[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 17

(TN: Replaced Lin with Lyn)

(I haven't had the chance to send these chapters to Hind (the author) so there might be some small mistakes like with names, Fate terminology, etc)

The gusts of wind, and the rustling of book pages were the only sounds breaking the silence of the small testing hall. The room had been split in half by a thick glass partition stretching from floor to ceiling, installed during renovations in September and reinforced with solid enchantments ever since. 

Beyond the glass, inside the training area, Llewellyn was practicing with his primary mystic code, sending bursts of wind of varying strength and form toward the mannequins lined up against the far wall. The barriers of this "testing ground" and a couple of modified magical accumulators absorbed any excess energy, though with his abilities, the squib and his enchanted knife weren’t generating much in the first place.

Meanwhile, Kayneth sat under the lamplight, flipping through a thick book, occasionally glancing up to observe his student’s efforts. He had to admit that, with the reinforcing talismans, enhancement rituals performed over the past six months, and alchemical potions—both local and of Kayneth’s own creation—Smith was now moving nearly one and a half times faster than an ordinary human. He was also stronger and more durable. But it still wasn’t enough.

"Is that… enough… boss?" Llewellyn wheezed after a few more minutes, poking his head out from the training area, practically gasping for air. "I can’t… feel my arms anymore."

"You can’t feel them, but you can still move them," Kayneth countered without the slightest hint of sympathy. "I don’t think I need to remind you just how dangerous magic is, even for the one using it. This weapon must become as natural to you as a punch or a jump, not something that requires deep concentration to execute. Even if you have a high opinion of yourself and your skills, let me remind you that most magical creatures classified as dangerous—let alone lethal—are faster than a human."

He leaned back slightly in his chair, continuing in the same calm but firm tone.

"For example, an old vampire can dodge a burst of automatic gunfire after the bullets have been fired and still have time to count each one. Even facing something as 'simple' as a werewolf, you should be striking first—ideally half a dozen times—before even thinking about why it’s there and where you need to retreat. And all you’re doing is practicing the simplest and strongest gust of wind to knock an enemy off their feet."

"But it… works. I’ve tested it."

"Against humans. That wouldn’t even slow down basic undead. Change up the power, learn to combine attacks," Kayneth instructed. Then, sighing, he set his book aside, stood up, and walked to a separate shelf along the wall—his personal arsenal of mystic codes. He pulled a glove from the collection, its surface inscribed with runes and lined with the feathers of a thunderbird, a tool designed to manipulate storms.

Sliding it onto his left hand, Kayneth stepped forward and flicked his fingers—first the ring, then the middle, then the index. Three narrow streams of compressed air shot across the room, striking one of the mannequins at the knee, stomach, and chest in succession.

"Is this really so difficult?"

"It looks easy when you do it, but I can’t get it right," Llewellyn admitted.

"Then you need more training," Kayneth stated, absentmindedly running his fingers over the glove. The idea of replicating one of his old mystic codes had come to him while designing Llewellyn’s knife. Of course, he no longer had his former affinity for wind magic in this world, so he needed a stronger amplifier. On the bright side, this realm still harbored a variety of mythical creatures—many of whose parts could be harvested to enhance different mysteries.

The results weren’t as potent as before, but they were close.

"I’m not asking you to conjure a tornado in a confined space just yet. But enough playing around—we’re moving on to more serious things. Take a restoration potion, then grab your sword. The vial is on the table."

Remaining by the glass, Kayneth watched as Llewellyn practically dragged himself toward the vial of murky gray liquid. With shaking hands, he uncorked it, gulped it down in one go, and then nearly sprinted toward the weapons rack. Snatching up a sheathed one-handed sword, the squib hurried back into the testing area and cast a questioning look at his mentor.

"Bring it into battle form."

"Impatiens," Llewellyn intoned firmly, gripping the scabbard tightly.

Silvery mist seeped from the sheath, swirling in the air before condensing into the semi-transparent figure of a late medieval warrior clad in a cuirass over an elaborate noble’s outfit. The ghost made no sound as it extended a spectral hand, effortlessly drawing the sword from its scabbard and assuming a defensive stance, hovering just above the ground. The weapon itself bore the same silver-gray translucence, as though it were merely another part of the phantom.

