HP: A Magical Journey

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The shopping area located in London, England, consisted of Diagon Alley — a play on diagonally, Horizont Alley — a play on horizontally, Knockturn Alley — a play on the word nocturnally, and finally, there was Vertic Alley — a play on the term. Vertically had to do with every building in the alley having multiple floors above and below the ground.

Within Vertic Alley stood a long-time restaurant, the Cirkus, proudly serving the magical population of the British Isles for over a hundred years.. The restaurant was divided into three levels — the base level, three floors just above the ground open to any and everyone who would want to dine delicious food; the bottom level, three floors providing to the shady members who required privacy; and the top level, three levels catering to the needs to rich and wealthy with more personalized services.

On the top level, two men sat facing each other in a private booth.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. West,” said Dumbledore, sporting his trademark long white beard and hair and half-moon glasses.

George wordlessly nodded as he mixed a spoonful of red crystal sugar into his tea. After getting so many letters, both via owls and MagiFax, he decided to grant Dumbledore a meeting.

“What is it that you want, Dumbledore,” he asked.

“I wanted to talk about getting your help and support,” said Dumbledore, “now that Voldemort has returned, your support could be essential to stop his rise—.”

“That is assuming that the Dark Lord has returned. You and your faction have been actively spouting about his return. . . . constantly. It was fine for a while, but now, it is just plain annoying.”

“You know it as well as I do that the Dark Lord has returned.”

George hummed, “There has been some chatter.”

“Then you know if he is to return, we are on a path to another war.”

“I am aware of that possibility. You-Know-Who will start his conquest once, and if I know anything about him, he’ll be more aggressive this time around, more brutal, more ruthless, more cunning. . . .”

“That’s why I’m asking for your help. If you would support our cause, then it would be of help to keep Voldemort away from taking over.”

“When you say your cause, what do you exactly mean by it.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment at the question from George. His mind went through the reason behind it. “. . . . In Wizengamot and the Order of Phoenix.”

“The Light faction and your little vigilante group,” said George translating, “you know very well that the rare times I participate in Wizengamot, I tend to align myself with the interest of the Grey faction, and your little personal army while had been a crucial player in the war, isn’t very efficient — I would be much more inclined to fund Amelia Bones and her Auror’s office than you.”

“West, I insist that we portray a united front against Voldemort and his Death Eater,” said Dumbledore. “With your help, we could pull the Grey faction to our side, ensuring that Voldemort won’t be able to pull new blood from the Grey collective.”

“Tell me, Dumbledore. What was my stance in the last war?”

“You remained neutral — The West family didn’t support Voldemort, but neither did they do anything to oppose him.”

“And, then.”

“Then you took your family and fled the country just before the war reached its peak.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to get involved in this war, Dumbledore,” said the West patriarch, but before Dumbledore could interject, George continued, “how about this, Dumbledore, if you discard the non-lethal policy your vigilante group follows, and employee lethal or even semi-lethal spells against Death Eaters, then I will provide resources to your little group.”

It was a well-known fact that while Barty Crouch Senior (who was now missing and many thought him to be dead) in his tenure as the Head of DMLE had managed to get his Aurors and Hit Wizards a license to kill, torture, and control by allowing them to use lethal and Unforgivable against Death Eaters.

Death Eaters, of course, didn’t follow any law and were unrestrained in the use of any and all spells they could perform. They used Unforgivables in all recorded and unrecorded confrontations without fail and piled up most kills out of all parties involved.

Then there was Dumbledore’s Order of Phoenix. They only employed non-lethal means and handed anyone they caught to the Auror’s office for further judgment. The Order had Aurors in their ranks, and while they were on duty, they were given their choice of following the new policy, but when working for the Order, they were strictly off any lethal.

“I can’t agree to that,” said Dumbledore firmly.

“Then there’s nothing to talk about,” shrugged George.

