HP: A Magical Journey

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“Where were you?” asked Eddie in a rushed whisper as soon as Quinn sat down beside him in the Defense Against The Dart Art classroom. “I spent half an hour in the morning running around in the grounds looking for you.”

“I got busy last night and didn’t return to the dorm,” said Quinn back in a whisper. Quinn grabbed his shoulder and stretched his neck, “Ugh, my neck hurts. . . all-nighters are seriously not my scene,” he grimaced a bit, “should’ve conjured a chair or something.”

“What were you doing exactly?” asked Marcus.

Quinn sighed tiredly, “Solving a puzzle. . . a massive troublesome puzzle with a clock on it.”

Umbridge, who had finally calmed herself down from broken expectations and fantastical dreams, entered the classroom, and the class went mum-silent as she preferred in her classroom. Eddie and Marcus also left Quinn alone, took out their books, and started reading the book without Umbridge’s prompt.

Quinn, also for once, took out his book and began pretending to read it. He needed some quiet and peace to nurse his throbbing head — it was killing him. He used thought acceleration to cut down on time to solve the needlessly long mechanism for the last three mechanisms.

‘That damned Stigweard Gragg! The sheer nerve to lock me inside there,’ thought Quinn while cursing the Architect, but he stopped and squeezed his eyes shut because his head hurt harder.

While he was able to barely get out on time, and the thought acceleration gambit had worked, it wasn’t a complete success.

. . .

– [Back inside to Architect’s Vault] –

Quinn stared at the seventh portion of the mechanism, then shifted his eyes to the eighth portion before moving to the last and final ninth portion.

‘Bastard!’ he cursed, ‘how does this even classify as a lock mechanism?!’

In traditional vault locks, one needed to work a dial(or a multiple) as the interface to the entire hidden mechanism. But here in the Architect’s Vault, there was no such single interface that Quinn could work off — every portion of the mechanism needed to be worked on from multitudes of angles and every different than the previous one — the complexity rose beyond traditional locks just with that.

‘And now, you’re asking me to solve three portions at the same time?’

In front of him, he could see three final portions of the mechanism, and the ‘catch’ was there clear to see. Three portions were connected to each other, and they weren’t connected like the previous three (4th, 5th, and 6th.)

‘. . . A part of seventh, then shift to the ninth to unlock the part of eight, which then will unlock the next part of the seventh. . . what kind of requirement is that?’

Quinn realized that he would need at least three hours to get past this if he got working the very second, but he didn’t have that time. Quinn only had an hour to figure this out and hope that after solving all nine portions, the teal portal back to Hogwarts would reappear so he could make it in time for Umbridge’s class.

‘Alright, then it’s time to bring out the big guns.’

He closed his eyes, and his magic began gently flowing into his brain and mindscape. The efficiency aspect of Occlumency was the part of Quinn’s Occlumency that he worked on every day without fail. But there was a catch in the form that he devoted that daily time to increase the immersion on his everyday memories(in the form of memory books) to increase his retention.

The part of the efficiency aspect he needed today was thought acceleration and parallel thought processing. Quinn was good at thought acceleration as he used it passively in addition to some classic techniques to extract knowledge from books. But when it came to parallel thought processing, Quinn didn’t train this part as much as he did other things — he could control around control pens in the upper tens and make them write simultaneously, use it in some more complex than normal spell casting, but this was a much more complex task than any of them.

Quinn wasn’t sure if this would work.

If he split his mind to think parallelly on multiple parts of the interconnected mechanism, then if one of those thoughts ended up going wrong, every thought process would suffer because of the wrong input. That problem then would snowball into a big mess in no time as he would have to roll back to the error that he didn’t know because, in Quinn’s mind, every process was going correctly.

‘Then there’s the stress this will put on me,’ he thought while pursing his lips.

He hadn’t used parallel thought processing on a task with this level of complexity. As such, there was going to be a considerable amount of stress on his mind with a clock on how long he could keep it without injuring himself.

“Okay, let’s do this and hope the Architects isn’t happy in the afterlife,” and then Quinn got to work.

. . .

Quinn breathed deeply once and settled his back into the backrest of the chair, something he wouldn’t be seen doing even if he wasn’t dead tired. The last three discs that stopped the pedestal from going inside came out unlocking simultaneously, and the pedestal went entirely into the floor, with the top coming down just to the floor level.

The archway completely sunk deep into the wall, revealing a complete set of stairs with an empty(unguarded) doorway leading to somewhere Quinn didn’t bother to check because the second the pedestal went entirely into the ground, the teal portal reappeared, and he rushed out without giving it a single second of thought.

