A new day greeted me with classes, which was to be expected given where I was. Today's schedule included spells with the Ravenclaw Head of House and Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell, but as usual, I woke up early. I looked through the door and saw that the common room was still empty, everyone was still asleep.
I didn't start training, especially since I needed a clear mind for lessons, one not burdened by fatigue. While doing some calculations, I figured out that my power would peak in two or three years. During this time, I would need to train constantly, adjusting to the increasing strength. Controlling the Source isn't that difficult once you know how. The problem is, Vilgefortz knew little about it. Gedymgate didn't offer much in terms of useful information, and the documents I found were more focused on the emotional aspect of the issue. Vilgefortz deeply despised such primitive, unscientific approaches.
Now, as the Source myself, I can confidently say the documents weren't lying, it's just that the Source doesn't lend itself to classical training. While a typical wizard's primary focus is on accumulating magic with minimal loss, storing it for as long as possible, and using it at the right moment, for a Source, none of that is necessary, at least not in the early stages.
The cornerstone of Source training is control — not of the ever-increasing power, but of emotions. Parents usually discover their child's magical talent early. If they come from an aristocratic family, they can afford to hire a wizard to investigate and take measures, such as enrolling the child in training. But if the parents are commoners, things are bleak. In the best case, the child faces training in a church orphanage and a life as a priest. If a capable priest becomes the spiritual guide, things may not be entirely lost. Of course, in this case, the child won't achieve great things in magic, because even the Source's power needs to be developed — knowledge doesn't increase by itself. Humility and obedience, along with the church's dogma and the meager magical skills of the clergy, will ensure that the child poses no threat to those around them.
Perhaps parents won't give up their child to the initiated, making the biggest mistake of their lives. It's no surprise that Becker and Giambattista identified such children, took them from their parents, and sent them to Myrto — the first home of the wizards.
Later, when even the first wizards had trouble training these children, they humbled themselves and sought help from the elves. The elves did not refuse. Who better than the eternal beings to understand harmony and balance, calmness and cold fury?
There are reports of whole villages disappearing off the map in a single night because of a Source. Unknowing parents, neighbors, or even passing travelers might kick the child, punish them, shout at them, or otherwise insult them. It's not hard to guess what happens next. The hurt quickly turns into anger, and anger into a desire for revenge. The emotions, like a spark, awaken the hidden power, and the desire becomes reality. Not in the way the Source wants, though. Often, it's the last time the Source will act.
That's not a problem for me. I still haven't figured out why I reincarnated in this world or where I got the Source's power. Is this strength the result of the merging of two souls, two consciousnesses, or something else? I'll have to look for literature on these topics in the Hogwarts library. I highly doubt I'll find anything useful, but it's worth a try.
What I can say for sure, though, is that I'm not at risk of an emotional breakdown — there's another, no less important issue: the increasing power!
Yesterday, I outlined a training plan that would allow my strength to grow in tandem with my control over it, but simple exercises aren't enough. Potions that stabilize magical power are needed, and for potions, ingredients are required, and for ingredients, money. And I have money! This is how I've come full circle, back to where my acquaintance with the magical side of England began a month ago.
My parents left me an inheritance, but the key to it isn't with me; it's with Professor McGonagall. Just asking for the key isn't an option. She'll refuse — who would entrust such an estate to a child? I'd be lucky if they simply asked for official permission from my guardians. I could pressure the Dursleys, with threats or money, and the permission would be in my pocket, along with mountains of gold. But getting to Little Whinging before the end of the school year seems impossible. It's doubtful anyone in the teaching staff would be concerned about arranging a portal for a first-year student, even one as famous as me. I can't open a portal myself right now. Who knows how the Source's power would react? No, opening a portal isn't the hard part. But the Source's power might distort the final destination. Even I wouldn't dare guess where I could end up after such a change.
No, the portal is out of the question. What I need is the key to the vault and a professor who'll agree to take me to Gringotts. I need a valid reason to break from studies at the beginning of the semester, to tear a teacher away from their duties, and rush off to indulge a boy's whims. I think I know just what to do... Yes, this might work…
My thoughts were interrupted by noise and chatter in the common room. The students were waking up, and Robert was gathering the first-years to take them to the Great Hall and then to Professor Flitwick's office for Charms lessons.
