England [Mundane]

23-08-1969

Horace Slughorn

The thin clouds of autumn veiled the blue skies of dawn in the quaint city of Ely, a gray shroud of mist cast in the shadow of the Great River. The pleasant chills of autumn were there too, a barely perceptible breeze its forebear. Moist air touched with the stink of a recent shower, and the wet ground still glistened with the dew of morning only gave credence to that.

Quaint, quiet, and so unlike the bustle one would expect from a city in this day of rest and mingle both.

Another clouded day—though the skies of this most ancient nation had never been known for tropical climates.

Ely suffered from gray too, though it was ever so pleasant that the shrouded heavens gave a tranquil atmosphere to its gloom.

Horace Slughorn was much charmed by the sight, as ages had passed since his last venture into the muggle world. With his posture proper and a shadow of genuine pleasantness on his face, he walked through the budding urban jungle, feeling a slight strain in his feet from the mild exertion.

A hum escaped him, ponderous.

He supposed he had been rather lax with his physique these past few years, though, with the many boons from his efforts, it would be hard not to be. Still, he would need to counteract this indulgence—or at least limit its effects on his constitution.

His polished cane tapped louder against the paved roads in a vain attempt to lessen the strain upon his extremities.

Yet it helped not with the discomfort he felt.

'Should I perhaps be sparse with my indulgence?'

The thought didn't much appeal to him, nor did the idea of taking to the field and straining his muscles. He shook his head slightly, amused by the nature of his musings.

Fitness, exercising. He'd reached an age where such things should not be his concern, much so when the impact they had on his longevity was absent at best and negligent at worst.

Maybe a new brew would serve him well, something that would deprive him of soreness when he moved?

Thoughts for later.

Discarding them, he returned his attention to his venture, soon realizing he had arrived at his destination. Gazing up at the gates of the orphanage, he read the name of the unfortunate establishment on its rusted sign.

"Guiding Light," he murmured softly, frowning a bit as fragments of taught history surfaced in his mind. His eyes flickered to the inconspicuous cross crowning the sign. "Quite uninspired."

Reaching into his raincoat, he produced a small piece of paper where the prospective student's information was scribed.

Perteus Graymort

England, Cambridgeshire, Ely, Guiding Light

"This does indeed seem the place." He murmured softly, recalling if he ever came across the child's family name.

He didn't.

In which case it meant the boy might be a progenitor.

It was unsurprising, really. Ely, if he remembered correctly, was a deeply religious place. In the old days, many witches had met their end upon its soils, atrocities provoked by the misguided wizards of old.

No magical would ever entrust their offspring to them, lest the child meet their end on a blazing stake. Not that such acts were still carried, at least not in the current age. But fear persisted, even taught as it was…

He crumbled the paper in his hand, allowing it to fall upon the ground where it quenched itself on the undisturbed dew.

…Horace sometimes wondered what could have inspired such malice and rage in those ancient men to have wanted their own's extinction. Was it ambition, fear, or maybe just a desire for uniqueness?

Bloodshed, how constant it was in humans.

Lucky were they to have been born in this era of relative calm and awareness, though he wondered if such thoughts were echoed by anyone beyond himself.

He frowned further, "Not that time had turned history such misguided individuals."

The fall of Tom still pained him much, and to think Albus had tried to warn him countless times. Was it perhaps arrogance…or envy turned jealousy that turned him deaf to the headmaster's wisdom? Liars were those who claimed no envy for Dumbledore's excellence.

But it mattered little now; he was determined not to repeat the mistakes of his former self.

Walking past the orphanage gates, his green gaze swept over the neglected yard and the clusters of children who called this place home. The children were not so different from one another, all clad in plain uniforms—white and blue dresses for the girls, gray pants and blue shirts for the boys.

Pure, expectant eyes followed him as he approached the building, and Horace felt his heart ache to see them so. Such misfortune was never pleasant to experience, whether for wizards or muggles.

Forcing his thoughts away from the children—for all he was willing to offer was pity—he affixed a convincing smile to his plump face as one of the matron welcomed him into the building proper.

"Good morning, sir. Welcome to Guiding Light. My name is Alice Caldwell—I'm the matron here. How may I be of service?" The woman who seemed about an age with him extended him a hand in greeting.

Horace was quick to accept it, allowing his prior thoughts to be swept away by the gentleness of the woman.

"Ms. Caldwell, a pleasure indeed. Horace Slughorn, at your service. Thank you for receiving me on such short notice." He greeted in return, his voice steady and proper while a small smile danced upon his visage. Charming. He was not unused to social adaptations, especially since his fellows were the aristocratic sort.

This—entertaining an ordinary muggle—was no daunting task.

The matron beckoned him in, guiding him past the prayer hall and further into the back were personal quarters and some such rooms were located.