Quinn rose out of his thoughts and looked up when he heard Umbridge speak up his name.

“Mr. West, I heard you’ve not been feeling today; how’re you feeling today?” asked Umbridge sounding extremely pleasant.

Quinn purposely smiled a bit weakly as he responded, “I was feeling a bit faint in the morning, Professor, but I felt well enough, so I came to attend your class — it’s one of my favorite classes after all. . .”

Umbridge’s smile cramped for a split-second, but she recovered it quick enough before anyone could notice it and smiled widely than before.

“That’s good to hear, dear. Health is paramount and should always come first,” she said. “If you’re not feeling that your NEWT classes are too stressful, how about giving that silly little club of your a rest and focus that time in resting. . .’

Everyone in the classroom ducked their heads a little. If there was one thing clear in everyone’s mind about Quinn West, then it was that he would drop classes in his curriculum before he would stop AID. At this point, AID and Quinn West were synonymous.

“Thank you for your. . . concern. . . Professor, but I think I’ll be just fine with what I’m doing now. . . but I do have something in mind,” said Quinn, smiling.

“Would you like to share it with the class, Mr. West?” asked Umbridge.

“Of course. If the Ministry doesn’t think we would have the need to cast spells because we are perfectly safe without them, then how about we exclude Defense Against The Dark Arts from the Hogwarts curriculum altogether,” said Quinn, sending murmurs through the room.

“I know why you’re here, Professor,” he said.

Umbridge narrowed her eyes, “What do you mean, Mr. West?”

“I mean you’re here because Hogwarts couldn’t find an adequate teacher for the Defense Against The Dark Arts post, so the Ministry sent you here, said Quin, “but before coming here, you were the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister—”

“I am still the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” said Umbridge cutting.

“— as I was saying, your position in the Ministry seems to be very important, so if we do away with the Defense Against The Dark Arts subject, you would be free from Hogwarts and return to your much important position back at Ministry, where I’m sure you’re needed more than you’re needed here.”

There was pin-drop silence in the room as everyone forgot to breathe as they waited for Umbridge’s answer.

“Mr. West, Defense Against The Dark Arts has been a part of Hogwarts since its inception by the founders. . .” She saw Quinn raise his hand up, “Yes, Mr. West?”

“Some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited,” said Quinn, reciting verbatim from his memory.

“Professor, didn’t you say this during your first address to the student body. . . isn’t this the perfect example of what must be abandoned and pruned?” he asked.

Umbridge went silent, and her smile too dimmed a level. It was indeed what she had said after the Sorting Ceremony. How was she supposed to reply to Quinn — that she wasn’t here to teach but to keep an eye on Dumbledore, and if this position was done away with, she wouldn’t have a reason to be here. High Inquisitor would turn into an auditing role, and she would have to return to the Ministry after giving her recommendation.

“. . . I will give it a thought, Mr. West,” said Umbridge quietly.

“Please do so,” said Quinn smiling.

No one in the class raised a peep with regards to the topic because, in their heads, no Defense Against The Dark was much better than having it but with Umbridge. And the majority in the school were just worried about their OWL and NEWT; if you took away a subject from the grading, then there was no reason for them to study as they simply weren’t interested.

After that conversation, no one spoke a single word in the class. It was only after the class did people started to chatter.

“What was that all about?” asked Eddie. ρꪖꪕᦔꪖꪕꪫꪣꫀ​ꪶ​

Quinn yawned before answered, “She gave me a suggestion about AID; I simply returned the favor by suggesting something about her job.” He stretched his arms up and spoke, “I’m going to visit the Professors to show my face and apologize for missing the classes, then head to the kitchen to grab something to eat. After that, I’m retiring for the day and go to sleep.”

“It’s only three,” said Marcus.

“I don’t care; I want to be in bed by five and then sleep at least twelve hours. . . I deserve it.”

He had broken through the first room of the Architect’s Vault.

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– (Scene Break) –

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That day after Quinn went to sleep in his bed, away from the worries of the world, Harry Potter bade his friend goodbye and set off for Umbridge’s office on the third floor.

When he knocked on the door, she said, “Come in,” in a sugary voice.

He entered cautiously, looking around.

He had known this office under three of its previous occupants. In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart had lived here, it had been plastered in beaming portraits of its owner. When Lupin had occupied it, one would likely meet some fascinating Dark creature in a cage or tank if you came to call. In the impostor Moody’s days, it had been packed with various instruments and artifacts to detect concealment.