As soon as Kayneth sensed the spirit he had bound to the weapon materialize, he gave a silent command. The ghost swung its sword; Llewellyn barely managed to raise his knife in time to deflect the strike, metal clashing against metal. The blow wasn’t forceful enough to spark, but the pressure behind it was real.

"Not bad, but don’t just stand there," Kayneth instructed, directing the phantom’s movements. The spirit began spinning its sword faster before darting unpredictably around the room, trying to attack from different angles.

The sword itself was entirely real—modern, mass-produced, nothing extraordinary. The real trick lay in altering its appearance with alchemical coatings and enchantments to make it look ghostly. The handle had been treated with a special paint used for inscribing bounded fields  against spirits, combined with a few specific spells to link it to the phantom. Phantoms, unlike mere ghosts, were more powerful, better at interacting with physical objects, and closer in nature to poltergeists.

"This isn’t fair! He’s too fast!" Llewellyn protested, already sporting several minor cuts and bruises from the flat of the blade. He was struggling to both parry with his knife and use wind magic to disarm the phantom—neither attempt was working particularly well.

"Of course it isn’t. A spirit has no muscles, no nerves—its very existence and movement are governed by magic. That was covered in the bestiary I told you to read this week, wasn’t it?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Then isn’t it wonderful to face an enemy you already understand?" Kayneth asked mockingly. But Llewellyn was too busy trying to avoid another attack to respond. "Endure it and improve your technique. If you ever encounter a phantom in some forgotten ruins, don’t expect it to be this merciful."

"And how exactly would I even end up in 'some ruins'?"

"I'll send you there if I need something from them. Isn’t that what apprentices are for? And it was in the contract you signed."

"Damn it!"

In truth, there were quite a few other interesting clauses in that contract—things Llewellyn either overlooked or simply didn’t understand due to ignorance. For instance, the provision allowing "preventive measures for the master's protection," including the use of magic. It wasn’t particularly difficult to slip in a spell like Pain Reflection among the various diagnostic and enhancement enchantments. A rather simple, old curse—one even a child could cast—it transferred any pain or damage inflicted on the master directly onto the servant. And if strengthened properly with additional spells, it became a rather effective safeguard. After all, not everyone would be willing to take the risk when a casual slap across the face, amplified fivefold, could shatter their own jaw into fragments.

Not that Kayneth seriously feared betrayal from Llewellyn, but this was simply how things were done in his family—applied to servants, bodyguards, and apprentices who weren’t bound by blood.

"Alright, that's enough for now," the magus decided, halting the phantom and sending it to the far end of the room near the training dummies. He turned his gaze to the squib, who was breathing heavily and dripping blood onto the floor. "The regeneration amulet will stop the bleeding soon enough, so you can continue practicing your strikes against the ghost. Try adjusting your technique so that the slash doesn’t just generate a wind burst but splits the air into two separate waves."

For demonstration, Archibald opened his magic circuits, channeling energy into his mystic code. Then, with a downward swipe of his gloved hand, he released a wave of compressed air. Half a second later, two powerful gusts shot out in opposite directions, colliding against the walls as if the air itself had split into separate streams.

"It works great for attacking from the side or hitting targets behind cover."

"I doubt I can pull that off."

“Like you have a choice.”

"Still, boss, why not just grab a pistol or a shotgun?" Llewellyn suddenly blurted out, weakly waving his hands for emphasis. He was swaying slightly from exhaustion. "I mean, don’t get me wrong—magic is awesome—but why not combine it with, you know, normal weapons?"

Kayneth let out a long-suffering sigh. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm wasting my time." Removing the mystic code from his hand, he continued, "I’ve already explained this: the problem with normal weapons is exactly that—they’re normal. Magic, by its very nature, is abnormal to the world. The stronger the mystery, the less it obeys physical laws. Sure, you could shoot an augurey or maybe even a billywig—though good luck hitting one—but a manticore or a phoenix wouldn’t even notice the bullet. Pellets won’t harm them. Their very existence is a mystery, an anomaly in the world, and only another mystery can counter them."