Along the short journey, he allowed his gaze to wander, though he kept the nature of his true thoughts behind a mask. In the inside, it seemed the building was not too decrepit. And in some places, remnants of recent repairs were evident.

Such simple work made difficult by the absence of magic. By his lonesome, he could have this place restored in just an hour, and all it would cost was a slight soreness in his shoulder.

Truly, life was unfair.

Soon they were within Ms. Caldwell's office.

The workroom—and wasn't that a stretch—was modest, almost spartan in its decor. It was also small, with just a simple desk and two worn out chairs occupying most of the space. In one corner, a file drawer stood, its metal frame slightly worn from years of use.

"Please, Mr. Slughorn, sit."

The matron invited him, and Horace was eager to do so. "Thank you, most kind. And to answer your earlier question, I'm here regarding a young fellow in your care. I wonder if you could tell me a bit about him—his name is Perteus Graymort?"

A brighter look came by the old woman's face, and the potion's professor felt his worry wane at it.

"Ah, Perteus. Yes, I know him well. An intelligent boy, though a bit…reclusive, shall we say. Not that such an inclination stopped him from engaging with the other kids." The matron looked at him, "May I ask what brings you to him, Mr. Slughorn?"

He nodded, reaching once more into his coat for the paperwork given to muggle guardians to explain away such things.

"The boy's parents had arranged for him—or their progeny—to be admitted to a most prestigious school before their deaths," he began, carefully adjusting his tone to suit the current mood. "Regrettably, issues surrounding the boy's identity hindered his early admission, as he ought to have begun attending five years ago."

"A rather unfortunate affair." The woman agreed, though her eyes were still on the papers.

Horace agreed, "To remedy this, the school has agreed to fund the remainder of the boy's academic studies, including those that extend beyond the school's own capabilities."

That snapped the woman's attention back to him, eyes wide and jaw slackened. "T..truly?" He nodded, and the act seemed to relieve the woman beyond measure. "Oh, that's wonderful. Immensely so."

"It is the least we could do, I dare say."

Putting the papers down, the matron looked at him proper. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Slughorn. The boy—Perteus—is a very gifted child, and though I'm sure this will appeal to him, if he refuses attendance at this school, I shall not force him."

Now he was even more curious about the lad. "Nor would I want such a thing. This is merely an invitation, and at the end of the day, it is by your allowance, as young Perteus's guardian, that he would be able to attend our school."

Ah, lies. How Horace despised them.

The woman smiled warmly and extended her hand once more. "Thank you, Mr. Slughorn." He accepted it, mirroring her politeness. "I believe you'll be wanting to meet him."

"If it isn't too much to ask."

"I'm sure Perteus will be glad to hear your news, and perhaps he'll stop worrying about his future and take to the playgrounds like the other kids," the woman said, guiding him out of the room.

———————

Perteus Graymort

It started with a knock on my door. A single tap, neither too harsh nor hurried. Yet my space was silent, and my focus…not too absorbed. The knock rang loud, but before I could send my boon to scan out the imagery of my visitor, the wood barrier jawed open.

The lack of privacy. The ill-manners.

It took much effort and cultivated placidity to reign in my annoyance, depriving my image much judgment. I could not afford the taint of petulance to mar my reputation, lest I be associated with the foolish ruts that littered the orphanage.

Turning to the opened door, I beheld Matron Alice's wizened visage peeking into my room, before her entire form followed it proper.

Unsurprising, only she could be so candid with my privacy—a boon of being a caretaker and the highest authority of this institution. It irked me, to be so dependent on a foreign entity for my well being and security both. A familial guardian I would have been more happy with—familial tolerance and sacrifice were a thing after all.

Ms. Caldwell suffered from no such compunctions, and she was ever so liberal with her discipline.

Just another example of life's cruel indifference.

With practiced deftness, I closed the book—one that when into detail regarding the fundamentals of running—and stood proper to receive the matron's instructions.

"Ms. Caldwell," I spoke, measured…polite. "Is there something I could help you with?"

For a moment—barely an instant truly—the woman's lips twitched, and not the kind that spoke of fondness. Annoyance? Irritation? I have yet to master the art of cold reading, even aided by my phantom shroud as I was.

The matron took a single step forward, and her form towered over me. Once more I had to swallow the bitter annoyance invoked by my condition—this reduced stature and restricted freedom.

I did not cower, and I knew that fact displeased the woman.

"There's a visitor—a man—from a fancy school in the capital." No warmth leaked from her voice as she spoke, cold and curt. "He's here for you. An old arrangement by your parents, he said."

Ms. Caldwell paused, and her eyes narrowed. "This is an opportunity, Perteus. One I will not see you waste away like so many others. You will act proper, understood?"

That demand, I did not like it. I did not like being told what to do.

