Sleepyfae67: Thank you :).
Uvuv: Of course, in the world of fanfiction, anything is possible… just like in many stories where the protagonist waves hello and 30 women drop their panties. As for the wind, a vacuum like Danzo Shimura is theoretically possible, but it wasn't mentioned in the book about elements. So how would our protagonist even know that? Adding a ton of weight to a ball and then sending it flying at high speed as an attack seems like an insanely demanding task for magical power…
***
The weekend morning was peaceful. With formal consent from Mrs. Benson, I left the orphanage and headed to Diagon Alley. The streets were still empty; most families were saving their back-to-school shopping for the August rush. That suited me just fine. I had never been one to shun crowds, but the subtle introversion lingering from my previous life always made me seek out the silence instead. Even though people were few, the magic in the alley hummed perceptibly. It was a pleasant, almost tactile sensation.
My first stop was Gringotts. I sought out Ranrok to withdraw another thousand galleons—my current annual limit. I didn't strictly need the money at that moment, but leaving it sit there would be unpragmatic, especially since the limit would reset in January.
At Madam Malkin's, I handled my shopping in record time. Aside from the mandatory robes, I had a complete wardrobe tailored—from trousers to high-quality shirts and undergarments. The clothes from the orphanage might have been functional, but at Hogwarts, I intended to make an impression befitting the name Rosier.
I also stopped by Flourish and Blotts. I already had the required textbooks from before, but it occurred to me that I could use some spells to simplify my daily life. After a bit of searching, I found exactly what I needed—a book focused on practical household magic. It contained procedures for perfect dental hygiene with a single flick of a wand, spells for instant packing of clothes into a trunk, skin hydration, and hair styling. I bought it, satisfied; it would save me a mountain of time that I could devote to more important matters.
With a new wardrobe and literature in my bag, I moved on. My next stop was the one I had been looking forward to for three long years—ever since that fateful moment I realized I truly was in a world of magic. I headed toward a narrow, unassuming shop with peeling gold letters over the door: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
I entered the shop eagerly. The air held the scent of dust and old wood, but beneath it lay something far deeper. I felt a presence of magic that was entirely different from the chaotic hum out on the street. I tried to identify the feeling, to pick it apart, but for now, it eluded me. I assumed the source was the thousands of wand boxes stacked along the walls. However, I didn't feel them as individual objects, but as an inseparable part of the shop itself, as if the very walls breathed with the accumulated power of centuries.
I startled when a voice suddenly spoke: "Good day, Mr. Rosier. Interesting... this ability is not common in your bloodline," announced the old man who had appeared out of nowhere behind the counter.
I cursed inwardly. How could I have failed to notice him? How could I have let myself be so consumed by the surrounding magic that I forgot where I was?
"Good day. Sorry, I was just... lost in thought," I replied with a smile.
"Lost in thought about what you feel?" Ollivander asked, amusement flashing in his eyes. "You have the same reaction as all those who possess the gift of magical sensitivity but lack the experience."
"Hmm, yes, you're right. But how do you know I lack experience?" I admitted, trying to fish for information. Information was useful, and since he had read me so quickly, I felt he might be willing to share his knowledge.
"I used to see that expression in the mirror once. Magical sensitivity is key in wandmaking. It's natural that you lack experience—you are young, and this gift grows with age and practice. In time, you will begin to distinguish, so to speak, the individual 'flavors' of magic," Ollivander explained.
"Thank you for the information. I'll be careful not to get lost in the magic like that again."
"I expect it was the first time it happened to you, and I have no doubt you'll be mindful of it now. My shop has the highest concentration of specific yet diverse magic per square meter in all of England. Hogwarts will be calmer for you, even though it is an extraordinarily magical place," he stated, then added: "Shall we proceed to the wand selection?"
