Steelalbatross5000: I'll google it — I'm using the HP Wiki :D. I don't want to write spoilers, but you can trust that every type of magic will be clearly visible in duels :). I just can't promise that the MC himself will be using transfiguration.
HazelJumiand CsdoniRequiem: Thank you for your support, I truly appreciate it :).
allarmsandrockhard: I'm glad you're enjoying the story. A Light or Dark witch… personally, I value a woman who stands by her partner, supports him, and would stand with him against the entire world. What if he had the kindest girlfriend imaginable — someone who wouldn't hurt a fly? :D For now, though, we're really just at the beginning, so don't think about romance yet. And I don't like Hermione! :D
Ladies and gentlemen, I truly appreciate your comments. Across different platforms, many of you are discussing the MC's future partner and potential romance. However, romance is still a long way off — we're only at the beginning, and our MC is just 11 years old. For now, please enjoy the story and the action.
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THE DAY BEFORE THE DELIVERY OF THE ACCEPTANCE LETTERS
POV: Minerva McGonagall
A mountain of work awaited me upon my return from a well-deserved holiday. How I envied Severus—no extra duties, free to devote himself undisturbed to his potions. As Deputy Headmistress, I had no choice but to sort and check the acceptance letters for future students from the first to the seventh year. I loved teaching, but bureaucracy had never held much appeal for me. Fortunately, it was a fairly automated process.
The magical quill inscribed the student's name and address onto the envelope and then prepared the letter itself. House-elves would then place the letters into the envelopes and seal them with hot wax, finally sorting them by year. However, we had to watch the first-years especially closely. It was necessary to identify children from Muggle families who required a personal visit from a professor, but we also monitored the exact addresses—sometimes, these could reveal abuse or neglect. The entire system was brilliantly enchanted. Someone might think it a simple process, but they would be very far from the truth.
The quill was connected directly to the Book of Admittance, which recorded future Hogwarts students. To ensure flawless functionality, a complex blend of runes, powerful charms, and ancient rituals had been used. I honestly doubted that if it were destroyed, anyone could recreate the system from scratch. According to history, it was built together by Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. Salazar was an expert in magical runes and rituals, while Rowena was an unsurpassed mistress of enchanting objects.
Finally, it was done. All the envelopes were sorted; all that remained was to send the letters to the older years, but I had to check the first-years personally. I took them to my desk while preparing the remaining piles for dispatch. I had to separate them clearly, as house-elves weren't always the brightest.
"Dibo, please deliver these envelopes to the owls for dispatch to our students. Thank you," I instructed the head elf.
I sat at my desk and began leafing through the first-year envelopes. "Harry Potter should be starting this year as well. I wonder if he'll be as much of a troublemaker as his father," I thought with a faint smile.
Right at the top of the pile, names like Weasley, Malfoy, Goyle, Bones, and Patil shone out.
"This is going to be a very long seven years. I need a drink for this," I muttered under my breath. From my years of teaching, I knew better, so I always kept a bottle of firewhisky and a clean goblet close at hand.
The hatred between Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy was practically legendary. It was rumored that Lucius once had a serious interest in Molly Prewett, but Arthur had, to put it bluntly, snatched her right from under his nose.
Only a few envelopes remained.
"Lavender Brown—fine; Dean Thomas—fine; Harry Potter—The Cupboard under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey."
I froze completely. They were the worst kind of Muggles I had ever encountered. I told Albus it was a mistake, but he stubbornly went his own way. Lily and James didn't deserve this. They gave their lives so their child would be safe, not so he could sleep in a cupboard under the stairs!
I'll check the last letter and then I'm going to give him a piece of my mind immediately.
"Patrik Evan Rosier—The Private Room at the Very Top, Wool's Orphanage, London."
My throat tightened sharply. Evan Rosier wasn't just another wizard—he was one of the most devoted Death Eaters until they got him in Azkaban years ago. But this? Rosier's child in a Muggle orphanage?
I poured myself another glass of firewhisky and drained it to the dregs. The burning liquid raced down my throat, but it didn't calm my inner turmoil. Two goblets in such a short time...
I grabbed both envelopes, stood up abruptly, and headed for the door. I felt the whisky giving me the courage I needed now. I marched through the castle corridors so fast my robes billowed behind me. Even Severus would have been envious.
When I reached the gargoyle in front of the Headmaster's office, I didn't even wait for the statue to move aside properly. I flew up the spiral staircase and burst through the door without knocking.
Albus jumped up from his desk in surprise, wand in hand. Apparently, none of the portraits had managed to inform him that I was rushing toward him in a fit of rage.
"ALBUS! I TOLD YOU THEY WERE THE WORST KIND OF MUGGLES I'VE EVER SEEN! YOU ASSURED ME HE WOULD BE FINE THERE!" I lashed out at him immediately and threw the envelope with Harry Potter's name onto his desk.