“West, you must understand—”

“No! I’m not going to fund an outfit that won’t use lethal spells against opponents who will kill them without a single thought. I refuse to help an organization whose members are on a sure-fire path to their deaths,”

George stared firmly at Dumbledore.

“Dumbledore, I don’t give a single knut of thought about blood purity, but the war was fought on it, and do you know how many noble families were extinguished in the war. So many of those now dead families or with only a few members left were from your faction. It was because of your choices that led them to their death.”

George reeled back and picked up his teacup once again, “If I’m to risk my family by taking a side, then it better be a side that is actually trying to make a difference.”

Dumbledore remained silent. As George had so firmly stated, the Order of Phoenix was a vigilante group — they didn’t have the official authority to use lethal force against Death Eaters, at least not when they were trying to ‘hunt’ said Death Eaters.

“I can’t. . . .” he said.

“Then any talk of me helping you with my resources is out of the question.”

“Voldemort will come for Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore, trying to pull on an emotional slant.

“I’m sure you will be able enough to protect Hogwarts, Dumbledore. I’ve complete confidence in your ability to defend our shared alma mater from the big bad Dark Lord.” While George had fond memories of Hogwarts, he wasn’t that attached to it.

“Even when your grandson is inside?”

George sighed as he set down his teacup, “Why did you have to bring Quinn up?”

“Your grandson is an anomaly. He’s what one would see as far away from your average student — but if there’s one thing I do know about him is that he loves Hogwarts.”

“So what?”

“If you ask him to leave Hogwarts, knowing that Voldemort might strike in the next two years, will he leave?”

George stared into his steaming tea. Both he and Dumbledore knew the answer to that question.

“You know Quinn won’t leave,” Dumbledore answered for George.

“What do you want, Dumbledore. We both know that you won’t let my men inside the castle grounds, and in case Voldemort does strike, I can’t do anything from the outside.”

“That’s alright,” said Dumbledore, “I don’t want your men for protection — I’m more than capable of that. What I’m worried about are the children. When Voldemort moves, he will go after the children outside Hogwarts; as such, I want to keep the children inside the castle — I’m sure most parents would agree with it. But for that to happen, I would need money to keep the school running — I’m asking you that if such a time comes, you will help me keep Hogwarts a safe-hold for the children.”

“You realize how this conversation just went from you stating Hogwarts will be a target to saying that you want to make that target into a safehold,” said George before sighing, “if that’s all you want, I can provide it. If you can protect Hogwarts, then I’ll keep the school running when the times get hard.”

George knew the real reason why Quinn wouldn’t leave Hogwarts if he asked him to — it wasn’t the castle that Quinn loved, but the people inside Hogwarts. As long as his friends are inside Hogwarts, Quinn won’t leave them alone.

‘That doesn’t mean I can’t try to make his friends leave Hogwarts during the time of dangers,’ thought George, and he wasn’t a West if he didn’t give it a try.

“Speaking of, how is Quinn doing?” asked Dumbledore. “Has he recovered?”

“His eyes back to normal. In fact,” George looked at his pocket watch gifted to him by Quinn, “his Portkey must have left just a minute ago.”

“Oh my, where?”

“Rome, Italy.”

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– (Scene Break) –

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Quinn opened his eyes to find himself in an empty street. Landmarked by red, orange, yellow stone buildings.

“So, this is Rome, huh,” he said.

This street of Rome reminded him so much of Oxford, their narrowness, and the tallness of the stone buildings. They sprung up long before the invention of the car and will be here long after the non-magicals were done away with such things.

He looked at a faraway corner of the street and found what he assumed to be a gelateria shaped like a fancy chocolate box. A line of locals and tourists alike stream from the open window, the newest customers walking away with every color of ice cream on the fanciest of waffle cones.

The scene was enough to draw a smile from his lips; it was so right out of some children’s book, the hues so perfect. The ground is made up of deep grey bricks, and the buildings are the warm tones of sandstone. Against it, the gelateria is pinks, blues, greens – almost bringing to mind a nursery for a baby.

