England [Magical]
23-08-1969
Perteus Graymort
The small café three blocks east of the bookstore was the unassuming sort, tucked away from the bustling crowds and filled with the comforting aroma of roasted beans and freshly baked bread. The tables were average—simple wood polished to a shine—yet I found appeal in them, this era having inspired a new appreciation within me.
This might as well be luxury to my current self, the orphanage's bland stews and occasional dry feasts having taken their toll.
I watched as the good professor sank into his chair across from me, a twitch of mirth on his moustache. His robes had stretched at the seams from the indulgence, yet that grace of his was still there. He gestured for me to eat, and I hesitated only briefly before biting into the warm, buttered roll set before me.
The flavor was simple, rich, and perfect.
Slughorn smiled warmly, unfolding his napkin. "It's no grand feast, mind you, but I find this little spot to be just the thing after a good bit of shopping, no?"
I nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "It's…wonderful."
The meal was not grand by any standard—roast beef sandwiches, pickled vegetables, and a pot of strong tea—but it felt…feasible, certainly more flavourful than anything I had in this life.
I took every bite with deliberation, savoury my intention. A part of me felt undeserving of this indulgence, I would admit, not when my fellow orphans at the home enjoyed no such fancies. It was not guilt, exactly. More of a longing to introduce them to such a lifestyle, to save them from the curse of struggle.
Could I change things for them one day?
I could, that I knew with certainty. However there was still much I could not amend. The absence of care and love would stay with them until proper assistance could be rendered. Yet even that would not be enough, far from it even.
That soured my mood a fair bit.
Responsibilities, how I loathed them.
"You're quiet," Slughorn said, breaking my thoughts. "Sickle for them?"
I struggled with the amusement for a moment before setting my teacup down and straightening. "I was just thinking about Hogwarts. What it's like. What to expect." The lie came so beautifully, and by the time I completed it, the curiosity was genuine.
The professor's fat cheeks stretched, his whole face lighting up. "Ah, a most excellent topic! Hogwarts, my boy, is like nothing you've ever seen. A castle, grander than you can imagine, and filled with secrets that even I, after all my years, haven't fully uncovered. Why, the library alone is worth the journey."
It seemed the bit of linger at the bookstore painted me as a book enthusiast in his eyes. An assessment that was incorrect…at least that was what I liked to think.
Still, I decided to focus on the stray topic.
"What about the houses?" I asked, leaning forward. I had read about them, of course, but I wanted to hear it from someone who had been there, someone who…knew.
"Ah, the houses!" Slughorn exclaimed, eyes alight with old joy. "It's an exceptional rivalry, though the most noteworthy is between Slytherin—the house of the cunning and proud, a shelter of mine when I was still a lad—and Gryffindor—the eager and brave, the headmaster was once a member of the house, and he's the exceptional sort." He took a breath, "You'll no doubt find yourself in Slytherin, my boy. That would be a great place for a person of your character."
He said it with a wink, but I caught the eager in his voice. "And the classes?" I asked, steering the conversation forward.
"Oh, you'll find no shortage of fascinating subjects. Professor Dittany teaches Herbology these days—has a remarkable gift with magical plants that one. Then there's Ironstaff, he's to be the professor of DADA this year. History of Magic is taught by Old Binns—you'll need to personally put the work in that, the old ghost is a bit of a bore. And let's not forget Potions." He tapped his nose. "Taught by yours truly."
I smiled faintly…falsely, "You make it sound like paradise."
He chuckled. "Well, it's not without its challenges. The castle has a mind of its own, you know. Staircases that change when you least expect it. Hidden passages and trick doors. But that's part of the charm, I like to believe. Hogwarts is alive, young Perteus." He finished, his mind far away.
I took another bite of my sandwich, savoring the words as much as the food. Slughorn spoke of Hogwarts with such reverence that it was hard not to feel a tremble of anticipation…well, more anticipation than I had initially harboured.
"And the history?" I asked. "The founders? The wars?"
He nodded approvingly. "Ah, the history. You're a curious one—good, good. The castle has stood for centuries, built by the great four: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. It's seen its share of triumphs and tragedies—wars, betrayals, alliances. Each stone in its walls has a story, if you know how to listen."
