HP: A Magical Journey

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“Now, tell me. . . .. which of my hands hold the galleon.”

Astoria Greengrass intently stared at the two closed fists in front of her, her eyes moving back and forth between the two trying to figure out the location of the hidden galleon.

“Your right is slightly raised, so I will say that it’s in the left,” she said.

Quinn smiled and opened his right hand, “Too bad, you’re wrong,” there sat a golden galleon sitting in his right palm.

“Again?! I’ve lost ten times in a row,” said Astoria, huffing, “how are you doing this? You’re using magic, aren’t you?”

“Of course, I’m using magic, my dear Astoria,” said Quinn with a smile, “but not the magic that you and I know how to use — this is a different type, and in the hands, just as charming.

“You just have to look closely and ask yourself the right questions,” said Quinn, gazing at the black-haired Greengrass, “when you eliminate all other possibilities, the remaining answer, no matter how improbable, will be the correct one.”

Astoria narrowed her eyes, trying to deduce how Quinn did it, but — “I can’t tell. You’re definitely using magic — the first kind.”

“Do you want to how I did it?”

“Yes!”

Quinn opened his left hand, and there sat another galleon. Astoria gasped while he laughed.

“Whichever hand you chose, I opened the other to show you the coin — and with a little flair, I made sure your attention was off the hand you chose.”

“That’s not fair! You cheated,” said Astoria, complaining.

“I didn’t, young one. We never set any rules — nowhere did we decide that I couldn’t use two coins.”

“If you can use two coins, then I should get two chances to guess.”

“Fair enough.”

“See you denied. . . . wait, really?”

“Yeah, sure,” shrugged Quinn, “you get two guesses every chance the next time we play this.”

“Next time?” then Astoria saw Quinn smirking and realized that the next time wasn’t going to come anytime soon. She exclaimed in frustration at getting her hopes up and threw a sofa cushion at Quinn, who caught it while laughing.

“You two are making too much of a ruckus.”

The two turned to see Daphne enter the lounge, dressed in a white high-collared sleeved blouse and below the knee-length black skirt. She sat down beside Astoria and greeted Quinn,

“Apologies for keeping you wait,” she said while pushing a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, “I was preoccupied with some lessons.”

“It’s fine. Astoria is an excellent company,” said Quinn, and as he couldn’t wink, he settled for a smile.

Daphne stared at Quinn’s face for a good few seconds before asking, “How’s your eye faring?” her eyes still fixed on the red eyepatch, which matched with his shirt and complimented well with his black pants.

“It’s coming along just fine. It’ll be back in a week,” said Quinn before picking up his glass of elderflower cordial, “this is delightful; where can I buy this? I would love to have some of this at home.”

“We grow them at home,” said Astoria, jumping into the conversation, “it’s Daphne’s favorite, so mum makes sure to grow it whenever it’s the season.”

“Oh? Is it now. That’s good to know,” Quinn looked at Daphne, “as expected, Daphne, you have excellent taste.”

“. . . .Thank you,” said Daphne giving her beaming sister a brief glance.

“So, are you guys also going to the Potter twins’ birthday party?” asked Quinn.

“I’m going!” said Astoria, raising her hand high.

Daphne nodded with a sigh. It was a given with how close their mothers were to each other. Every year, at least, Daphne and Astoria would go to the Potters on the 31st of August, and vice-versa, the Potter twins would attend Daphne’s birthday.

‘Wait,’ thought Daphne and asked, “what do you mean by ‘also’?”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m invited this year.”

“. . . . Which one of the twins invited you?” asked Daphne.

“Harry did; why?” asked Quinn.

“I know~! I know~!” said Astoria, before Daphne could, “every year, invitations to birthday celebration go out, but things get interesting as the invitations aren’t addressed by Ivy and Harry Potter together — any invitation can only have one name — either Harry or Ivy.”

Daphne sneakily sighed in relief. It wasn’t the reason why she had asked.

“Oh, why is that?” asked Quinn, sounding interested.

“It’s because of the competition.”

“Competition?”

Daphne took over from there and continued, “Every year at the Potters’ birthday, they hold a competition between the twins — the invitations are a way to gather teams for said competition. . . . taking your case, as Harry invited you, your invitation will have Harry’s name on it, and during the evening, you’ll be on team Harry.”

“That. . . . sounds really interesting,” said Quinn, “what kind of competition are we talking about here?”

“It changes every year,” said the blonde, “we have put on plays, done fishing competition, trivia contests, and so many other things.”