“I will be eating so much gelato,” he smiled.

“I’m sure you will.”

Quinn turned to the deep voice and saw a man dressed in a white shirt and black pants leaning against a brownstone door.

“Mr. Aksel Thorn,” a smile bloomed on Quinn’s face, “so you will be acting as my chauffeur once again.”

The man standing in front of him was his chauffeur at his time in Denmark. He was the part-owner of the private security contractor, The Limax Group — a firm owned by the Wests.

“My job description this time is as your bodyguard.”

“It’s the same thing,” chuckled Quinn. “The adventures of Askel Thorn and Balbh East are going to rock the restaurants of Italy.”

“If that’s what you wish to do, then I’ll accompany you, though I would prefer you keep it to a minimum. Your antics last time made my job much harder.”

“You’re still so serious. I told you to loosen up, didn’t I?” ρꪖꪕᦔꪖꪕꪫꪣꫀ​ꪶ​

“I don’t think I’ll be able to relax while on duty with you.”

Quinn smiled before asking, “The Abates; my mother’s family. What do you know about them, Mr. Thorn?”

“A very old family — one older than the Wests,” started Aksel as the two started walking, “they have been residing in Rome ever since the inception of the Roman empire, and despite the ups-and-downs of this region, they have remained a constant. You can say that they are one of the oldest organizations in this country.”

“Oh? That sounds interesting.”

“You’re aware of your parents’ story, correct?”

Quinn nodded.

“Then you must know that Abate didn’t like their relationship much. It was because while Wests are highly, highly influential, they are a comparatively young family — and in their eyes. . . . upstarts.”

“Upstarts. . . . us?” said Quinn in disbelief.

“To a family which has survived the rise and fall of nations, change of political boundaries, major restructure of cultures, West does seem like upstarts.” The family had been around much before the Secrecy Laws were founded and implemented; the Abates had been involved in various historical events through the ages.

“That. . . . is one way to see it, but Wests are much bigger than Abates.”

“It’s all about prestige and history for people like them,” said Aksel.

“Sounds boring,” shrugged Quinn.

The two went through a series of cobblestone alleys, staying away from the crowds until they came to a stop in front of a door that was sloppily slathered with white paint, causing drip lines and uneven clumps; there was even paint on the golden doorknob.

Quinn looked at the building in cold cream tan from top to down. “This is the building?”

“No, it’s not,” said Aksel as he took out an ornate skeleton key — a type of key that was meant to open multiple locks rather than one.

“Then shouldn’t we apparating?”

Aksel looked around before inserting it into the keyhole. He glanced at Quinn and faintly smiled, “The Wests might be more influential than the Abates but. . .” he turned the key and starting from the doorknob, a royal red rippled out taking the place of the white, and the design on the door shimmered in beautiful gold, “. . . in Italy, there’s nothing bigger than Abate.”

Quinn watched as Aksel opened the door, and instead of finding the inside of the building, what he saw was a marvelous work of Italian Renaissance architecture in the form of a stunning manor at a distance. The grounds around the mansion were covered in beautifully and meticulously maintained gardens and greens.

Aksel retrieved the key, gestured for Quinn to step inside and outside of the door before following after him and closing the door behind him, and with the click, the red was sucked back into the doorknob, leaving the sloppily painted white door.

“What was that?” asked Quinn, looking back at yet another white door, a part of a small stone flat-roofed storeroom on the ground.

“Being residents of this country for so long, the Abates have created an extensive personal network of these doors that are connected with each other.” He raised the golden key, “these special keys are the triggers for the magic to activate — without them, the doors are just as ordinary as any other. If I was to make a comparison, it would be similar to a personal floo network just for the Abates and their associates.”

“Without all the dust and gyration and flames,” added Quinn.

Aksel nodded.

“Where are we?”

“Palazzo Abate,” answered Aksel.