But I knew the matron had no patience to spare for me anymore. Thus, despite my pride, I gave a curt nod and a reply. "Yes, Ms. Caldwell."

Once more, through my shroud, I felt the woman's lips twitch, and this time, I knew the leashed emotion was one of positivity. "You are a smart boy, Perteus. The smartest this home has ever seen. But here, if you linger, you'll never reach your potential, not even a sliver of it."

Not a lie. Yet I was not blind to the manipulation the crone attempted.

Still, I accepted it. And after doing so, the matron left my room, though she did not close the door. I made no attempt to close it too, waiting…thinking.

This development, it through a wrench in my plans.

'What a troublesome reincarnation this is turning out to be.' The thought came and went.

Quickly, I allowed my shroud to withdraw from the ambience, condensing it a few centimetres near my skin. This way, it became something akin to telekinesis, a tangible force easily guided by my untampered mind.

I wore it, and will it to smooth my attire.

Satisfied, I sat back down, and pondered true. The matron's words were not false, Ely offered me no great chances, and if I lingered here, I would only see a fraction of my dreams realised.

But in the capital, London, the road would be much easier.

I looked out my window, to the grey skies heavy with rain. There was a shower yesterday, and a drizzle in the night. Another would happen it seemed, and with a few dozen more after it.

England, this nation, it had ruined the seasons for me. It had ruined winter for me, a season once loved and cherished.

Footfalls interrupted my thoughts, and my head turned towards the door.

This was an opportunity, and I would bedazzle.

That amused me, but the feeling was short lived…

There was a saying about squandered opportunities. About taking things for granted, and not realising the privilege given.

I was the embodiment of that cautionary saying. My life had be nothing but countless regrets and frustrations. It had been an awakening, a glimpse of the opportunities I wasted in my prior existence.

Had I been more productive…motivated, I would have been long on the way to becoming a person of great renown, of riches, power, and so much control and luxuries that only those special few enjoyed.

A great man. An important figure for the rest of the sheep to gaze upon in reverie.

…a man emerged through the door, fat and clothed in fine fashion—an old fashion, even for the late '60s. Still, he wore the clothes well, and despite his unfortunate frame, there was a dignity to his gait and posture. His face was plump and jolly. Welcoming. And his eyes, such a dull green, were settled on me, assessing.

Again, I rose in welcome as the man offered a hand in greeting.

"Mr. Graymort, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." The man spoke, his voice smooth…refined. Proper, even. His grip on the other hand…"My name is Horace Slughorn. A professor at the institution you've been invited to attend."

It took more than a moment for the name to register proper, but when it did, I had to strangle the reaction before it touched upon my exterior.

I failed, but at least my shroud remained stable.

Slughorn laughed, having caught my shock. "Do calm, Mr. Graymort." He said, "This title, I'm afraid it has little to do with…higher learning." There was something there, a bitterness perhaps. The man shook his head, "Not to say you wouldn't be able to achieve such a privilege with how smart you are rumoured to be..."

I paid little mind to his drivel, my mind still reeling from the revelation that ought to have been so obvious in hindsight.

Rebirth. England. Orphanage. Powers.

No, perhaps that was too much of a stretch too. Honestly, despite all the realism of this existence, I had still considered it heaven. My life, the one prior to this, had been one of regret and failure. Thus, it was no wonder that my most desperate wish was a redo, another attempt with the wisdom of years lived.

So when I awoke immediately after my death, and in a time old, I had instantly considered this a dream granted, even if I was 40 years before my initial birth.

And this boon—an ability like telekinesis. Or at least, that was what it had become under my guided cultivation. I had thought little of it, especially since it was not too extreme.

It was just an oddness, a leg up. Compensation for this temporal error.

…Slughorn—he was so unlike the actor who had played him in the pictures—reached within his coat's pocket and withdrew a somewhat familiar letter.

The invitation.

"A formal invite from the school you'll be attending." He presented it to me, still jolly. Excitable. I decided there that I liked him. He was…relatable. At least to me.

"Thank you, Mr. Slughorn." I said, formal. Respectful. Retrieving the letter, I quickly broke the wax seal with the assistance of my shroud—it enhanced my physical attributes— and began to read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards)

Dear Perteus Graymort,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September.

Hogwarts School has a long tradition of excellence in magical education, and we are delighted to welcome you as a new member of our student body. At Hogwarts, you will be sorted into one of the four houses-Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin-each of which has a rich history and values unique traits in its students.

We understand that for Muggle-born students or those unfamiliar with wizarding traditions, this may come as a surprise. As such, our Potion's Master, Professor Horace Slughorn, has kindly offered assistance to new students requiring guidance on how to reach Diagon Alley to purchase their supplies.

Enclosed with this letter is a ticket for the Hogwarts Express, which will depart from Platform 9 at King's Cross Station at 11 o'clock sharp on 1 September.