I knew Slughorn was aiming for a sage-like presentation, his words touched by that cryptic blend of profundity and advice. Yet, I was no blind child, nor was I ignorant of the secrets of the ancient castle…
The sandwich lost another piece, a napkin coming by my mouth to wipe away the remnants.
…still, I wondered what it would be like to walk those halls, to be part of a tale once read. The films, while not entirely identical, did somewhat still capture this alley of Diagon. Would the same be true for Hogwarts? I somehow doubted that.
Rowling's vision, I wanted to see that. The splendour untainted by the veil of inspiration.
As we finished the meal, Slughorn wiped his hands and leaned back, patting his stomach with satisfaction. "Well, young Perteus, I'd love to escort you the rest of the way, but I've a few other stops to make before the day is done. I'll need you to visit Ollivander's on your own."
I would have been frightened had I been a true child.
He placed a few gleaming galleons in my hand and gave me precise directions to the wandmaker's shop. "Follow the road down, turn left past the apothecary—a disturbingly yellow shop—and you'll find it. Can't miss it—the sign's as old as the shop itself."
I nodded, slipping the coins into my pocket, noticing that he gave me more than necessary. "Thank you…for the meal, and for everything," I told him. The appreciation was true.
He waved a hand dismissively but smiled warmly. "Think nothing of it, Perteus. You're an intriguing lad, and I've no doubt you'll do great things. Now off you go. Ollivander's awaits, and a wand is not something to keep waiting."
And so I did, glancing back at him one last time before stepping out into the bustling alley.
————————
The bell above the door gave a soft chime as I stepped into Ollivanders.
It was quieter than I had expected, the sound muffled by the heavy ambiance of the shop. Shelves towered over me, stacked high with slim, dust-laden boxes, their contents jittering and pulsating with excitement and much promise.
It bled into me like the flu, the eager and anxiety spiking to just the right amount to facilitate dependancy and addiction.
My shroud crescendoed within my body, humming…rippling. For a moment, I considered dispersing it, freeing myself from it for the first time since my infancy. But my logic swiftly cannibalized that idea, and I resolved instead to use the temptation as an opportunity to hone my will and discipline.
The conduits continued their murmurs, their voices like ghostly whispers carried on a wind howling with incomprehension.
Behind the counter stood Garrick Ollivander, his hair streaked with silver, his frame slightly stooped, but his sharp eyes seemed to pierce right through me. He studied me for a moment, his lips curling into a smile.
"Ah," he said, his voice soft but carrying. "Another aspirant of Hogwarts. I was wondering if I would get one today."
The way he spoke, the weight of his gaze. It was unsettling…and a tad bit mysterious—and was not that a chagrined admittance. I let calm enrich my face, my pride denying me external fright. "Perteus Graymort, Mr. Ollivander." I said with a nod, a slow one.
His lips twitched, "One so mannered too…though I suppose such was to be expected." His eyes twinkled as he stepped around the counter. "But enough of that. You're here for a wand."
I watched him walk, his gait so familiar with the layout of his shop.
"That would be the idea," I replied smoothly. "I trust you've got something in stock."
He chuckled, a dry, almost ancient sound, and began scanning the shelves. "It is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr. Graymort. Or so the saying goes." He looked back at me, that gaze of his surfacing again. He plucked a box from the shelf and opened it with a practiced hand. "Let's begin, shall we?"
I neared him slowly, internally telling myself that his sight could not peer beyond this veil I wore so freely.
The first wand he offered was a pale wood, almost golden in the light.
"Cedar, dragon heartstring core, eleven inches. Solid and reliable. A wand for those who inspire trust… or demand it." He recited, his towering attention upon me.
I took it and immediately froze. In my infancy, when I first surfaced in this world, I had always been aware of a rift within me—a phantom portal from which poured the eldritch vigor I had used to fashion my beloved shroud. After recent revelations, I now understood this rift to be the source of magic, or at least the abnormality we used to shape it.
Never in all those years had I been able to manipulate, expend, or even touch that rift. It had always remained the same, granting me a consistent amount of vigor since infancy. This was the reason for my fine control over magic…this fabledprecision.
Yet now, as I held this hostile wand—actively attempting to sprout thorns to pierce my hand—I felt as though my rift had been drenched in menthol. Its presence swelled, sharper and more intense than ever before.