It turned out that the Potter twin didn’t celebrate their birthday at home, but at different destinations, because their house was in a mixed neighborhood and there wasn’t enough place to host all the guests. Moreover, unlike the usual parties, it was a whole day event.

“Oh ho. Now, I’m looking forward to attending the birthday,” said Quinn, “then, what about you guys? Whose team are you two on?”

“I’m on Harry’s,” said Astoria.

“Ivy’s,” said Daphne.

“Then it looks like Astoria, and I will be winning this time,” said Quinn, high-fiving Astoria.

Then there was a pop, and a spotty green house-elf wearing a tan pillowcase appeared in the lounge. The house-elf stared at the three with his big, watery eyes,

“Food is ready. Master be calling,” he said.

“We will be there, Barley,” said Daphne in acknowledgment, and the house-elf popped away. She turned to Quinn, “let’s go; mother and father must be waiting.”

Quinn nodded and stood up at once, “Let’s. We can’t keep Mrs.,” he caught a glare forming and quickly improvised, “and Mr. Greengrass waiting.”

“Let’s hurry. I’m hungry!” said Astoria and ran ahead.

“Don’t run!” Daphne called out as she stood up, “she’s going to get herself hurt,” she sighed.

“Well, we can’t do anything about that,” said Quinn, falling into step beside Daphne, “her energy levels will remain high for the rest of the day,” he had just treated Astoria, “she’ll be back to being her usual relatively-manageable self tomorrow.”

. . .

“So, Quinn. . . . bad luck, eh?” said Jacob Greengrass, “an excellent year throughout, but it ended up with a hiccup — quite a serious hiccup.”

“I wouldn’t say a big hiccup,” smiled Quinn, “temporarily losing an eye isn’t that serious. I have been through worse.”

“Oh, like what?”

“Like dunking himself into freeze potion,” said Daphne, “freezing his entire body to the point that he had to stay inside in the hospital wing for ten days.”

“What she said,” said Quinn.

“Tracey told me that Quinn was bald during that time,” said Astoria, chiming in.

“That I was.”

“But as dear said, it was quite an eventful year for you, wasn’t it, Quinn,” spoke Sophie Greengrass, “whenever I was with my friends, I think I heard your name more than I heard the champions’. When we heard that a student organized the tournament, everyone was impressed, and the result just deepened the amazement.”

“True,” said Jacob, “I think I even heard that because the tournament was so successful, many in the quidditch world are talking about adopting the Quinn-format as a new format.”

“Thank you, but I would like to correct you on one thing,” said Quinn, “it wasn’t me alone who made the tournament as successful as it was,” he gazed at Daphne, “Daphne and my helpers aided me every step of the way to make things possible; as such, I can’t take all the credit.”

“How humble,” smiled Sophie.

“I would actually like to thank you for including Daphne in the tournament,” said Jacob, “it was a good experience to have, which I’m glad that Daphne and Tracey both got to be a part of.”

“I only chose those I thought were capable — Daphne is one of the most capable people I know, so selecting her was a no-brainer.”

The girl in question felt her cheeks flush, which she tried to push down. But not before her mother caught a glance of it and a knowing smile made onto her face.

That evening, Quinn went on to say many things that made Daphne flush a lot while Sophie almost had a permanent knowing smile on her face as she observed her daughter from the side.

“So, Quinn, what do you think about the Dark Lord?” asked Jacob suddenly out of nowhere when they were having dessert.

“Jacob!” exclaimed Sophie at her husband’s abrupt inquiry. Daphne and Astoria, too, looked a little uncomfortable.

“It’s fine, Mrs. Greengrass,” said Quinn, putting down his ice cream bowl and spoon. “The Dark Lord, hmm. . . .”

The Greengrass family all turned to Quinn with varying levels of surprise.

“Magically talented,” said Quinn, “the dark lord is a generational talent when it comes to magic,” he noticed the looks his hosts were giving him and shrugged, “just because he went down the path he took doesn’t mean he isn’t great — and you of all should know my views on magic. ρꪖꪕᦔꪖꪕꪫꪣꫀ​ꪶ​

“I would say the Dark Lord was charismatic with a great talent for manipulation,” he continued, “otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to gather so many followers.” Tom Riddle had been as charming as Quinn when he was Hogwarts — the only one to suspect him was Dumbledore.

“To be able to manage egotistical people from noble houses, even the infamously stubborn Blacks, and bring them under one banner; that takes some effective leadership.” Even now, Tom’s style of leadership had changed from the original charismatic rule of the Hogwarts gang to the tyrannical and completely ruthless – though no less highly effective – command of his Death Eaters demonstrated throughout both the First Wizarding War.