A few minutes later, after one shattered counter, a burnt globe, and a broken lamp, I became the proud owner of a wand. Red sparks didn't burst from my new tool as I had expected. Instead, I felt a perfect symbiosis between it and my own magic. I suddenly felt my power directly in the air—it had a specific hint of a cold, churning sea.
"Fifteen inches, yew and dragon heartstring. An interesting choice," Ollivander announced.
"Why interesting? What does this wand reveal about me?" I inquired with interest.
"Judging by the length, it is intended for powerful and intense spells. Yew, on the other hand, tells us you have an affinity for death and rebirth; it usually chooses only exceptionally powerful wizards. Dragon heartstring suggests you aren't focused on detailed and flexible spellcasting, but rather on spells that require raw power," Ollivander explained.
"Will I have trouble with the finer branches of magic then, such as Transfiguration?" I asked with some tension. I didn't like the idea of a wand deciding what I would be good at.
"A symbiosis exists between wizard and wand. The wand helps you with your magic, but it does not decide where your talent lies. Based on this piece of wood, I can only assume that complex, multi-layered, and low-effort transfiguration probably won't interest you. Conversely, a singular, powerful transformation may be exceptionally easy and natural for you. The choice is yours, Mr. Rosier. It is up to you what you excel in," Ollivander explained with a slight smile. "Based on what I felt the moment it chose you, you possess above-average magical power, and we can expect it only to grow. It's fascinating—I have sold wands to three generations of your family, yet none of them had even half your strength. If I may ask, what house did your mother come from?"
"I'll keep that to myself. My privacy is important to me," I replied curtly. The truth was I didn't know myself, and frankly, I didn't much care. But I certainly had no intention of admitting I didn't know my mother's identity.
"Of course, my apologies. Sometimes my curiosity is stronger than my manners," Ollivander replied, then added: "If you're interested, I also have dragon-hide wand holsters with additional enchantments."
"Fair enough, I understand. I can be unhealthily curious myself sometimes. What enchantments do these holsters have?"
"I have two versions. Both feature an enchantment that essentially teleports the wand directly into your palm and back. It's tied to your magical signature—you only need to send a mental signal, and the wand appears in your hand instantly. It requires a bit of practice, but I have no doubt you'll manage. The luxury version also incorporates an invisibility element; only the person with the owner's magical signature can see it. The first version is twenty galleons, the luxury one fifty," he offered with the sharp smile of a merchant.
"Why such a massive difference in price?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.
"The luxury version contains runic invisibility, which had to be crafted by a master in the field. Creating standalone cloaking runes is easy, but combining multi-functional enchantment with runic protection tied to a specific signature is a significantly more complex matter."
"I'll take the luxury version," I decided. "Would it be possible to put something else in another holster? For example, a magical weapon that would work on the same principle as a wand?" I was interested. It would make drawing my dagger much easier.
This time, it was he who was left surprised. "Unfortunately, no. The magical holsters I sell are tied exclusively to wands—that is, to wood with a magical core. For such specific functionality with another material, like the metal of a weapon, you would need to know the exact composition of the object. You would have to have a holster custom-made, which would be significantly more expensive than a standard wand model, which is, so to speak, universal."
"I see. Well then, I'll pay for the holster and the wand."
"The wand is seven galleons and the holster fifty, so fifty-seven galleons, please," Ollivander requested.
I quickly laid the exact amount on the table. I fastened the holster to my right forearm under the sleeve of my robes and prepared to leave.
"By the way, the secret of your magical sensitivity will be safe with me," Ollivander promised. But in his mind, he added: "Not the secret of your power, though; Albus must be informed."
"Thank you, goodbye," I said, taking my leave. I didn't trust Ollivander; though he acted friendly, I felt no emotions coming from him. It indicated he was using Occlumency at some level. I didn't dare a direct mental attack.
***
I found myself back in the streets of Diagon Alley. It was high time to visit Borgin again.