"But I run into people far more often than I do gnomes or leprechauns," Llewellyn countered. He mimed firing a gun with his free hand. "And against them, good old-fashioned lead works just fine. Besides, can’t you just enchant a shotgun the same way you did my sword?"

"Technically, yes. But it would be far less effective." Kayneth’s tone turned dismissive. "Firearms haven’t been around long enough to develop the same kind of mystical weight. They’re seen as common, crude, accessible to any vagabond, lacking in nobility and individuality. It’s much harder to reinforce them with an appropriate mystery compared to, say, a bow, a spear, or a sword—things that have been ingrained in humanity’s collective consciousness for thousands of years."

"And what if I find a weapon whose history and craftsmanship surpass most swords?"

"Then I’ll consider it. But in my opinion, it’s pointless. If you’re serious about this, study the books and my lectures on artifacts, magical weaponry, and enchantments, then bring me a concrete proposal. Not just 'I want it to be stronger than everything else.'"

"Got it, teacher. I’ll talk to Mr. MacDuggal and come back with something solid."

"I won’t wish you luck—I think it’s a waste of time—but if you’re willing to bury yourself in books for it, be my guest." Kayneth shrugged, then returned to his chair. Picking up his book again, he added, "Since you're so keen on odd ideas, let’s test your knowledge. Tell me, apprentice, what are the primary mysteries associated with thestrals?"

"They can fly, they’re freakishly ugly, and only people who’ve seen death can see them," Llewellyn replied, still slashing away at the ghost. So far, he hadn’t managed to split the air into two waves—his strikes were still producing only simple bursts of wind.

"At least you’ve opened the bestiary," Kayneth conceded. "Now, suppose you used thestral hair or hide in an enchanted cloak. Would it be useful?"

Llewellyn frowned in thought. "I don’t think so. You’ve said before that flight is complex magic, and discovering a new way to achieve it is difficult. A cloak alone wouldn’t be enough to make someone fly. Invisibility, maybe—but it’d be too unreliable. If you tried sneaking into a place while wearing it, you'd never know who could actually see you. That guy over there? Maybe he once saw a hobo get run over by a bus. That girl? Maybe she watched her grandfather have a heart attack. Now they can see you, and you’re screwed. And let’s not even talk about cops or gangsters—almost all of them would see right through it, so what’s the point?"

Kayneth smirked. "Not bad. You could have phrased it more elegantly, but the core reasoning is correct. Alright, keep practicing."

Finishing his chapter on thestrals, Kayneth set the book aside and pulled a new letter from his pocket—the latest from his ‘teacher’ at Hogwarts. This time, it was brief and seemed hastily written, as if Granger had rushed to get it done before moving on to something else.

Then again, she was busy.

In early January, at the start of the second semester, Tonks had miraculously managed to convince someone in the Auror Office that something seriously wrong was happening at Hogwarts and that a formal investigation was necessary. A team of aurors—mostly trainees—had arrived, inspected the castle, questioned the students… and, of course, found nothing. Classes had continued peacefully for a month.

Then, in early February, the attacks had started again.

Even before that, realizing she, as a first-generation witch, was likely on the mystery assailant’s list, Granger had taken their advice to heart. She'd begun preparing for possible confrontations, crafting improvised mystic codes to aid in self-defense. She’d enlisted Ronald’s older brothers in the effort, convincing them by arguing that without her help, "that idiot will definitely fail his year." As a result, instead of just enthusiasm and half-baked ideas, she now had two passable (at least by school standards) specialists in magical item creation.

In the letter, she enthusiastically reported that the three of them had nearly completed a new combined enchantment called "Light Saber" Only testing remained.

Tonks had clearly meant for them to focus on defensive magic, but—well, as the saying went, let the child amuse itself however it pleases…

If Granger's efforts helped push the idea that magical duels weren’t limited to wandwork, it would make Kayneth’s own time at Hogwarts much easier. More importantly, it would help prevent suspicion toward his more… unconventional methods.