My stomach betrayed me with a loud growl as we entered the Great Hall. The abundance of food, combined with the aromas floating through the air, would dizzy even the most seasoned gourmand. Who would have thought such magnificent dishes were prepared not by human chefs, but by house-elves?
"Hey, Potter!" Malfoy called out to me. "Have you thought about my offer?"
"I've thought about it thoroughly, Draco," I said, continuing to eat. The other students continued eating as well, pretending not to be interested in the conversation. The Ravenclaws were doing decently for children, but the Gryffindor table, which was nearby, went absolutely silent, their ears perked.
"With all due respect, Draco, I can choose my own friends, and if I need help, I'll know who to ask."
"You're dumber than I thought, Potter, making mistakes from day one. My father warned me that you would refuse."
"If he could predict my answer so precisely, he must be a clever man. Though I don't know him, so I could be wrong."
Laughter came from the older students, and Draco didn't understand why.
"Listen, Malfoy, we've been placed on opposite sides of the barricade since birth, and the Sorting Hat placed us in different houses. Destiny itself doesn't want us to be friends. Want to argue with destiny?"
The boy didn't say anything more, sneered arrogantly, and returned to the waiting Slytherins. The show ended in nothing, a dud. The younger students had hoped for something more — what exactly? Some of their minds were probably filled with fantasies of duels.
By the time we reached the eighth floor, the prefect had led us confidently, without a map. I had been here yesterday and could have gotten here on my own, but being led meant I didn't need to worry about getting lost, I didn't have to check the map every second, and I could pay more attention to the architecture of Hogwarts. The amount of magic contained within this castle is almost palpable. And most of the spells cast on Hogwarts are either inactive or have long since run their course. What was it originally designed to be?
We soon reached Professor Flitwick's office. After handing us over to the half-goblin, Robert hurried off to his numerology class.
"Good afternoon, students. My name is Filius Flitwick. I will be teaching you the subject of Charms, or 'spells,' if you prefer. Today, we will be studying the theory behind charms, going over the terms that generalize the categories of spells, and only at the end of the lesson will we get into practical exercises..."
Flitwick began with the basics, clearly explaining to the children what magic is, what spells are, and what types they come in. He mixed scientific terms with colloquial names for certain spells, which were sometimes quite funny, and the monotony of reading the lesson material was lightened with humorous real-life stories.
"Every self-respecting wizard has a wide repertoire of spells for all occasions, and is a master at applying them, reciting the words correctly and executing the wand movements flawlessly. The slightest deviation..."
Listening to the half-goblin, I felt like I was back in Neverland, studying magic from scratch. The situation was exactly the same as studying in my home world. At first, you are promised great achievements, only to be threatened with failure moments later. The goal of a mentor is to give the young mind a motivation for greatness, while warning of possible punishment. The children will soon be disillusioned with magic, but the uniqueness will become associated with obligations and punishments for their missteps.
The first-years listened to Flitwick with their mouths open. He performed magic, showed various charms, explaining the difference between mono-spells and poly-spells, and by the end of the lesson, we had memorized two spells — Lumos and Wingardium Leviosa.
I couldn't fully appreciate Flitwick's skills as a teacher. My mind simply wasn't made for it. I had already studied the spells over the summer, so three hours felt like pure boredom. The first spell — simple light charms — has a more powerful version called Lumos Maxima, but it's just as easy to perform. The second spell is a levitation charm, essentially an extremely watered-down version of telekinesis. Again, I was the only one from both houses who managed to cast both spells on the first try. By the end of the lesson, a few other kids had managed to get the tricks down, and we were dismissed. A usual lunch followed, followed by Defense Against the Dark Arts, this time paired with Slytherin.
In contrast to Flitwick, Professor Quirrell was a poor excuse for a teacher, a hollow presence in the most important role. The first twenty minutes of the lesson, I spent trying to understand what the hell was happening?! In Ban Arde, a wizard like him wouldn't have lasted even as the assistant to a third-tier wizard. I even suspected it was an act, that the wizard was pretending to be an idiot to get on the students' level. But getting off track, stuttering, and hesitating every other word for two hours straight — that wasn't pretending. If the older students were to be believed, this professor used to teach Muggle Studies. Who knows, maybe the local wizards actually think humans are complete idiots, which is why they put such a fool in charge of teaching. What was the Headmaster thinking when he assigned him one of the key roles in the school?
