HP: A Magical Journey

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Elliot entered the gardens of the West property, stretching his shoulder to relieve some stiffness. It had been longer than usual since he had got to spend some time at home, away from all the strains of work. All the problems in Germany had sapped all of Elliot’s energy and were taxing enough that he wished he could take a vacation.

He was about to move to the corner where he had planted herbs on his own when he chanced upon Quinn laying on the ground, spread eagle.

“Is something bothering you,” asked Elliot.

Quinn groaned and kept groaning until he said, “I am old.”

“. . . You just turned eighteen, young master. You’re in no way or form old.”

“. . . My magic stopped growing yesterday,” said Quinn, his eyes staring at the sky.

“Your magic?”

“The flux period, I exited it yesterday,” sighed Quinn.

The flux period of growth. When a magical human turned eleven, they’d enter a state of magical flux where their magic would grow even if they didn’t use any— magic being a muscle would grow with use, and during the flux period, magic would grow at an incredible rate if regularly utilized. Quinn had been using as much magic as he could every day ever since he could remember— it wasn’t an exaggeration that he had larger magic reserves than anyone his age. Quinn was even sure that he had larger reserves than Dumbledore and Voldemort.

However, the flux stage as it was appropriately named. . . a stage. It had to come to an end. It was observed that the flux stage would pass when a magical would pass at the end of the seventeenth year and around the eighteen birthday.

Quinn, who had just recently turned eighteen, had passed the age limit, and today, his magical core had finally matured to an adult’s. The magic inside him was still capable of growth, albeit at a very slow rate.

He had thought his flux stage would continue for another four years because of his transmigration status, but it seemed that he was too optimistic in his thinking.

“This sucks!” There was a feeling of stagnation inside his body. If his magic had been free before, as if he was walking through the air, now it seemed like it had been forced to walk inside a vat of viscous liquid that pulled on his every movement to move forward.

Elliot laid down beside Quinn and faced up, also looking at the sky. “Doesn’t it signify that you’re ready?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Now that your magic core has matured, doesn’t that signify that you’re ready for a magical journey, your magical journey? That you’re done with preparation and have all the tools you’ll need to progress, and now you can fully give it all.”

“I’ve been giving it all since a long ago,” said Quinn before sighing. “I understand what you’re saying, but it is hard to accept that the same amount of effort won’t be paying the same level of dividends. “

“So you won’t be doing it anymore?”

“I don’t feel like it,” said Quinn. He could somewhat understand why Voldemort had gone down the path of artificial modifications— and he had just been off of the growth just for one day.

“Then don’t,” said Elliot. “It must’ve been tiring to expend all of your magic every day. It won’t be bad for you to take a break from it.”

Quinn reached into his pocket and showed Elliot a golf-sized ball of shiny metal that reflected in many colors. “This is lead. . . I have had this ball since I started Hogwarts. Lead is a metal that’s difficult to manipulate and meld through magic— it takes a lot of magic and requires a decent amount of focus to perform operations without exploding the metal. Since I got it, I have been doing it, and this ball has seen at least sixteen hours of contact with magic every day. . . . I just can believe that I’ll be stopping.

How’re you doing? You look tired,” asked Quinn.

“The mess in Germany isn’t sorting out as we expected it would. The fact remains that they’re foreign and we indigenous, is creating unnecessary friction. The partnership break is creating much more problems for us than for them. It’ll take some more time to sort the problems out so that problems.

“How’s grandfather doing?”

“Busy. I don’t think he’s going to stop until he thinks he’s done, which might take a while,” saying that Elliot got up before saying his finishing words, “Don’t let the tension pile up in your heart. No matter what choice you take— it should be the one that comes from your heart.”

Quinn watched Elliot till he was gone before looking back at the sky. He floated the lead ball up so he could see it and wondered if he should continue with the exercise that, when compared to before, now seemed pointless.

The lead ball distorted into a liquid consistency that thrummed with spikes. It broke down into smaller pellets that then flattened into rings that began rotating in front of his face.

“. . . I’m a sucker of magic.”

The lead continued to change shapes as Quinn stared at it from below, wondering if there was someone he could go to. Merlin couldn’t help him on this— the flux period wasn’t discovered in his time, and Merlin himself hadn’t done personal research on the subject. Quinn had written to Alan, and even though he knew about it, he had never tried to push his magic after his flux period, and even during it, Alan had been like any typical teen when it came to increasing his magic reserves.

Quinn suddenly sat up with a sparkling look in his eyes. A golden idea had struck him. It was genius, he thought.

“I know! I should go ask Grindelwald!”

It was time to take a trip.