Now, however, it looked totally unrecognizable. The surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There were several vases full of dried flowers, each residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a sizeable Technicolored kitten wearing a different bow around its neck. These were so foul that Harry stared at them, transfixed until Umbridge spoke again.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter.”

Harry started and looked around. At first, he had not noticed her because she was wearing a flowered set of robes that blended only too well with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

“Evening,” he said stiffly, keeping down the anger about the Quidditch ban that arose from seeing Umbridge.

“Well, sit down,” she said, pointing toward a small table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay on the table, apparently waiting for Harry.

“Er,” said Harry, without moving. “Professor Umbridge? Er — before we start, I-I wanted to ask you a . . . a favor.”

Her bulging eyes narrowed. “Oh yes?”

“Well, I’m. . . I’m on the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” Harry had to try once, “I was wondering if you’d lift the ban after my detention is over.”

He knew long before he reached the end of his sentence that it was no good.

“Oh no,” said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. “Oh no, no, no. This is your punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr. Potter, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one’s convenience. No, you will come here at five o’clock tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and you will do your detentions as planned. I think it is rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I am trying to teach you.”

Harry felt the blood surge to his head and heard a thumping noise in his ears. So he told evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, did he? She was watching him with her head slightly to one side, still smiling widely, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and was waiting to see whether he would start shouting again. With a massive effort, Harry looked away from her, dropped his schoolbag beside the straight-backed chair, and sat down.

Umbridge watched him with her head slightly to one side, still smiling widely, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and was waiting to see whether he would start shouting again. She hoped Harry would shout again so she could deal a harsher punishment on him. . . she herself was feeling quite angry today because of a spoiled rich brat and needed to relieve her stress; after all, stress wasn’t good for health, and health was paramount.

“There,” said Umbridge sweetly, “we’re getting better at controlling our temper already, aren’t we? Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Mr. Potter. No, not with your quill,” she added, as Harry bent down t open his bag.

“You’re going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are.” She handed him a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point.

“I want you to write, ‘I must respect my betters,'” she told him softly.

“How many times?” Harry asked with a creditable imitation of politeness.

“Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in,” said Umbridge sweetly. “Off you go.” She moved over to her desk, sat down, and bent over a stack of parchment that looked like essays for marking. Harry raised the sharp black quill and then realized what was missing.

“You haven’t given me any ink,” he said.

“Oh, you won’t need ink,” said Umbridge with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.

Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and wrote: I must respect my betters. He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on the parchment in what appeared to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the back of Harry’s right hand, cut into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel.

Yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but relatively smooth.

Harry looked around at Umbridge. She was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile.

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” said Harry quietly.

He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill upon it once more, wrote I must respect my betters, and felt the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second time; once again the words had been cut into his skin, once again they healed over seconds later.

And on it went. Again and again, Harry wrote the words on the parchment in what he soon realized was not ink but his own blood. And again and again, the words were cut into the back of his hand, healed, and then reappeared the next time he set quill to parchment.

Darkness fell outside Umbridge’s window. Harry did not ask when he would be allowed to stop. He did not even check his watch. He knew she was watching him for signs of weakness, and he was not going to show any, not even if he had to sit here all night, cutting open his own hand with this quill. . . .

“Come here,” said Umbridge, after what seemed hours.

He stood up. His hand was stinging painfully. When he looked down at it, he saw that the cut had healed, and his skin was a rosy red color.

“Hand,” asked Umbridge.

Harry extended his hand.

Umbridge took it in her own. Harry repressed a shudder as she touched him with her thick, stubby fingers on which she wore a number of ugly old rings. She would’ve made Harry write more and really etch the words on his hand, but this was going to be the limit with his mother here in Hogwarts and James Potter being an Auror and a member of Wizengamot.

“Hmm, this will do. . . please return tomorrow, and we will do something fun again,” said Umbridge smiling.

Harry left her office without a word. The school was quite deserted; it was surely past midnight. He walked slowly up the corridor then, when he had turned the corner and was sure that she would not hear him, broke into a run.

His hand wasn’t injured, but he could still remember the pain and could even imagine as if his hand was cut right now. He remembered the look of joy she had on her face every time he winced.

He absolutely hated it.

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Quinn West – MC – Status: Sleep mode.

Harry Potter – Boy-Who-Writes – Stubborn.

Dolores Umbridge – Umbitch – Feeling good after stress relief.

FictionOnlyReader – Author – Let’s see how many of you’re able to find it. . . (^v^)

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