I took a breath, flooding the dragon conduit with my shroud and calming it. It fought, as it was its nature, but I was aware, beloved by the magics. My essence clamped at the core of the conduit, and almost immediately, I felt my reach expend…my control.
Yes, I could work wi—
Before I could even break into a grin, the old fossil took the thing away from my hand. "Passable, but no spark of destiny there, hmm?"
"What? Hey!," I tried to reach out with my enhanced telekinesis—the suppressed childishness surfacing—but the wand maker simply evaded. Perhaps that should have provoked my suspicions.
He took a minute in search before returning.
This next wand was darker, sleeker.
"Blackthorn and unicorn hair, twelve inches. A wand for the independent, for those who chart their own course." He explained, presenting it with a frown.
I was calmer now, and I tried not to overreach…to not subjugate.
This one felt colder, sharper in my grip. The magic stirred again, but it was distant, like trying to grasp something through glass. I tried to funnel my eldritch intent through it, but the wand's response was sluggish, almost…blind?
"It's… indifferent," I said after a moment.
Ollivander nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Indeed. A decent match for some, but it doesn't trust you."
I did not disagree with him, and honestly, I felt as though I would not find my trusted partner here. I needed something that spoke to me, a death-touched. Perhaps a thestral, or something of that nature.
Still, I did not despair. The echoes of the wand I had subjugated rang through me. I could somewhat mimic the feeling of its weight with my shroud.
Probably.
The third and fourth wands were no better. One, willow with veela hair, felt too light and impulsive. The other, oak with a griffin feather core, was cautious and hesitant, its power quick to quiver and too measured. Each time, Ollivander studied my reaction with quiet intrigue, as if he already knew how this would end.
He probably did.
Finally, he paused, his gaze drifting to a corner shelf. He seemed to hesitate, then reached up to retrieve a box that looked older than the others.
"This one," he said, his voice quieter, "is different. The wood is Aelanthir—a tree that lived and died over a millennium ago. Its kind hasn't grown since. Extremely rare. The core is phoenix feather."
He set the box before me and opened it. The wand inside was elegant, its surface smooth and gleaming, the color of rich, dark amber.
I hesitated, my shroud subconsciously withdrawing within me.
"Aelanthir and phoenix feather," he murmured. "Thirteen inches. Balanced. A wand for precision, versatility, and, above all, potential."
The moment I touch the wand, I felt completion…contentment. It felt as though a missing part of me was returned, and with it, the shackles that denied me true growth and renewal were lost. My fears, replaced by acceptance and peace I could not find words to express.
My vigour churned, and I felt more…the potent nothingness that clung to my soul thrice boosting my perception of Presence. There was also the profound Twist I now enjoyed…the secondary ability that existed outside of the conduit's presence.
Then came the power, the wand's active benediction: Ideal Incarnation. With it in my grasp, I felt more complete, able to summon and amplify my attributes and talents to their fullest extent.
This wand, there was an undeniable dependability to it, an understanding as if the wand knew me, knew the contradictions of my existence. The fear of endless rebirths was swallowed by the wonders of endless tries and never-permanent failures.
It was foreign acceptance…false acceptance, one I knew I would have never achieved in this state of mine so flawed and lamented.
I breathed, and clutched my wand, shrouding it and infusing it with my permanence through instinctual guidance. The sensation grew, flooding my rift with vigour.
Ollivander smiled, the faintest hint of pride in his expression. "Ah, yes. That's the one."
"It's…Alive," I said softly, more to myself than to him. That eldritch flavour of speech was there too, my attunement with the mystic thrice as great.
An inherent ability, perhaps?
He inclined his head. "Not alive, Mr. Graymort. Attuned. It recognizes something in you—a mind both sharp and tempered. A wand for someone who understands the art in the craft of magic."
He did not know, not really.
I turned the wand in my hand, marveling at the subtle warmth that pulsed through it. It did not feel like a tool. It felt like a fragment long lost, an old appendage given life once more.
"This will do," I said, trying for nonchalance.
Ollivander's smile widened, and I mirrored it. This whole and boosted, I could sense the threads of his shop, the siphons of desire that attached themselves to my heart. They tingled like the scroll, though their violation was not so great or unwanted.