The walk through Knockturn Alley to Borgin's was quick and uneventful; there were even fewer people there than last time. Borgin looked a bit surprised when I entered. Children didn't often wander into his shop, but he realized who I was immediately. He stood behind the counter, rummaging through old scrolls. The shop was otherwise empty... great. Nothing to hinder our conversation.
"Good day, Mr. Borgin. Are you well?" I asked politely.
"Good day, Mr. Rosier. I am doing excellently. How can I help you?" he asked with a slight tension in his voice. He likely still remembered how he had demonstrated his soft power to me the last time, using the owl.
"A mutual friend of ours kindly left me an interesting box before his unfortunate passing. I'd like to know what it is," I announced the reason for my visit.
"To my knowledge, he was a mere squib. So don't expect anything extraordinary," he declared immediately, attempting to undermine the item's value. That was exactly what I expected from a merchant of his caliber—a common tactic to pave the way for a cheap buyout. He gave a curt gesture with his hand for me to place the box on the counter. I felt that he didn't respect me, but rather the weight and name of my house. I didn't like it. Without respect for me as an individual, there was a high chance he would try to rip me off. I thought about how to subtly command respect and a fairer approach. Only one thing came to mind.
I opened my magical pouch and telekinetically, without a wand, moved the wooden box onto the counter directly in front of him. I felt Borgin's shock. His mind was literally screaming with surprise.
"I don't think he'll try to cheat me now." I thought contentedly.
He was a professional, however, and immediately leaned over it wearing dragon-hide gloves. He examined the box expertly, turning it over and even pulling out a magnifying glass. I felt a growing curiosity in him, but also greed. Just based on how long his examination took, it was clear to me that this was no ordinary item. Finally, after a few minutes, he spoke. I expected an explanation, but no... his greed had once again triumphed over his manners.
"Five hundred galleons, Mr. Rosier," he offered in a slick voice with a glint of gluttony in his eyes.
"Borgin," I said his name coldly. "What is it with these old men and their lack of manners?" I thought with disgust.
"My apologies, my apologies, it's just the merchant in me... This is an interesting, a most interesting item. It is called the 'Siren's Lament.' In the days of the ancient Greeks, before the founding of Hogwarts, sirens were a massive problem. They lured people to their doom with their magical voices. The Greeks eventually decided to exterminate them; today you can find only a few under the protection of the International Confederation of Wizards. This artifact, however, is a more powerful and cruel imitation. According to my knowledge, these were created by powerful mages in Athens during the war against Sparta. Athens initially dominated thanks to them, until the Spartans discovered how this calling works. After the defeat of Athens, nearly all the boxes were destroyed. It seems, however, that one survived after all."
"This artifact strikes the most sensitive spot in the human soul. It emits voices and sounds that trigger an irresistible urge to follow them. One person hears a seductive woman, another the clinking of gold, and yet another desperate pleas for help. Sparta's only reliable defense was the knowledge that such an item existed. They knew that if they succumbed to its promises, they would perish," Borgin continued, his eyes never leaving the box. "Truthfully, I cannot determine its exact market value, but given that it is a unique historical piece... I would have a serious interest in it, Mr. Rosier."
"How much are you offering?" I asked curiously, though I knew I wasn't interested in gold. I had more than enough.
"Five thousand galleons, Mr. Rosier. That is a fair price," Borgin offered. This time, I felt he meant it.
"Quite a jump. Ten times more than your first offer, Borgin," I noted coldly.
"Just business, Mr. Rosier. I have a family to feed," he replied, the tips of his ears turning slightly red.
"I'm not interested in galleons, I have my own... but we could agree on a fair exchange," I suggested.
"Are you interested in dark artifacts, weapons, or books?" he asked with a sleazy smile.
"Books, Borgin. But I'm talking about originals. Truly valuable originals," I answered curtly.
With a smile on his face, he nodded. He pulled out his wand and with a flick, locked the front door. He flipped the sign to "Closed" and then signaled for me to follow him. We went to the back of the shop, where he led me to a massive, floor-to-ceiling bookcase.
