
"Oh? Magical sensitivity is not common in your houses. Yes, it is safe. The quill is enchanted to have direct access to your blood without it flowing anywhere else. Blood serves instead of ink. Blood captures the magic that connects your name. We then compare that with the blood and magic of your ancestors. It's a bulletproof test."
I still felt sincerity from him, but also an increasing joy. The question remained – why?
I didn't hesitate and wrote on the parchment: "Patrick Evan Rosier." It was strange, writing with my own blood, but I felt no pain.
With expectation in his eyes, he reached out and took the parchment and the quill. I only saw him open a drawer and place it there. I saw nothing more, but when he straightened up, he announced the result with a smile.
"Congratulations, Gringotts Bank officially recognizes you as a member of the House of Rosier. I will issue you a vault key; however, you have a limit on Galleon withdrawals and also item selection. Certain specific things can only be taken by the Head of the House," he informed me proudly.
"Thank you. But may I ask why you are so visibly happy?" My curiosity finally won. "I thought there was mostly hatred between goblins and wizards."
"Ah, of course. I forgot to introduce myself," he replied and bowed slightly. "My name is Ranrok III. I am a descendant of Ranrok, who once led a great rebellion. After our defeat, my family became outcasts. We were hated by our own and by wizards alike. We survived only with difficulty. Until after the death of the old manager Rodrik, your great-grandfather gave my father a chance. Since then, we have been indebted to your house. For a long time, I feared that the House of Rosier would perish for good with your father. I am immensely glad I was wrong."
So that explained everything. "Thank you, great-grandfather," I thought. An ally like this was priceless. Someone who would stand or fall with me.
"Nice to meet you, Ranrok," I replied and also bowed slightly. Then I paused. "Wait, shouldn't I be the Head of the House automatically? After all, my family is dead, right?" I asked.
"Your father, Evan, is currently in Azkaban," Ranrok began in a serious tone. "I know that roughly ten years ago, Auror Moody and other Aurors attacked your house. Your grandfather died in that attack, and your father was taken away as a follower of Lord Voldemort. You still have an Aunt Victoria, who was at school at the time of the attack. That's about all I know – there was a big article about it in the papers back then." He paused and moved to legal facts. "So your father is still the Head of the House, and you are his heir. You can become the Head of the House only when your father dies or renounces his position. The minimum age is set at fifteen, or you must possess an amount of magic equivalent to a fifteen-year-old wizard. Given your sensitivity, I assume you will reach that much sooner."
"Thank you for the explanation. My birth must have been a secret, since I ended up in an orphanage," I noted quietly, more to myself.
"Probably so," Ranrok nodded. "If they had known about you, your aunt or another allied family would undoubtedly have taken you in. Whether for good, through the blood bond, or with ill intentions. Child masters are often a harbinger of the downfall of the entire house."
"Can my existence remain a secret for now?" I asked. I didn't want to risk my aunt getting rid of me before I could find my bearings. Without a wand and sufficient knowledge, I couldn't defend myself, and I definitely didn't plan to underestimate an adult witch. We are a dark family, after all.
"Of course, Mr. Rosier. Information about your person is safe with me," Ranrok nodded. "Though I must point out that I cannot imagine your aunt hurting you. She suffered immensely from the loss of her family."
"Trust, but verify, Ranrok," I replied matter-of-factly. "First I must get to know this world, only then will I meet my family. For now, though, I would need access to money and the vault."
"Of course. Just a moment longer... the Heir's Ring." Ranrok pulled an ornate box from the desk drawer and handed it to me. I opened it eagerly. Inside rested a massive gold signet ring with an engraved letter "R" surrounded by thorny roses. I had to admit, from a design perspective, it was practically fascinating.
I felt my magic from it, or was it the magic of my house? The feeling was identical to when I felt my magic in my core. I wasn't sure, but I put it on the middle finger of my left hand. Automatically, the ring shrank and fit my finger perfectly.
"Congratulations, Mr. Rosier. I had not the slightest doubt the ring would accept you," Ranrok noted with a sharp, appreciative smile.
"Fuck, and what would have happened if it rejected me?" flashed through my head, but outwardly I showed no emotion.
"This ring is almost identical in design to the Head of House ring," Ranrok continued. "The difference is only in authority. The Head of House ring is superior in sealing official documents or managing the blood wards of your estate. The rings possess important defense: they can detect danger in objects. However, it is not one hundred percent. It reacts to magical substances, poisoned food, or cursed artifacts. It won't warn you against flying spells in combat, though; it focuses only on static threats in the surroundings. It won't catch Muggle toxins at all because magic, which the ring is tuned to, doesn't flow in them. And an important detail – if someone were to give you poison with good intentions, the ring would not warn you. It cannot detect a harmful substance if it doesn't sense hostile intent or dark magic behind it."
