HP: A Magical Journey

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“The medi-healer’s diagnoses said that if you follow his potion regime, you’ll have your eye back in ten days,” said George West, staring at his grandson’s black eyepatch, “he also suggests that you rest for a couple of weeks to help the recovery; which I completely agree with.”

Quinn nodded while tapping his finger on the armrest of his chair. Ever since he had returned from Hogwarts (which was yesterday), he had been treated like he had come close to losing his life..

“I’ve no strenuous plans in the recent future,” he replied, “though I’ll need to leave to go visit my friends — I already got anxious letters from them; it looks like they won’t be satisfied if I don’t visit them.”

“Hmm,” paused George, contemplating, “you’ll have strict time curfew imposed on you. Cross them even once, and I’ll have you grounded here for the entire summer break.”

Quinn held back a sigh and nodded, “I understand. I will abide by your rules.”

“Good,” said George, “now tell me, what do you think about Dumbledore’s sudden announcement of the Dark Lord’s return.”

“What do you think?” answered Quinn with a question.

“I don’t want to believe it, alas Dumbledore is anything but a daft fool who would propagate such a severe thing if it was not a lie,” said George, “though I can’t say the same about the boy. What do you think of the Boy-Who-Lived — are his words trustworthy?”

“Harry Potter might not shy away from attention and fame, but I’m don’t think he will lie about something of this magnitude. Also, from the time I spent with him in the hospital wing, I don’t think he was lying.”

“Did you. . . peek?”

“Ah, I could’ve done that, couldn’t I?. . . but the missing eye had me off my game there.”

“And yet, you engaged a Death Eater,” said George.

Quinn’s one eye twitched, “I ambushed the Death Eater. He had his wand aimed at Ivy Potter; if he didn’t want to get taken out by Headmaster Dumbledore or Auror Potter or both, he wouldn’t have pointed his wand at me — I was completely safe in that scenario.”

George didn’t look satisfied with Quinn’s explanation, no matter how much sense it made. “. . . . So it’s safe to say that the Dark Lord has returned?”

“It seems so.”

George sighed. This news wasn’t faring well — plus, it was terrible for business. “I’ll send out for definitive news of the Dark Lord’s return. I’m sure someone from the Dark Faction would be more than happy to pass along the information.”

Quinn nodded. There was always someone waiting to brag.

“Alright then, let’s move on. How did your OWLs go?” asked George.

“Ah, the OWLs,” said Quinn, “I almost forgot about them — they were exhaustingly easy. . . . I was tempted to go sleep after an hour of writing. Fortunately, practicals are a quick affair — it was quite simple to impress the external examiners with some basic nonverbal casting. . . . All-in-all, I’ll pass with rainbow-colored Os with beyond hundred points.”

“That’s great to hear,” nodded George, “what about Ms. Fleur Delacour, are you two. . . .”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you,” sighed Quinn, expecting a little tact from his grandfather, but it seemed that a parent’s curiosity was strong with George West, “I’m not involved with Fleur. That was just a one-time, brief. . . . thing.”

“You can be honest with me, son. There’s no need to be shy.”

The grandson and grandfather stared at each other for a good few seconds before Quinn graced George with an answer,

“. . . . I am being honest with you, grandfather,” Quinn enunciated every syllable that rolled of his tongue, “I do not have any sort of intimate relationship with Ms. Fleaur Delacour.”

“I see. . . . if you say so.”

“. . .”

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– (Scene Break) –

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“35. . . 36. . . 37. . . 38. . .”

The sudden loss of vision in one caused multitudes of problems for Quinn. Besides being blind on one side and having terrible spatial perception, Quinn had to suffer through balance disorders, decreased visual clarity, eyestrain, headaches because his other good eye was stressing itself by compensating for its missing partner.

After just one Muay Thai training session, Quinn had come near to throwing up because of nausea. By the end of that session, Quinn had decided to suspend Muay Thai till he got his eye back and elected to only do physical conditioning.

The lack of daily hitting, punching, and kicking the crap out of the heavy bag bummed Quinn out, so he chose to take on a new challenge and thus altered the way he performed conditioning — he started to do every exercise much slower than his usual speed.

If it was a pushup, Quinn would do every single one very slowly, making his muscles hold the weight for much longer — the same went for pullups, squats, and any exercise he could introduce it into. Furthermore, he tried out isometrics into his new routine because it didn’t stress his vision.

“O-Oh-ho, I have to make Eddie do this,” panted Quinn mid a slow pushup, “this feels exhilarating.” The base physique of a body-magic user mattered when it came to the elevation provided by magic, albeit only in the basic versions of body magic — a fit body was required even at the advanced levels, but it no longer affected the productivity of the magic.

Even without that initial reasoning, now Quinn had fallen in love with martial arts and physical fitness. It made him feel good, and working towards his ideal physique was a rewarding feeling.

And as Quinn got some work in, the door to the training hall busted open with a bang.