“He must be an excellent teacher, given how his inner circle Death Eaters were able to contend with highly trained Aurors,” Quinn’s attack on the Death Eaters at the World Cup hadn’t been an accurate representation of Death Eater’s skill as he had ambushed them and all of them were piss drunk and neither were they personally trained by the Voldemort himself.

Of course, there were things that Quinn left unsaid — like Salesman skills that Riddle demonstrated at Borgin and Burke’s when he was in his late teens. The indomitable willpower that helped him survive more than a decade inside the Albanian forests as well as for several months on the back of Quirrell’s head as well as in the old Riddle House for an equally lengthy-time period, showing that aside from his determination, he had remarkable endurance and tolerance.

“The Dark Lord is terrible, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s great,” said Quinn shrugging, “his fault was that he took down the wrong path — if he had just been more like me, then he would have been terrific and great.”

The Greengrass family just stared at Quinn as he finished his thoughts. At most, they were expecting to be a slightly different version of the oh so terrible Dark Lord.

“I must say, Mrs. Greengrass, this ice cream — better than Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor.”

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– (Scene Break) –

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Garrick Ollivander worked in the back workshop of his narrow and shabby shop when he heard his shop’s tinkling bell, which rang when someone entered the shop. He stood up and walked outside to greet the new customer — it was near the time when he got eleven years old getting their first wands.

But when he arrived at the front, he saw the back of a person who looked older than an eleven-year-old. Ollivander silently opened the partition in the counter to step outside for his standard surprise greeting, but just when he had taken a single step, the customer spoke,

“I appreciate you keeping things fun, Mr. Ollivander. But, I think you should just do it with the eleven-year-olds. . . . doing that with everyone will wear the novelty off. Leave a one-time solid impression that will stay with the kids for the rest of their lives.”

The customer turned, and Ollivander recognized the person at once.

“Quinn West,” he said and then addressed the most obvious detail, “you have lost your eye?”

“Just for a short time.”

“I see. . . . if I remember correctly, you did say you’ll visit me in the summer. Are you here for some maintenance on your wand?”

“I don’t think my wand will need maintenance, Mr. Ollivander. . . . mine is as good as the day I received it from you,” his wand was still encased in a block of wood, inside a heavily warded room inside his suitcase.

“Then, what do I owe this pleasure to?”

“Do you follow the news, Mr. Ollivander?”

“I try to, but my works keeps me busy.”

“Then have you heard about what Dumbledore has been saying?” asked Quinn.

“About You-Know-Who’s return? Yes, I have read about it.”

“Has Dumbledore visited you?”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Ollivander, sounding confused, “what’s going on, Mr. West?”

‘It seems either Dumbledore either hasn’t figured it out yet, or he has been too busy,’ thought Quinn.

In the original timeline, Ollivander had shared this piece of information about Harry’s wand being a brother wand to Voldemort’s with Dumbledore as Harry didn’t have a guardian, but because this time around, Harry did have guardians, and because Potter parents didn’t the information want the information out, Dumbledore wasn’t privy to it.

“Priori Incantatem,” said Quinn.

Ollivander’s eyes gazed into Quinn’s, and it was almost as though an invisible beam of understanding shot between them.

“The Reverse Spell effect?” said Ollivander, his mind turning in thought.

“Exactly,” said Quinn. “Harry Potter’s and the Dark Lord’s wand share cores, don’t they? Each of them contains a feather from the tail of the same phoenix.”

“How do you know that?” said the wandmaker, and as he asked this, his thoughts clicked, “wait. . . . are you saying that Dumbledore’s telling the truth. . . . and Harry Potter met with You-Know-Who?”

“They met; they dueled; their wands connected. . . . you know what happens when a wand meets its brother.”

“They will not work properly against each other,” said Ollivander. “If, however, the owners of the wands force the wands to do battle . . . a very rare effect will take place. One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate spells it has performed — in reverse. The most recent first . . . and then those which preceded it. . . .”

He looked interrogatively at Quinn, and Quinn nodded.

“The wand to be overwhelmed was Voldemort’s, and the spell he cast was Killing curse,” he said.

The fact that Voldemort was overwhelmed by Harry Potter would have been unlikely, but given the circumstances — Voldemort had been just recently revived — it wasn’t farfetched to think that his magic was in a period of instability.

“. . . . An echo,” said Ollivander, “I am guessing that apparitions appeared. . . . and retained known forms. . . . less recent victims of You-Know-Who’s wand. . . .” he added, “The last murders the wand performed. In reverse order.”

“The Dark Lord will want answers, Mr. Ollivander,” said Quinn, “and who better to ask than the wandmaker who crafted his and Harry Potter’s wands — the two wands in question.”