"Thank you," I thanked him dryly. The ring was definitely useful.
"You are very welcome. Now we can head to your vault," Ranrok suggested. "The inheritance test fee will be automatically deducted from your vault."
The trip to the vault was definitely interesting. In the cart, I felt like I was on a crazy roller coaster cutting corners deep in the bowels of the earth. Cold air hit my face and my stomach was somewhere in my throat. Luckily, the trip didn't last long.
We arrived at the vault. Ranrok placed his hand on the door and slid his finger sharply downward. The massive metal door opened with a muffled click and a magical creak. Inside spread a vast room. On the left side, shining gold coins towered in huge piles. The right side, however, was even more interesting. Immediately, a library full of old, leather-bound volumes caught my eye, and next to it, an impressive collection of weapons. Daggers and swords of various shapes, among which I even caught sight of a katana with a handle made of white snakeskin.
In the deeper corners of the vault stood carved chests from which rolls of colorful magical fabrics protruded. Open trunks full of raw gemstones were laid out on low tables; rubies and emeralds just lay there, casting bloody and green reflections on the cold walls. It was staggering wealth. However, I had no idea how the wealth of my house stood compared to other pure-blood families.
"Ranrok, are there any pouches I can take to grab some Galleons?" I asked. At that moment, I really missed paper bills and a credit card.
Ranrok smiled amusedly and pulled a leather pouch from his pocket. "It costs twenty Galleons. It has an anti-theft enchantment and a capacity of up to a thousand Galleons, which is also your current limit."
"Fill it to the maximum then," I ordered.
"Certainly, 975 Galleons, here you go," he handed me the pouch with a smile.
"May I ask how much that is in pounds?" I couldn't help it.
"It is roughly 4,900 pounds according to the current exchange rate. Will you need pounds as well?"
It was a good question. It would definitely simplify my life, if only for taxi money.
"Yes, please change part of the Galleons for 200 pounds. Thank you."
"I will hand you the pounds upon leaving the bank," Ranrok promised.
I was a bit disappointed that I didn't see any older wands of former family members anywhere. I knew that the legal purchase of a wand is possible only from age eleven, but I needed something for defense right now. My wandless magic was not yet strong enough to survive a real magical duel.
"Ranrok, what about those weapons in the corner? Can I take one of them?" it occurred to me immediately.
"Yes. As the Heir, you are entitled to a thousand Galleons a year and one weapon of your choice. Only the Head of House may handle everything else," Ranrok replied with a smile. I saw that he approved of my question. Although I didn't know much about weapons, the principle was simple: stick them with the pointy end. But which one to choose?
Swords were out of the question, and the katana, although it looked amazing, was impractical. Running around London with a sword on my back? I'd be stopped immediately. That left daggers. I needed something small that I could easily hide in a pocket or under a sleeve.
"Could you advise me on the choice? I'd like a dagger. You surely have more experience with weapons than I do," I asked him.
With visible enthusiasm, Ranrok began searching the racks. It took a while, but eventually, he laid three pieces before me. I immediately rejected one – it was too long. The second and third daggers were the same length, and I felt pulsing magic from both. Both had blades covered in finely engraved runes, but one of them had a blood-red crystal set in the handle.
"Could you tell me more about these two?" I asked him. "I want to choose correctly."
"Both have steel reinforced with runes. They will never break and will remain perfectly sharp forever because they constantly absorb surrounding magic," Ranrok explained with a sharp, almost bloodthirsty smile. "The one without the crystal is safer for you. However, the one with it has a darker enchantment. Upon hitting a target, it triggers a boiling blood curse in the victim's body. If the victim doesn't use a specific counter-spell, their own blood will boil them alive within an hour."
I am small, young, and weak. I need weapons that erase this gap. Mercy and a fair fight are the privileges of the powerful – I can't afford them for now. The choice was clear. I took the dagger with the crystal, slid it into the sheath, and hid it in my pocket.
Ranrok nodded approvingly.
"That will be all," I announced.
"Now just the shopping," I thought contentedly as we left the vault.
***
That was a bit of a longer chapter today, but I hope you enjoyed it! In the next part, we continue with the shopping and you can expect the first bit of action. The start at Hogwarts is inexorably approaching.
Did you notice the small change from the canon? In my story, Evan Rosier survived the attack, although in the books Moody killed him in a duel. So far, everything is going exactly according to plan...
If you enjoyed today's part, any comments, feedback, or powerstones for visibility would mean a lot to me. It motivates me greatly to keep writing!