In two hours, spent almost in vain, I didn't learn anything new; all the information was presented straight from the textbook. When the lesson finally ended, I shared the other first-years' relief at getting out of the garlic-scented classroom. As I was heading out, I felt something strange, as if someone was trying to read my mind. I spun around instantly, but the professor wasn't even looking at me. Standing with his back to me, Quirrell was rummaging through papers.
As I was about to leave, I felt something strange, familiar, like something that had recently settled in my mind…
Already about three meters from the classroom, I called over a senior student, asking them to bring a teacher, and slowly returned to the classroom. Once inside, I didn't bother closing the door behind me, simply calling out to the professor.
"Professor Quirrell, may I ask you a question?"
"Y-yes, P-Potter. What do you want to talk about?"
"Professor, what do you know about possession?"
I didn't expect him to get so nervous, but Quirrell jumped as if a Nilfgaardian dog had grabbed a Northern partisan by the balls. The question hit the mark, just as I had expected. Now I needed to stall, because if I was right and I was dealing with a possessed man — I would need backup.
"That's enough, Potter. Are you looking for something specific?" the professor suddenly said very clearly.
"If this knowledge isn't forbidden for first-years, could you tell me, can a wizard summon something from beyond, trap it in themselves, and not go insane?" — My answer would be yes. I once saw a wizard who used his body as a cage for a demon. His abilities were impressive! I waited for the moment when the wizard canceled the summon, and without much effort, I killed him.
"Did you want to see me, Potter?" Professor McGonagall entered the room.
"Not specifically you, Miss McGonagall, I would be fine with any teacher. I want to show you something."
Quirrell seemed to have stood still this whole time, but the moment I pointed my wand at him, he shot into the air, extending his hands toward me, but a powerful magical impulse from Minerva sent him back.
"Accio turban!" — The professor's turban flew into my hands, revealing the back of Quirrell's head, or rather, another face — clearly human, except for the red eyes.
"We meet again."
"You're such a freak, Voldemort."
"Yes, do you see what I've become? Do you see what I have to do to survive? Live off others, a simple parasite."
Minerva stood in front of me, pointing her wand at the possessed one. Quirrell didn't stand still either, mirroring McGonagall's gesture. The next second, the battle began. Minerva shot fire bolts, one after another, while the possessed wizard deflected each attack with a magical shield, occasionally snapping back. A couple of times he shot a fireball at McGonagall just to distract her, and then, with telekinesis, threw a desk at me. I was ready, blocking the attack with a protective spell.
The desk broke into pieces, but before the shield collapsed, I retaliated. My telekinetic strike went in two stages, not aimed at killing Quirrell — that was already expertly handled by the Gryffindor Head of House. But before the firebolt roasted the possessed man to a well-done state, I threw the desk with telekinesis. It seemed to be shot from a cannon directly at him. A clumsy attack was easily deflected because any trick can be parried with ease. The key is the opponent must not recognize the deception until it's too late.
Quirrell was about to respond, but froze in place, bound by a powerful telekinetic grip. The last thing he saw in his life was a reddish-orange beam flying toward his face.
The body of Professor Quirrell turned to dust, but this was not the end. From the dust, a figure began to form, exuding necromancy. The dark entity let out a piercing howl and fled through the wall. Minerva ran to the window and shot a couple of spells after it, but they were of little use.
"Harry, are you okay?" she asked, concerned. The Gryffindor Head rushed over to me, inspecting me.
"I'm fine, professor, nothing happened to me. Except for this." — I pointed to the floor, where my broken wand lay. My wand, which I had broken on purpose. Hopefully, this would ensure my next trip to Diagon Alley.
Two more teachers burst into the room — Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore. They scanned the room, then looked at me lying on the bench and Minerva, who was fussing around me.
"Minerva, what happened? There are traces of spells everywhere!"
"You're quite perceptive, Albus. Voldemort was here."
"What do you mean, Professor McGonagall?" asked Snape.
"Voldemort took over Quirrell's body, or perhaps Quirrell willingly gave himself over to him — I don't know, but he tried to kill Mr. Potter…"
All three of them looked me in the eyes, but no one tried to read my thoughts. It seems an exciting future awaits me at this school!