“What are you saying?” asked Ollivander, a gulp preceding his words.

“The Dark Lord will come, Mr. Ollivander. And from what I had heard from about him, he isn’t a person who will invite you for tea so that you could give him lessons about wandlore,” Quinn moved a step closer to the old man, “no, he will torture you no matter how quick you give him the answer. He might even, you know. . . . if your answer displeases him.”

Ollivander gulped harder. His eyes trembled a touch.

“I suggest that you make preparations for your safety, Mr. Ollivander. Or you might — you will be — in serious danger.”

“B-But, I can’t!” exclaimed the usually serene man, “so many new children will require wands. I can’t just leave and take that away from them.”

Quinn sighed. The man in front of him didn’t have a personal life at all — a work-a-holic at its worst. But he understood — wand crafting was Ollivander’s life. If you take that away, there was nothing left. To some, a life without meaning was as good as death.

“He won’t come now,” said Quinn, “the Dark Lord isn’t in a position of power to show himself. He will brew chaos from the shadows, bidding in silence for the time when his arrangements are compounded into completion — you have until before the start of the next summer. For now, you can keep working. . . . but don’t get comfortable, Mr. Ollivander.”

“W-What do you suggest I do?”

“Get in contact with Dumbledore and others in the Light Faction — separately and together. Tell them what you know and, in return, ask for shelter. Dumbledore will want Hogwarts to be a point of normalcy, and for that to happen, new students must get their wands — he will provide you with protection.”

If Quinn didn’t want his family to get involved, he would have offered the West resources, but that was out of the picture. And Quinn, while he had his more than plenty personal riches, he didn’t have much influence and resources outside of Hogwarts.

“Yes, yes, that sounds right. I will do that,” nodded Ollivander, sitting down on a barstool.

“Of course, it goes without saying, but you must not talk about our little chat with anyone — anyone at all, not even Dumbledore himself.”

“Eh, why so?”

“This was me being generous and a Good Samaritan,” smiled Quinn, “but there’s a limit to what I’m willing to do in the name of good deeds. If the Dark Lord comes to know that I’m the reason behind the setback, he will not be happy — and I would prefer if he’s feeling jolly — it will do the world a lot of good.”

The truth was that Quinn wanted to buy some time. If Ollivander was to remain hidden and away from Voldemort’s reach, then Voldemort’s discovery behind the twin cores would be delayed even if it’s a little. That little time would extend Voldemort’s passive ‘waiting-in-the-shadows’ stance.

The extra time that everyone could have some use of.

“I s-see. I’ll keep this a secret.”

“Excellent,” said Quinn with a big smile, “then, I’ll take my leave, Mr. Ollivander, “I can only be outside for so much with this ol’ thing,” he pointed at his deep yellow eyepatch.

Ollivander got up on his old knees and shook hands with Quinn, thanking him profusely for his warnings and advice. After Quinn stepped out of the shop, he looked back and snapped his fingers with a smile.

Inside, Ollinvader got up to return back to work when he heard a ton of footsteps to see dozens of people — big and small — enter the shop with more people waiting outside.

“Oh my,” he smiled, “welcome all of you, please form a line. . . .”

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[

A/N:

Water magic doesn’t mean that he gets an all-in-one healing magic. It would help, sure, if Quinn used it. *He still needs to learn all the healing knowledge*, to actually use water magic for healing — Quinn knew blood magic, and that’s why he was able to apply water magic in treating Astoria.

He wanted to use healing magic, but Quinn has a medi-healer (hired by his family) treating his eye. His family thinks that his eye injury was due to faulty magic, now how do you think they would feel if Quinn decides to put his own input when his eye was taken out by a faulty eye magic.

As for him taking potions and calling it *Archaic*? A majority of the healing magic is potion based — there is no way to eliminate potion. Even the Elixir of Life extracted from the Philosopher’s Stone is a potion. There was a cauldron full of potion present in Voldemort’s revival. Healing in Harry Potter isn’t like Wolverine’s and Deadpool’s, please keep that in mind. This isn’t a Retcon.

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Quinn West – MC – Pioneering eyepatch fashion.

Astoria Greengrass – Hyperactive – Primary subject for muggle-magic demonstration.

Daphne Greengrass – Likes Elderflower – Her cheeks match Quinn’s eyepatch.

Jacob Greengrass – Papa Greengrass – Asked the question.

Sophie Greengrass – Mama Greengrass – Excellent Ice cream.

Garrick Ollivander – Wandmaker – Loves his job a little too much.

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