We look forward to seeing you at the start of term.

Warm regards,

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster

My heart trembled as I finished. I closed the letter, careful, and placed it beside me before gazing up at the Professor.

—————

Horace Slughorn

The boy was odd.

This was perhaps the most immediate thing Horace discerned about young Perteus—the lad now seated upon his well-made bed, his grayish gaze fixed upon the letter with a blank calmness that ought to have been foreign on a face so childish.

He was well put-together—mannered, and groomed—with clothing that would have seemed rustic on any other child. Handsome too, or at least the promise of it in a future yet unlived.

Horace allowed his gaze to drift across the boy's tiny room, finding it bare save for a single bed, a wardrobe with a mirror, and a ill-fashioned study table on which upon was a set of muggle books worn from usage.

He was impressed, that much he could admit. Potential simmered within this boy, the kind of which he'd seldom seen, at least not in younglings such as this.

Brilliant, composed, and that ambition and cunning so evident to he who'd done so much false engagements and ingratiations.

Already, he could picture the lad in green and silver, bearing his house's serpent proudly as he charmed and nurtured.

"Magic," Perteus murmured. "This is no hoax, is it?" The child gazed upon him, intense. Searching, and perhaps a bit too cautious…wary, of what might come out of his mouth in supplicant.

Horace would have chuckled had the boy not been so taut and smart.

He shook his head. "Perhaps a demonstration to quell your suspicions?" He reached into his pocket and withdrew his wand, smiling at the boy.

For the first time in their meeting, he saw a flicker of awe and hesitation in the child's eyes before Perteus quickly caught himself, forcing his expression back to its blank calmness.

Eerie.

"If it isn't too much to ask, Professor." The child's voice was clear, smooth, and much too articulate. Many aristocrats still struggle with such control, and those who had it were denied the luxuries of childhood.

The Blacks came to mind, for instance.

It barely took a moment for Horace to decide on how to go about bedazzling the lad, capturing. Deliberately, he twirled his trusted companion—grace his motions cultivated from old practice. A rush of warmth flooded his person as the careful invocation of a simple charm took effect with a flourish of theatrics.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" He spoke, twisting his voice so that it reverberated with the majesty of wizardry.

One of the books placed upon the study desk decided to void its contract with gravity, beginning to levitate—moving from the furniture to the space between them under the beckoned of his wand's guidance.

Perteus's attention was stolen, and the child beneath the foreign oddness surfaced once more, captivated. Enchanted.

Horace was much amused by the wonder, the deep hunger yet to be masked under so much blankness and control so infectious.

Touched by the lad's residual emotions, he invoked another form of magic. "Avifors!" He intoned, his wand's movement barely deliberate.

With a flick of his wrist, the book morphed into a dove, which fluttered around them briefly before returning to the desk, where he transformed it back into a book. "I trust that was satisfactory?"

"Quite," the boy agreed, his eyes still fixed on the book. "Though I have a question, if you don't mind?"

Horace smiled, "Feel free, lad." He vanished away his wand, noting that the lad was studying his movements quite closely—and his wand with barely disguised envy.

'The hunger on this boy.'

"What would become of me should I refuse attendance at this school? From what I've seen, it seems this magic is something kept secret from the rest of society."

You would be Obliviated, he wanted to say, for that was what would happen. Instead, Horace smiled and shook his head. "Little would happen, young Perteus, save for a sworn promise to refrain from using your gifts in the presence of muggles."

The boy allowed an amused smile to claim his face. "Muggles?"

"The mundane. The ordinary. People not gifted with the ability to exercise magic."

"I see," said Perteus, his gaze returning to the desk—to the book once-turned, with a ghost of a smile on his lips. He understood more than he let on, Horace thought—and perhaps, so much more than he ever would reveal. "Then I shall be in your care, Professor."

"Excellent, Perteus." He said, quite honestly relieved, "Very excellent."

—————

The Saint: A bit of a dip into the famed magical fandom. Though I must admit my lack of depth with this series and it's lore. Thus, do point out some falsities and some unexplored ideas you might want to see added. As you might have expected, this is a bit of an AU-though this is mainly because of my alteration of the date of births for the significant characters of this era.

Additionally, I want to add that the MC will not be behaving much like a child, misunderstandings be damned. Think of him as your average adult, just with some hunger for wealth and renown. This will not be a power wank fic, but more an magic exploration. Expect some major depth on the functionality of magic and all its nuances. Experiments, Spell Mastery, Mundane Insights, Taboo Pursuits, Inhuman Acts, and perhaps the worst of all, Manipulation.

So some additions: Incantations - you all have no doubt noticed that I added a function to spell words. This is a conscious decision, one that will be explained in depth-if a little scattered.

Well, that's all from me. And if you want to read ahead, I have a pa-treon under the same name