“Quinn, I heard you lost an eye!” Lia West, freshly home from yet another trip outside the country, announced herself with full vigor.

The older sister glanced down to see her shirtless baby brother doing a pushup over a puddle of sweat beneath him with sweat dripping off his body. She could see him from the side — the side which was blinded.

“Huh, Wah! Lia is that you?!” she heard, “damn it, that scared me! Ugh, I can’t see you properly.”

Quinn got up and turned his entire body to the door to finally get a complete look at his sister, who, for some reason, had her wand pointed at him. “Why do—” before Quinn could ask her, Lia waved her wand, and he found all the sweat vanished into a puff of vapor.

“Ah, thanks,” he said before smiling, “hey, Lia. Welcome back, sis. How’re you doing? Brought me any gifts? Any exotic and exciting books. . . .” He tried to talk his way out of getting scolded, only to trail off when he couldn’t pick a scolding on Lia’s face.

“That eyepatch looks needlessly cool,” said Lia.

“Thank you?” he said, judging the vibe, “you also look good. New haircut?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t matter; you’re glowing.”

Lia stepped ahead, walked towards Quinn, and grabbed his face by the cheeks. “How is the treatment going?”

“I’ve only been back one day, so nothing major,” said Quinn with his cheeks being kneaded, “the potion tastes bad, and the eye drop burns when I put them in. . . . the empty eye socket.”

“You’ve been busy — organizing quidditch tournaments, commentating, hosting. . . . playing knight in shining armor and kissing Veelas.”

Quinn fought down the intense cough that overcame him and settled to loudly cleared his throat, “Why are all of you so interested in it? It was only a one-time thing.”

“Because it’s interesting,” replied Lia, now pinching Quinn’s hurting cheeks wide, “there’s only so much that goes on here.”

Quinn finally couldn’t take it anymore and released his now red, hot cheeks out from the torturous pincers. “You’re not going to scold me?” he asked directly.

“Not really,” shrugged Lia, “people make mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes, mostly small — I don’t do big mistakes — during my starting years, it took me a lot of time to get in the groove of things.”

Quinn, for the umpteenth time, suppressed a groan. It bugged him a lot that everyone thought that it was his mistake in magic that cost him his eye.

“. . . . I will take more care moving forward.”

“Good, that’s the correct attitude,” smiled Lia, “now get some clothes; we’re going out to the non-magical world to have some fun.”

Quinn grinned, “Wicked.”

Not only he got to go out because George would let him go out if Lia was accompanying him, but he also didn’t have to listen to a long lecture.

“You’re paying,” she said.

“Glady,” he was feeling generous today.

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– (Scene Break) –

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It was the night of the 26th of June, 1995, just two days after the night of the third and final task of the Tri-wizard tournament. The night was clear, with the valley of stars shining in the inky black.

And beneath that sky, standing in a wide clearing with no civilization in sight, just the embrace of nature, stood Dark Lord Voldemort, staring up at the sky with his dull, black, bottomless eyes.

“Wormtail, it’s time to bring them all together,” he said, removing his eye from the sky and turned to the man who looked like a humanized version of a thin-rat, “it’s time for my friends to gather to greet me, congratulate me. . . . and finally face me.”

“Yes, My Lord,” said Peter, stepping forward while pulling his robes’ sleeve past his elbow, revealing the vivid red tattoo — a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth: the Dark Mark — the symbol that struck fear into the hearts of all British magical society. ρꪖꪕᦔꪖꪕꪫꪣꫀ​ꪶ​

“It’s clearly back,” said Peter softly, “they will all have noticed it . . . and now, we shall see . . . now we shall know . . .”

“Yes, let’s see how many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his black eyes suddenly turning orbs of gleaming red, fixed upon the mark. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?”

He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Peter’s arm, and Peter let out a fresh hiss; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark — the mark went from red to black.

With a look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around the clearing — it was peaceful and beautiful. Voldemort laughed again. Up and down, he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass.

The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between trees, behind the shades, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward . . . slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them.

Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort, and kissed the hem of his black robes. “Master. . . . Master. . . .” he murmured.

The Death Eaters behind him did the same, each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle. Yet they left gaps in the ring, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered.

“Welcome, Death Eaters,” said Voldemort quietly. “Thirteen years . . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. . . . We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?”

He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening.

“I smell guilt,” he said. “There is a stench of guilt upon the air.”

A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back from him.

“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact — such prompt appearances! — and I ask myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their Master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?”

No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who left Voldemort’s side and joined the others in the ring.

“And I answer myself,” whispered Voldemort, “they must have believed me broken; they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment. . . .”

“And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?

“And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort . . . perhaps they now pay allegiance to another . . . perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore and his merry band — what are they called, ah yes, Order of The Phoenix. . . . but I’ve heard that they’re called by a new name. . . . what was it? Wormtail, do you know?”

“The Light Faction,” replied Peter promptly.

At the mention of Albus Dumbledore and the Light Faction, the circle members stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them.