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– (Scene Break) –

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Voldemort sat in a room with a poshness that oozed out from every corner of the room. There was a glass of wine in his hand that he rose up to his lipless mouth.

“You have been doing a fine job against George West,” said Voldemort, pleased. “He’s been so busy that he doesn’t have the time to raise an eyes towards Britain.”

“Dark Lord. . . we’re already struggling with George West,” said one of the German pureblood. “At this rate, he will steal our business rather than us his.”

“Pulling out of the partnership has plunged us into the risk of future losses that seem inevitable,” sighed another pureblood. “This doesn’t seem to be looking to be a good deal.”

A sudden chill descended into the room. There were a dozen or so people in the room, and every single one of them looked at the one who had spoken, their eyes practically screaming that he needed to stop.

“Handschuh. . . do you like your money more than your life?” asked Voldemort. “George West will take your money but won’t kill you. I, on the other day, can take away your life and your money after that. . . which one do you think is better.”

Handschuh felt his feet go cold. “N-No, my apologies, My Lord.”

“Hmm. . .” ρꪖꪕᦔꪖꪕꪫꪣꫀ​ꪶ​

Handschuh wasn’t over yet; he gathered up his courage and spoke, “M-My Lord, if-f I may.”

Voldemort lazily waved his hand, so Handschuh continued, “I was a bar when I heard a name. . . .”

“What name might that be?”

“. . . Gregorovitch.”

The wine in Voldemort’s hand trembled. He turned to Handschuh with his eyes being a mix of excitement and danger, “I hope you’re not jesting, Handschuh, are you?”

“N-No, M-My Lord. I heard it clearly. They were talking about Gregorovitch. . . and you were looking for him. . . .”

“Tell me more about it, Handschuh, and I will forgive your previous unsightliness.”

“T-Thank you, M-My Lord. . .”

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Voldemort glided along a twilit street. The buildings on either side of him had high, timbered gables; they looked like gingerbread houses. He approached one of them, then saw the whiteness of his own long-fingered hand against the door. He knocked. He felt a mounting excitement. . . .

The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her face fell as she looked into Voldemort’s face: humor gone, terror replacing it.

“Gregorovitch?” said a high, cold voice.

She shook her head: She was trying to close the door. A white hand held it steady, preventing her from shutting him out.

“I want Gregorovitch.”

She cried, shaking her head. “He doesn’t live here! He doesn’t live here! I don’t know him!”

Abandoning the attempt to close the door, she began to back away down the dark hall, and Voldemort followed, gliding toward her, and his long-fingered hand had drawn his wand.

“Where is he?”

“He moved! I don’t know, please, I don’t know!”

He raised the wand. She screamed. Two young children came running into the hall. She tried to shield them with her arms. His wand tip glowed green—

“No!” A man burst into the room

Voldemort lowered his wand as the green grow subsided, and a smile grew on his face, “It’s good to see you, Gregorovitch.”

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“Give it to me, Gregorovitch,” Voldemort’s voice was high, clear, and cold, his wand held in front of him by a long-fingered white hand.

He had just found out why his wand didn’t work against Harry Potter’s and found another piece of exciting information. If his wand didn’t work, then he needed to get another— and if he was going to a new one, which better but the best wand ever made.

Gregorovitch, at whom he was pointing, was suspended upside down in midair, though no ropes were holding him; he swung there, invisibly and eerily bound, his limbs wrapped about him, his terrified face ruddy due to the blood that had rushed to his head. He had pure-white hair and a thick, bushy beard: a trussed-up Father Christmas.

“I have it not. I have it no more! It was, many years ago, stolen from me!” The hanging man’s pupils were wide, dilated with fear, and they seemed to swell, bigger and bigger.

“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?!”

“I do not know, I never knew, a young man— no— please— PLEASE!”

“One last chance, wandmaker!”

Gregorovitch’s eyes widened in horror as a memory surfaced in his mind: Gregorovitch burst into the room at the end of the passage, and his lantern illuminated what looked like a workshop; wood shavings and gold gleamed in the swinging pool of light, and there on the window ledge sat perched, like a giant bird, a young man with golden hair. In the split second that the lantern’s light illuminated him, Gregorovitch saw the delight upon his handsome face, then the intruder shot a Stunning Spell from his wand and jumped neatly backward out of the window with a crow of laughter.

Voldemort’s wand glowed in green again, and Gregorovitch’s mouth screamed wide open:

“GRINDELWALD!”

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Quinn West – MC – Airtrip! Airtrip! Airtrip!

Elliot Dalton – “Sebastian” – Time to have a kickback.

Voldemort – Dark Lord – “Oh. . . ?”

Mykew Gregorovitch – Wandmaker – On a new adventure.

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The link is in the synopsis!