"Please, feel free to look at my selection. If any catch your interest, we can discuss an exchange," he offered and stepped back.
I spent a long time looking through the entire library, carefully examining the individual titles. Three works in particular caught my attention: Ars Obscura: Forgotten Charms by Malachai Tremayne, Grimoire of Infernal Echoes by Alistair Graves, and finally, Codex Ritualis, authored by none other than Morgan le Fay.
Tremayne's book contained forgotten, specific spells written in clear English. Graves' grimoire was a collection of demonic magic, in which I noticed mentions of Inferi. But Morgana's codex fascinated me the most, for three reasons. The first was the fact that I practically couldn't understand it—the book was written in a strange mixture of Old English and German, where maybe every fifth word meant something to me. The second reason was the author herself, a legendary figure of magical history. And the third, most important reason, was a gut feeling that this was ritual magic. Sketches and fragments of familiar terms told me I was holding an immensely powerful tool.
I pulled these three works from the shelf and showed them to Borgin. He had been watching me closely the entire time; I was sure he had been analyzing my behavior since the moment I stepped into the shop. My choice of books clearly told him what kind of magic attracted me and revealed my potential future.
"I'd like to take these three in exchange," I announced.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Rosier, for the Siren's Lament, I can offer you Ars Obscura and the Grimoire of Infernal Echoes. The book by Morgan le Fay, however, exceeds the value of your artifact on its own. It is an original written in Old English by the master of ritual magic herself."
But it was the rituals that interested me most. I assumed they could help me in any situation and permanently improve my natural attributes.
"How about the Siren's Lament for the Codex Ritualis? Piece for piece," I suggested.
I saw Borgin thinking hard. In his mind, he was calculating the pros, cons, and the margin he could add to the ancient artifact. In the end, it must have been worth it for him because he nodded.
"Done, Mr. Rosier. The book is yours. If you're interested in the others, I can offer you a good price."
"No, thank you. Perhaps in the future," I declined. We shook hands. Borgin had a surprisingly firm grip; his hand was neither slimy nor cold like a dead fish.
"A pleasure doing business with you. I trust you will come back with more interesting artifacts in the future," Borgin bid me farewell with a bow. The journey home was peaceful; no further ambushes occurred, and the July sun made the summer day even more pleasant.
***
The rest of the summer passed extraordinarily quickly. I tried to translate the Old English from the Codex Ritualis using dictionaries, but it was frustratingly slow. Besides that, I constantly worked on my magic and discovered that with a wand in hand, everything was suspiciously easy. No owl from the Ministry came to warn me about illegal magic; apparently, they didn't consider my wordless manipulation to be actual spellcasting. However, I didn't dare try the Incendio spell while practicing with the wand.
In recent years, I hadn't neglected the physical side of things either. My fitness was above average for my age. My muscles and tendons were flexible, and thanks to regular stretching, I had no problem hitting a target high above my head with a clean high kick. I also regularly practiced shadow boxing. I assumed that a Muay Thai stance would be suitable for magical duels—it made me mobile and stable at the same time. With my left foot slightly forward and my stance shoulder-width apart, my right foot back, I was ready for both attack and defense—and for quick evasive movement.
It was the last day of August, and tomorrow, my journey to Hogwarts awaited. Finally.
***
So, we've moved closer to the main action, and in just a moment, we'll finally be at Hogwarts! A new plot line has opened up—which noble house does his mother come from, and who is she exactly? Feel free to leave your guesses in the comments!
We also discovered that the box wasn't just some ordinary trinket, but a seriously dangerous artifact that turned into a great profit, leading us to a book of rituals by Morgan le Fay herself. Now, how did a simple Squib get his hands on an artifact like that?
I'm glad I managed to finish this chapter today. I wish you all a Happy New Year—let's smash those resolutions together!
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! :)