“It is a disappointment to me . . . I confess myself disappointed. . . .”

One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort’s feet. “Master!” he shrieked, “Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!”

Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand — “Crucio!”

The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked; the sound spread throughout the surroundings. Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping.

“Get up, Avery,” said Voldemort softly. “Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years . . . I want thirteen years’ repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?”

“I could only hope, Master,” said Peter; his voice was stable and steady.

“You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but because you wanted to seek your personal revenge. . . . I should punish you, but as you already spent all those years in Azkaban, you were already punished enough and as traitorous as you are, you helped me . . . and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers. . . . Wormtail, I will help you seek your revenge — you would drown in as much revenge as your greedy heart could ever desire.”

Peter strode forward, knelt on his knees, and kissed the hem of Voldemort’s robes.

“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail,” said Voldemort.

“No, my Lord . . . never, my Lord . . .”

Peter stood up and returned to his place; the other Death Eaters looked at him envy and regret — only if they had. . . .

Voldemort now approached the man on Peter’s right.

“Lucius, my slippery friend,” he whispered, halting before him. “I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though, to the world, you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius. . . . Your exploits at the Wizengamot were fun, I daresay . . . but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your Master?

“My Lord, I was constantly on the alert,” came Lucius Malfoy’s voice swiftly from beneath the hood. “Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately; nothing could have prevented me —”

“Oh Lucius, you and your silver tongue,” said Voldemort lazily, and Lucius stopped talking abruptly, “if your tongue wasn’t so useful to me, I would’ve cut and made you eat it. . . . You have disappointed me. . . . I expect more faithful service in the future.”

“Of course, my Lord, of course. . . . You are merciful, thank you. . . .”

Voldemort moved on and stopped, staring at the space — large enough for two people — that separated Malfoy and the next man.

“The Lestranges should stand here,” said Voldemort quietly. “But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me. . . . When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us . . . they are our natural allies . . . we will recall the banished giants . . . I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear. . . .”

He walked on. He passed some of the Death Eaters in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them.

“Macnair . . . destroying dangerous beasts for the Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord Voldemort will provide. . . .”

“Thank you, Master . . . thank you,” murmured Macnair.

“And here” — Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures — “we have Crabbe . . . you will do better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you, Goyle?”

They bowed clumsily, muttering dully.

“Yes, Master . . .”

“We will, Master. . . .”

“The same goes for you, Nott,” said Voldemort quietly as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyle’s shadow.

“My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful —”

“That will do,” said Voldemort.

He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes as though he could see people standing there.

“And here we have six missing Death Eaters . . . three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return . . . he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever . . . he will be killed, of course . . . and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service — the one that Dumbledore just sent to Azkaban.”

There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy’s voice spoke from under the mask.

“Master, we crave to know . . . we beg you to tell us . . . how you have achieved this . . . this miracle . . . how you managed to return to us. . . .”

Voldemort laughed and started to narrate his journey from the day he fell to two days before. And during his narration, the Death Eaters shivered when their Master, again and again, showed them all the opportunities they could’ve taken to save him and how close he had been to them for the past few years.

He then looked back at the sky and spoke in but a whisper, “Harry Potter. . . . that child, he once again escaped me through some strange magic. . . . magic that I’m not aware of. That won’t do, that won’t do.”

Voldemort turned in a circle to see all those gathered and declared, “Gather my forces, Death Eaters. It’s time for us to build towards our previous glory. . . . no, this time we are going to surpass it and finally rule this wretched country.”

He raised his bone-like wand like a conductor of an opera and closed his eyes. The beautiful and serene scenery reflected in his mind and then with a smile. . . .

The Death Eaters, who were all smiling at their Master’s promise, felt a tremor beneath their feet. All looked down just in time to see cracks begin appearing on the ground near them. They started to shake in their boots as the cracks grew bigger and deeper, closing towards them.

“M-Master. . . .” said one of the Death Eater.

Voldemort didn’t reply and raised his wand higher. The trees around them began collapsing with the hundreds of meters of land all around them began to overturn, crack, rise, sink — the scenic place within a few seconds had turned into a different place.

The Death Eaters looked at the ground, which was the only location that was unchanged.

All realized all recalled. . . . who their Master was.

Voldemort opened his eye to show glowing red orbs and cruelly grinned, “Gentlemen. . . . let there be chaos.”

He waved his wand down, and suddenly there were explosions. When the explosions stopped, the Death Eaters looked around — gone was the greenery and the beautiful nature — all there was left was destruction. . . . unbridled devastation. . . . and as he had said. . . . Chaos.

The entire landscape had been changed.

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Quinn West – MC – The only upside of the eyepatch is its coolness.

George West – Grandfather – Wants to know if his grandson is dating.

Lia West – Sister – She didn’t scold. . . . what a unique situation.

Voldemort – Dark Lord – Powerhouse has returned.

Death Eaters – Dark Mark Bearers – It’s time to return.

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