"Alright, that's enough for today," Kayneth decided, seeing that his apprentice could barely lift his arms for another strike. The magus commanded the phantom to sheath its sword and return to its vessel before adding, "Llewellyn, put the weapon back in its place, then you're free until tomorrow. I'll be staying here overnight—only disturb me if something extraordinary happens."

"Are you sure you don't need help with anything, boss?" the squib asked, despite his exhaustion.

"Positive. Just bookwork tonight, no practice."

"Then good night, boss," Llewellyn replied before trudging upstairs to wash off the blood and change his clothes.

Kayneth gave him a silent nod, then reactivated the protective wards as soon as the workshop door shut. He moved toward the bookshelves and his worktable, gathering the necessary references on alchemy, transfiguration, and artifact creation. After all, he hadn’t abandoned his goal of recreating Volumen Hydrargyrum, his masterpiece, using local magical techniques and with significantly lower energy consumption. Animating mercury wasn’t the real challenge—the real difficulty lay in controlling it and constructing an efficient command system.

Before beginning his work, he walked over to a shelf and, for what felt like the hundredth time, studied the small box resting there. Inside was a trophy—a timeworn pendant, split cleanly in two. A golden disk encasing tiny, shattered hourglasses. By now, through books and discussions with shopkeepers in the magical quarter, he had pieced together exactly what it was.

A Time-Turner.

A rare and intricate mystic code designed to accelerate or decelerate time for its user. Strangely enough, it was never meant for combat. It had been created as a scientific instrument, primarily for alchemical research. Useful when a reaction required rapid preparation of fresh components or precise step-by-step observation of a transformation. Or, conversely, when one had to watch a potion brew for hours without taking their eyes off the cauldron—far easier to do when subjective time was sped up.

Like any laboratory equipment, efficiency and durability had been sacrificed for precision. While in use, the mystic code constantly drained the wielder's magical energy, mixing it with ambient mana—much like a wizard’s wand. The rotating mechanism inside the pendant was meant to cheat this limitation by drawing from the surroundings. But even with this function, the device remained a power hog, making it difficult to cast strong spells while it was active.

Kayneth knew this particular Time-Turner was beyond repair. The physical damage was severe, but more importantly, its magical structure had been almost entirely shattered. And given that he already had a different speed-enhancing mystery at his disposal, investing time into another was hardly worth it. Llewellyn, with his mere ‘handful’ of magic circuits, wouldn't be able to use it anyway.

Still, the study of such a sophisticated mystic code had been fascinating.

The rotating mechanism for gathering mana—unlike traditional static wand cores that require physical movement—was definitely worth incorporating into future designs based on the local magic system. However, it wouldn’t be useful for powering Volumen Hydrargyrum. One of the mystic code’s greatest strengths was its adaptability—its ability to shift form freely. Introducing any solid, moving components would only make the entire construct more vulnerable. No, he would need to find a different method.

Kayneth pulled away from his work at around two in the morning.

Books lay open across his desk, surrounding a large sheet filled with intricate schematics—the magical blueprint for his Volumen Hydrargyrum. He rubbed his eyes before making his way to a small door at the back of the bunker’s main hall. Disarming another set of wards, he stepped inside.

The room was bare-bones—a narrow bed, a small wardrobe, a desk with a lamp. A single painting hung on the wall.

A portrait.

A woman, no older than twenty-five, with striking red hair, noble features, and cold, unreadable eyes.

Sola-Ui.

Daughter of the ancient magus family Nuada-Re. His fiancee. The woman who never got the chance to become his wife.

Kayneth had painted the portrait himself—no magic, no rituals, just his own hand. A recreation of how he remembered her. He had finished it two days ago. March 11th.

The anniversary of Sola’s death.

And his own.

But that didn’t matter.

Kayneth stood before the painting, staring at it in silence.

It had been a year since he found himself in this world—a year was enough time to accept many things. The loss of his family. The destruction of his lineage, his ancestors’ legacy, and the life’s work they had entrusted to him. Even the loss of his name, of most of his abilities, his reputation.