Ollivander had them too, the shop speaking to him.
"It will do far more than that, I suspect," he said quietly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Take care with it, Mr. Graymort. Great ambition is a powerful thing, but it can be… unpredictable."
I did not regard him, my attention still consumed. I had held four wands before this one. Of all those wands, three were of the same make, and one was removed from the same resonance. This wand was the same queer as the other, if still of different make.
Yet, even despite all that. There was one thing all these conduits shared, a tamper of the wand maker's creation, I felt.
The Trace, perhaps. Or something that facilitated it.
I smiled, and it was a joyful thing. "So can I."
For the first time, Ollivander chuckled a proper laugh, one that came straight from the tummy. "Then I daresay the two of you will get along splendidly."
——————
The sun had dipped slightly as I stepped out of the wand shop.
My mood was unusually light, and I felt it showed in the ease of my movements. On my wrist rested my wand, secured by the shrinking holster the skilled wand-maker had sold me. I had assumed that contact with the conduit would allow for the same projection proper holding permitted, but it seemed that wasn't the case.
Still, the proximity was welcome—pleasant, even.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the professor. He stood a fair distance away near a sweets stand, a handful of candy in his hand. Beside him, on the ground, was a small, pale green trunk edged with silver.
I immediately knew what it was—an enchanted trunk, and one that was almost too on the nose. Yet, despite its overt appearance, I was still charmed by it, even if I deprived my face of such emotions.
I neared the man, my gait rather free.
"Ah, there you are!" Slughorn exclaimed at my appearance, throwing in a piece of candy in his mouth. "I trust everything went smoothly?"
"Quite so, professor," I affirmed, flexing my wrist for the wand to spring out. "Aelanthir and phoenix feather. 13 inches, and sufficiently flexible." I held it by the middle and showed it.
"Wonderful, wonderful!" Slughorn nodded his head, his round face splitting into a grin. "A good wand is the start of all great wizarding journeys, my boy. A fine choice for someone with promise." There was genuine joy in his voice, that…probably should not have surprised me.
I gestured to the trunk. "What's this?" I subtly changed the conversation, tapping the wand back into its holster.
Slughorn gave the trunk a little nudge with his foot, the silver edges catching the light. "Ah, just a little something I had arranged while you were inside. You'll need a proper trunk for Hogwarts, of course. This one's enchanted—lightweight, compact, and more spacious inside than it looks. Perfect for a young wizard on the rise."
I let my emotions bleed out. "You didn't have to—"
"Nonsense!" he interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Consider it an investment. I make it a habit to spot talent early, you see, and I believe you'll make quite the impression at Hogwarts. Besides, it's a small thing, really."
It was not…probably.
"Thank you," I said finally, meeting his gaze. My voice had dropped a few decibels than I intended, but I meant it.
Slughorn nodded, he seemed pleased. "Think nothing of it, my boy. Now then," he said, finishing the candy, "we've no time to dawdle. Plenty more to do before the day is out. Best we get a move on."
I picked up the trunk—it was indeed charmed, weighing as much as a feather—and fell into step beside him.
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The Saint: This is my first official upload this year, thus I'm obliged to bit you all a happy new year. Now, I personally like how the chapter came out, despite the confusing drivel happening about during the wand acquisition. I will explain it.
So, here's the gist of it. The wand grants him relief-to be a person without troubles or fear. With it, he is his ideal self. This is the core aspect of the wand. That's the Ideal Incarnation he's referring to.
The second ability is the Twist-this is just a colourful way of saying control. Now, this is more interesting. Because our MC has once been without anything on a more truer level, what he has now he can feel with great clarity. His shroud, his body, his existence. And through his shroud, he can malform his body. It's nothing to excessive, just a sharpening of features and a rejection of unreasonable limitations.
The MC will say some wild crap to describe his experiences. Example: [I neared him slowly, internally telling myself that his sight could not peer beyond this veil I wore so freely.] What all of this means is that he doesn't think anyone could see through his rebirth.
And remember, if you find any inconsistencies, errors, or just have some creative suggestions, do share. I'm not opposed to altering previous chapters if the ideas are interesting enough. And if you do find yourself craving additional chapters, I have four advanced chapters on my Patreon.
Anyway, bye!