Albus's brow furrowed gravely. He reached for the envelope, and as he read the address, I saw genuine shock on his face. His shoulders slumped as if the incredible weight of the whole world had suddenly dropped onto them.
"We must get him out of there immediately! He cannot stay there for another minute," I added sharply.
"Minerva, we have no choice. Harry Potter must stay with Petunia. Without the blood protection, he would have been dead long ago. There is no one else who can care for him; in any other family, he would be in constant danger. I will go visit Petunia and have a serious word with her," he told me matter-of-factly, as if he were talking about the weather and not a suffering child in a cupboard under the stairs.
"I'll take him! I'm alone, Albus," I blurted out. He might have lacked the nerve, but I had that true Scottish grit in me and I wasn't going to back down.
He smiled sadly and shook his head. "It is not possible, Minerva. I am sorry. I will not risk the life of my Deputy, nor the boy's life. I will go to Petunia and resolve it. I promise."
Once Albus started making promises, I knew I wouldn't move him. I was fed up with him, but at this moment, I was helpless. Out of anger, I threw the second envelope—the one with Rosier's name—on his desk and stormed out of the room without a word. I slammed the door so hard that the windows in the Headmaster's office rattled.
***
THE DAY BEFORE THE DELIVERY OF THE ACCEPTANCE LETTER
POV: Albus Dumbledore (After M. McGonagall's departure)
Once again, I felt a bitter disappointment. I had hoped that Petunia would find at least a shred of compassion and love for her sister's child. I knew that if the situation were reversed, Petunia's child would have had a wonderful life full of love with Lily.
But Petunia remained embittered. She had once wanted so badly to be a witch... I could still see those letters she wrote to me via Muggle post, pleading with me to let her come to Hogwarts. Unfortunately, it wasn't possible. Her unfulfilled dream had turned over time into hatred and a deep resentment toward all things magical.
"Poor boy," I thought sadly. The fate of our entire world now rested on his shoulders.
Tom's Horcrux was hidden in his scar. I had spent the last ten years searching for a way to get it out of Harry without him having to die. I owed it to Lily and James. There had to be a way.
"I will continue the search. Perhaps in Cairo, in the ancient scrolls, I will finally find a solution," I muttered under my breath.
I remembered that Minerva had thrown another envelope on my desk. I reached for it lazily, naively believing that nothing could be worse than Harry's situation.
"Patrik Evan Rosier—The Private Room at the Very Top, Wool's Orphanage, London."
It was worse. Much worse.
My hands began to shake instantly. I felt the blood rush to my temples and the world around me began to spin dangerously. I had to force myself to breathe; the sudden shock almost deprived me of my senses.
"Please, not that. Not that again," I whispered pleadingly to the empty room. In my mind, I cursed that hellish place which, decades ago, had broken an innocent child's soul and created the most terrifying Dark Lord of this century. The thought that history should repeat itself was unbearable.
***
THE DAY AFTER RECEIVING THE ACCEPTANCE LETTER
POV: Patrik Evan Rosier
The time to leave for Hogwarts was approaching. I had most of my things ready, especially the books. They had been sitting on my shelves for almost a year. I bought them during my last expedition so that I could start studying at the orphanage as soon as possible. Fortunately, it turned out that all the titles on the official list brought by the owl matched the ones I already had at the home.
"The textbook list probably won't change radically until Lockhart comes onto the scene," I thought with a smirk. I knew that incompetent peacock would force the students to buy all his fake novels.
I decided to buy the rest of the equipment during the coming weekend. But today was reserved for something else. An idea about a more aggressive use of telekinesis was gnawing at my mind.
Already this morning in the shower, I was thinking about Darth Vader and his iconic choke. If I can move an object with the power of will and magic, why couldn't I exert pressure on something as pliable as a human throat?
I headed to Trafalgar Square to test my hypothesis in practice. I saw no reason why this telekinetic imitation shouldn't work. The crowd of people in the square was the perfect place to get lost and, at the same time, find a suitable target.
I settled onto the nearest bench, which stood directly in front of a cheap pub with a terrace.
"Some drunkard might be the ideal target for the test," I assessed pragmatically. Even if he started choking or gasping for breath, others would likely attribute it to his condition.
I didn't have to wait long. I was lucky—after a few minutes, the pub doors burst open and the innkeeper threw a drowsy regular right onto the pavement.
The man stumbled and looked around blankly, as if he had no idea why he was suddenly on the street. I immediately focused and sent telekinetic pressure toward his throat. I felt that I had established a connection, but the distance was too great. The force was too weak for the drunkard to even register it.
I stood up resolutely and stepped toward him. I walked slowly, with maximum concentration, counting the steps in my mind. I needed to find the exact boundary where the faint pressure turned into actual, tangible strangulation.