But he had never come to terms with Sola’s death.

He had tried not to think about it. Not to remember. He had drowned himself in work, in learning, in calculations, in experiments. The first few months had been spent surviving on scraps of magic, with no time to dwell on the past. Later, the flood of new knowledge demanded every spare moment.

But the memories had never faded.

The betrayal of his apprentice. The treachery of his Servant. His own humiliation—defeated by nothing, by an insect.

And after his failure, she had been forced to take up the fight in his place.

He had brought her into this.

He had dragged her away from the safety of her family’s estate, taken her from civilization into a battle for an artifact he didn’t even need.

Yes, there had been other factors in his downfall. Unforeseen variables. Things beyond his control.

But Sola's death?

That was entirely his fault.

He hadn’t been strong enough to protect her. Hadn’t been wise enough to see the danger. Hadn’t been willing to retreat when he should have.

And this was the result.

A bitter laugh nearly escaped his lips.

Even if he were the most brilliant magus of his time—even if he had spent three decades studying death, spirits, and the afterlife—none of it mattered.

He couldn’t bring her back.

The True Magic that once preserved souls, the so-called Touch of Heaven, had been lost a thousand years ago in his world.

Here, among the wizards, there were whispers of an artifact capable of resurrection—but it was only a legend. Even in myths, it was no miracle; it didn’t restore life, merely mocked it.

Yes, he had managed to create a flawed imitation of that miracle, paying a steep price in the process. But even if he had known then what he did now, he doubted he could have prepared a similar tether for Sola.

A proper spirit anchor required time. Rituals. Agreements between the living and the dead. A level of skill in necromantic mysticism that took decades to master.

Even then, success was far from guaranteed.

There was no way out.

Unless…

Unless this world held a secret that could rival the Touch of Heaven—a lost mystery, a true resurrection.

But the odds of that were infinitesimal.

So he would go on living, knowing he was the reason Sola died.

And knowing there was no way to undo it.

The worst part was that if he truly intended to reestablish his family in this world, then in ten or twenty years, he would have to marry again. He would have to choose a wife based on lineage, personal strength, and potential—to strengthen the family as much as possible and ensure powerful future generations.

Last time, he had been fortunate. Among the candidates was Sola, whom he had genuinely loved. But who could say how things would unfold in this world?

Remaining alone and without an heir was not an option—his duty as a magus would never allow it. Which meant he would have to endure having a stranger at his side, someone he felt nothing for—just like so many other magi of his rank.

Once, fate had granted him the perfect match in every aspect, and he had destroyed that opportunity with his own hands. He would not be given such generosity a second time.

But that was his own fault.

If anything, he should take it as punishment.

And what if Sola was alive in this world? With another name, in another country, perhaps?

What would he do if he met her?

Ten years from now, she would be thirty-five, and James would be twenty-one—not an impossible gap.

But would she wait for him?

What if she was already married?

And worse—what if she was just an ordinary woman, with no knowledge of magic?

So many questions. No answers.

At last, Kayneth turned away from the portrait, took off his cloak, hung it in the wardrobe, and lay down on the bed, staring at the concrete ceiling.

There were countless other questions without answers.

For example—was it possible to return to his original world, where he still had unfinished business and debts to settle?

In theory, it was. Kayneth even knew the name of the method—Kaleidoscope, the Second True Magic, the art of parallel world manipulation.

But the problem was whether its wielder even existed in this reality.

And even if that ancient bloodsucker did exist here, how could he be found among the one and a half million wizards scattered across the world?

Especially when there was no central authority, no single governing body like the Clock Tower to organize the magical world. And even if he was found, how could he be convinced to help?

What could Kayneth possibly offer a vampire who had lived for centuries, possessing power far beyond even the strongest magi of the Association?

There were legends of figures resembling him in wizarding folklore. But none were credible enough to make the search worthwhile.

For now, it remained a theoretical question—something to be considered in the future, when he had more resources and influence at his disposal.

For now, he would continue studying the local magic, gathering strength, and playing his assigned role as a first-generation wizard.

Even if it meant pretending to be the apprentice of a girl young enough to be his daughter.