“Abate palace,” said Quinn in translation.

“It’s the Abate ancestral home. They have been living here since the early fourteenth century. Generations upon generation Abate have maintained this palace.”

“Yeah, I can see that the building is in excellent condition, though it’s not a tough deed with magic.”

“Ready to meet them?” asked Aksel.

“Yeah, let’s meet with the people disliked by Lia.”

Aksel glanced at Quinn and realized that the meeting wouldn’t be the familial connection that one would expect.

. . .

As Quinn and Aksel started to walk towards the mansion, people were waiting for them; a party of five men — three middle-aged and two young men. Of course, appearances were never an accurate indicator of age when it came to non-magicals. Out of them, one middle-aged and one young man were standing at the front — the older man was dressed in luxurious and exuberant clothing while the young man was dressed in unadorned yet high-grade clothing while the other three men were dressed in uniforms.

One of the uniformed middle-aged men stepped forward and whispered something into the ear of the young man.

The luxuriously dressed man glanced to his side, “What is it?”

“Thorn has arrived with Quinn West. They are about to reach us,” said the simply-dressed young man.

“Are you sure this is going to work,” said the middle-aged man, his voice tinged with nervousness.

“I’m very sure,” said the handsome young man, a confident smile on his face, “I’ve planned for everything. By the end of the boy’s vacation, we will have the key to everything we would ever need.”

“Can you at least tell me what you’re planning?! Anything would do, anything to give me peace of mind.”

“You know, how I operate. The less you know, the better.”

The middle-aged man sighed in anxious resignation. “If this pays off, it will be absolutely big. . . . but if we fail—”

“I don’t fail,” the young man cut the sentence.

“Let’s hope you don’t this time as well.”

It was about then when they saw Quinn and Thorn enter their sight. For the first time ever, they set their eyes on Quinn West, who was actively looking at the gardens around, occasionally stopping to admire things closely.

“Look at him,” said the young man with a smile, “so carefree, so innocent. . . .”

Seeing Quinn West in front of him did put the middle-aged at ease. It might not be that hard, he thought.

But when Quinn and Thorn entered their earshot, the young man’s eyes widened, but there were no other changes in his expression.

“Hurry, face me and start talking to me,” he said, ordering, “laugh some and then immediately leave!”

“Eh, why?” asked the middle-aged man in confusion.

The young man stared at Quinn West with a straight expression. His previous impression of Quinn West had outright drained.

“West can use Legilimency,” said the young man.

The middle-aged man froze for a second and then hurriedly obeyed the instructions. He turned towards the young man, talked as if telling a joke. Both laughed before the middle-aged man bowed and left.

The young man severely stared at the middle-aged man because of the piss poor performance. But it was fine; it was enough for now.

Aksel and Quinn finally reached the young man.

Aksel turned towards the young man and started, “I present to you Quinn West,” then he turned to Quinn and introduced, “this is Dolion Abate, the youngest son of the current patriarch.”

“You can call me Dolion,” said the young man in English.

Quinn noticed something and commented, “Your accent, that sounds American.”

The young man’s smile widened, “I completed my studies in Salem.”

“Ah, that’s why. Well then, you can call me Quinn,” said Quinn. “Dolion, was it? If I’m right, that’s Greek. . . . and it means deceitful.”

The young man laughed, “What can I say? My father liked how it sounded. . . . and Quinn, that’s Irish. . . . isn’t that a girl’s name.”

“It’s unisex,” smiled Quinn.

The teenager and young man then laughed together.

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Quinn West – MC – Looking forward to saying “Mamma Mia” a lot.

Albus Dumbledore – Headmaster – Got his funding.

George West – Head of Wests – I will help, but. . . .

Aksel Thorn – Limax Group – Bodyguard, once again.

Dolion Abate – Abate family – Youngest son.

FictionOnlyReader – Author – It took me time, but this was a fun chapter to write.

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