At a distance of about ten meters, I noticed the man was beginning to feel something. He started swallowing hard, but he wasn't choking yet. I continued walking straight toward him. At five meters, he already had a visible problem breathing; gasping for air was accompanied by confused movements of his hands toward his larynx, as if he could release the invisible grip himself.
I reached maximum effect at three meters. Oxygen stopped flowing into his lungs, his face began to turn an unhealthy red, and with desperate scratching at his throat, he slowly slumped to the ground. At that moment, I stopped immediately. Passers-by ignored him completely—wonderful London and its famous empathy.
The experiment was relatively successful. I found the exact limit of effectiveness, but the price was high. The demands on concentration and energy were immense—I felt that this short test had drained half of my magical core. In a real fight, three meters is too short a distance, making this technique impractical for now. As a tool for shocking someone at close range, however, it was invaluable.
I admitted to a small disappointment, though. It didn't look as epic as Darth Vader—the victims didn't stand on their tiptoes or levitate in the air. I wondered if using a wand could amplify this effect and extend its range. Much like when Voldemort forces Potter into a humiliating bow during his rebirth in the future.
"With a wand, it might be worth it," I thought with a smile.
***
WIKIPEDIA: Rules of Ancestral Magic and Inheritance
In the archaic world of pureblood families, it is not social politeness that plays a role, but blood and authority. Rosier family magic is relentless and follows a strict patriarchal line. This means that magical inheritance always seeks out the nearest male descendant. For magic itself, concepts like "legitimate origin" or "marriage" are irrelevant—if the right blood flows in the veins of an illegitimate child, the magical line will accept them as its own, regardless of what society thinks.
This power is physically concentrated in ancestral rings, which are not just jewelry but true keys to power. Without such a ring, a wizard, even one with the name Rosier, is nobody in a political sense. The ring is a necessary condition for an heir to claim his seat in the Wizengamot. In addition to political influence, the ring also ensures control over ancestral estates. It allows the Head of the House to control the complex protective spells that guard the family property against strangers.
It is important to understand that this ancestral power does not increase the raw magical power of an individual in any way, nor does it give them a talent for specific types of spells. It is pure authoritative power. It is the right to command the stones of the ancestral manors and to enforce family laws.
At this point, a fascinating conflict arises between property and magic. While gold in Gringotts or the ownership of land is decided by the previous Head of the House through a will, ancestral magic (the ring) cannot be bought or forced by anyone. A situation may arise where someone inherits an estate on paper, but if the ring does not recognize them as worthy, the ancestral protection simply won't let them into the building. The owner thus becomes an intruder in their own home.
If the male line were to die out completely, the system of magic automatically turns to the female branch. If the last living member were a paternal aunt, her descendant—even if they carried a different surname—would be called to become the new Head of the House and the successor to the Rosier legacy.
Being a member of a pureblood house in this world is not just a matter of prestige or an empty title. It is a direct connection to the legacy of ancestors, which has real magical consequences for the family member. Magic perceives the bloodline and, through generations, solidifies specific family affinities—natural talents inherited just like eye color.
Most Rosiers are thus born with an innate talent for the Mind Arts (Legilimency and Occlumency). The House of Black carries the ferocity of dark and combat magic in its blood, while the Gaunts are tied to serpents, poisons, and ritual ceremonies. The Malfoys, on the other hand, have a natural flair for the magic of control and confusion. Although it can exceptionally happen that a family member is born without this affinity, it is a rare deviation that often discredits them in the eyes of the family.
The ultimate judge of the bloodline, however, is the hereditary ring. It functions as a magical archive of values. Every previous bearer left an imprint of a piece of their personality, ambition, and morality in the ring. From these millennia of experience, a kind of "ancestral ideal" was created.
If someone puts on the ring whose values and character are in too much conflict with what the family represents, the artifact will brutally reject them. Such a rejection is not just symbolic—it can be physically painful or even life-threatening for the claimant. In short, the ring will not allow anyone to lead the family who does not identify with its values.
***
In this chapter, I decided on a small experiment and tried writing part of the plot from Minerva and Albus's perspectives. I'll be very grateful for your feedback—what do you think? Do you feel I managed to capture their character?
I would like to specially dedicate this chapter to user Moi (Astrx7), who imagined Dumbledore's reaction to an envelope addressed to Wool's Orphanage in the comments. Originally, I didn't want to mention Harry Potter in this context, but at that moment, it made perfect sense.
Finally, I've prepared a small "Wiki window" for you about how I perceive ancestral magic in my story. As Ranrok already hinted in the chapter "Blood and Gold," the ancestral ring carries certain risks and is not just an ordinary piece of jewelry.
Tomorrow I'm traveling to see my girlfriend and her family for New Year's Eve celebrations, so I don't know if I'll find time to write. If a new chapter doesn't appear by the end of the year, I want to wish you all a happy and successful New Year!
If you like the story, I'll be grateful for every comment, like, or discussion. Your interaction is what motivates me most to continue creating! :)