Even if it meant hiding his heritage—something he had never been ashamed of in his past life, something he had always been proud to declare.

Even if it meant wasting time crafting trinkets to sell to primitive commoners who couldn’t even grasp the meaning of the word magic.

Even if he had to return to school—this time as a first-generation wizard, with no patrons, no respect, not even a shred of authority.

Even if his magic circuits had been reduced to a mere sixteen, of average quality at best. Even if his total magical reserves were now less than a third of what they had been before (and that was without his family's crest!).

Even if his current body couldn't handle unlocking all of them at once, and it would take years of grueling training just to adapt.

None of it mattered.

He would endure it all.

Though, sometimes, he wondered how much easier things would have been if he had ended up in the body of a proper aristocratic heir.

Take Malfoy, for instance—the boy he had glimpsed over the summer.

If he had been reborn in Malfoy's body, money and authority would never have been an issue.

He wouldn't have had to scour flea markets or deal with shady booksellers just to get his hands on rare or restricted texts. He wouldn't have needed to piece together knowledge of the magical world bit by bit from scattered sources.

And if he had managed to convince his "father" that his knowledge could strengthen their family's power—that cooperation would be mutually beneficial—he wouldn't have had to hide his true abilities at all.

But none of that could be changed now.

Sp for now, he would keep working.

If he was going to create another beacon for insurance, he needed to find a better location this time.

Somewhere with far more suitable candidates than a gathering of beggars.

With that thought, Kayneth finally drifted into sleep.

"Is that everything for today?"

"Yeah, that was the last lesson. Let’s go." 

Kayneth walked down Diagon Alley without looking back, listening to the footsteps behind him. Llewellyn followed.

During his first visit to the magical quarter last autumn, the squib had gawked at everything with wide eyes, turning his head in every direction. By now, he had grown somewhat accustomed to magic, but Kayneth still had to keep an eye on him to ensure he didn’t get stuck staring at some shop display. For now, Llewellyn’s interests were limited to mostly useless trinkets—flying broomsticks, enchanted fireworks, that sort of thing. But Kayneth hoped that, in time, his apprentice would learn to distinguish flashy tricks from true craftsmanship. Not that he hadn’t had enough time to wander today. While waiting for his master, Llewellyn had free rein of the area.

Since spring, Kayneth had begun attending private tutors twice a week in three key disciplines—Charms, Transfiguration, and Potion-making. Not so much for theory—he had made solid progress in that on his own—but for practical application.

He needed hands-on experience with his mystic code and local alchemical equipment.

He needed to develop reflexes.

He needed to build a base of spells sufficient to avoid suspicion when school started in six months.

Each lesson lasted an hour and a half—three back-to-back sessions. Which meant Llewellyn had plenty of time to browse the shops. After months of visits, the squib was no longer a novelty to the local shopkeepers. And, at the very least, he respected tradition—he wore a robe when visiting the Alley, unlike some first-generation wizards who stubbornly clung to their windbreakers and sneakers, refusing to adopt the archaic fashion of the wizarding world.

Traveling through the city twice a week was a hassle, though. It had been worse before, when he’d had to endure taxis and their countless inconveniences. At least now, Llewellyn could drive him.

But magical alternatives were still off the table. A proper fireplace couldn’t be installed in a regular apartment—not without drawing Ministry attention. And openly registering his workshop’s location would be reckless. As for portkeys and Apparition…

Kayneth understood how complex spatial magic was. Without a certified instructor and a well-tested training regimen, he wasn’t about to risk it.

Convenient as it was, he knew all too well the side effects and injuries that could result—even for experienced wizards. For now, theory was one thing, but practice? Not until James was at least sixteen. Preferably, not until he could train at school under strict supervision. Until then, he might as well make use of his apprentice. After all, wasn’t that what students were for?

"So, have you picked out a rifle or whatever it was you wanted?" Kayneth asked over his shoulder as they walked.

"No..," Lyn replied, spreading his hands.

"Not surprising."

"But I haven't given up yet."

Kayneth remained silent, merely shaking his head with mild disdain. The younger generation's obsession with firearms never ceased to baffle him. Though, in Llewellyn’s case, it was somewhat excusable—he wasn’t a magus or even a wizard.

For centuries, magi had equipped their servants with various weapons or mystic codes based on them—spears and bows, then crossbows and swords, later muskets and sabers. Nowadays, some had even moved on to automatic weapons, but the Archibalds had always considered that barbaric—proof of a family's lack of true mastery in the magical arts. After all, if their retainers had to resort to such crude tools, it only meant the family's own power was lacking.

But here…

Here, he wasn’t even part of a proper magus lineage.

He had no stockpile of enchanted weaponry, no cadre of volunteers ready to serve as bodyguards. For now, he would have to make compromises. Of course, that was assuming Smith could even convince him that some antique rifle was worth the effort.

They headed toward the market rows of the Alley, as usual, to replenish their stock of potions and browse the latest arrivals in a few bookstores before returning to the workshop.

After that, the only pressing task would be the mail.

Strangely, Granger hadn’t written him anything over the weekend. She was probably too buried in her studies and experimenting with her new spell.

Instead, today—Monday—he had received a letter from Lovegood, which was a rare occurrence.

Kayneth considered maintaining contact with the eccentric enthusiast of magical history and legends quite useful.

The hardest part of reading her letters—or speaking with her in general—was separating fact from myth and outright nonsense.

But it was worth tolerating for the occasional valuable piece of information.

He had brought the letter with him to read later at the workshop—where he could cross-reference any particularly obscure claims with books if necessary.

"How did the last trial go?" Kayneth asked in a low voice as they walked through a deserted alley.

"Oh, brilliantly," Lyn brightened up, eager to boast. "The job was perfect—collecting a debt from a cocky gambler who thought he was smarter than everyone else. He set the meeting at a cafe, thinking that in a public place we wouldn’t dare do anything to him."

"So?"

"I sat down, brought up the money, and he started mouthing off—saying he'd pay after his next big win. Maybe. So I pulled out that notebook, just like you showed me, and set up a Muggle-repelling barrier around his table. Then I just started beating him. Slammed his head into the table, broke dishes over him, went at him with my fists. 

“I think what scared him most wasn’t even the beating—it was realizing that nobody around him could see or hear anything. Blood all over the table, teeth on the floor—nothing. And when I told him I’d break his legs and leave him there, invisible to everyone, with no way to call for help—he cracked. Gave up everything and everyone.

"I still knocked him out at the end, though. Just to make sure that if he ever talked, people would chalk it up to a concussion and shock."

"There weren’t any cameras in the place?" Kayneth asked, focusing on the critical details. "That kind of weak barrier won’t fool security footage. The police could have questions."

"I’m not an idiot—I checked first. No cameras. Otherwise, I would’ve waited for him outside."

"Good."

“Damn electronics. At this rate, in five years, they'd have to develop spells not just for warding off attention, but for blinding cameras.”

"I believe in you, boss," Llewellyn said with absolute sincerity.

"I appreciate the faith, but that’s a task for the Ministry, not lone practitioners," Kayneth remarked with dry sarcasm.

"You really don’t like them, huh?"

"A bunch of bureaucrats. Consolidate all power into their hands, just so they can sit on it and do absolutely nothing—what could be worse for a magus?"

He waved off the topic.

"We’ll discuss politics some other time. For now—" he nodded toward a bookstore a dozen steps ahead "—want to go in?"

"Obviously!"

"Just don’t waste your money on those magic-for-beginners guides again. People like you are considered hopeless cases—not worth training. No one here can teach you more about magic than I can. The pamphlets promising ‘Learn Lumos in Three Lessons!’ are useless to you, and I’ve already explained why. In detail." Kayneth sighed.

"Still worth a shot, though," Llewellyn replied cheerfully, completely ignoring his master’s irritation.

"It’s your money, not mine. But by now, you should’ve learned that when I talk about magic, I don’t make mistakes."

Inside, it was quiet.

No crowds, unlike in summer or just before the start of the school year. Not that Kayneth was looking for anything specific—he always bought books as soon as the need arose. But it was worth spending some time browsing, just in case something noteworthy had arrived. Besides, he had already found that bookstores were excellent places to meet his future schoolmates—those with some intellectual curiosity, at least. After all, he wasn’t going to find suitable contacts outside the broomstick shop.

Not that he had built a massive network yet. But by now, he at least knew the names of about half a dozen students who would be entering Hogwarts the same year as James Murphy. Of course, none of them were from old families. Only first- and second-generation wizards, maybe a few half-bloods. It would be strange to expect otherwise.

"Oh, Jim, hey," a red-haired boy greeted him quietly, lifting his gaze from a textbook on carnivorous plants. He wore a simple robe with no crest or embellishments. By the looks of him, he was about eleven—one of those few acquaintances who would be starting Hogwarts alongside James Murphy.

A half-blood.

His family had no particular reputation, but Charles was already proving to be a serious student, eager to learn magic.

"Good afternoon, Charlie," Kayneth greeted in return.

The name felt too familiar for his taste, but allowances had to be made for their age—"Mr. McEvoy" would have sounded ridiculous, even to him.

Granger was easier.

There, his role as her "apprentice" made his overly formal manner seem like part of the act.

"Anything new and interesting in stock?"

"Mostly Herbology," Charles replied, holding up a textbook. The cover depicted an old wizard in a traditional robe fending off what looked like either vines or tentacles with his wand. "Bushes, lawns, and all kinds of semi-sentient ferns, basically. But never mind that—have you heard what’s happening at school?"

"Teachers are teaching, fifth- and seventh-years are downing calming draughts by the bucketful, athletes are practically living in the infirmary, and once a week, the lunatic sends another student there just to keep things from getting boring," Kayneth shrugged. "In other words, just another regular school year."

"Oh, so you haven't heard the latest?" Charlie nearly jumped in place.

"I only get letters from there about once a week, at best. Something unusual happen?"

"Oh, you bet!" The boy tossed his textbook back onto the shelf and turned to Kayneth, clearly eager to relay the latest scandal, gesturing animatedly with both hands. "My sister sent an owl just this morning, and hardly anyone knows about it yet—you’re not the only one out of the loop. Wanna hear?"

"Go on," Kayneth agreed, leaning against the bookshelf. It was unlikely to be anything genuinely interesting, but refusing outright would be rude. Besides, from a social standpoint, a normal child would at least feign curiosity.

"That’s the spirit," Charles nodded vigorously before launching into rapid-fire speech, desperate to share the thrilling news.

"So, you know about that troublemaker they still haven’t caught, right? He was quiet for a whole week—everyone hoped he’d finally stopped or gotten bored. But then, last night, he went all out. Just picture this: it’s Sunday evening, students are wandering the courtyard with nothing to do, Slytherin’s Quidditch team is heading to the pitch—hadn’t even started harassing anyone yet, which is a miracle by itself—and then, suddenly, a window on the sixth floor explodes, along with part of the wall.

"And out of the hole flies a girl—a first- or second-year! And as if that’s not enough, someone keeps firing spells at her while she’s falling!

"Tell me that’s something you see every day, even at Hogwarts!

"Understandably, everyone freaked out. No one wanted to risk getting involved. But then—Bole, Slytherin’s Beater, grabs his broom and takes off right from the ground to catch her.

"They say he nearly crashed trying to slow down, but he managed to save her.

"And it’s a good thing too, because the girl was already a mess—burns, bruises, multiple fractures, blood everywhere. My sister says her robe was still on fire as she fell—can you imagine?"

"So, the maniac got bored of just beating people up?" Kayneth asked, keeping his tone mildly interested.

"That’s the thing—I don’t know.

"By the time people ran up to that corridor, it looked like a full-blown war zone—walls slashed to bits, the floor still burning, everything shattered, blown apart, light fixtures melted, ceiling cracked in several places, doors turned to splinters…

"No way a second-year could've done that alone, right?

"She’s only a couple years older than us!

"Seems like the psycho decided it’s time to stop holding back—if he’s gonna torment people, he might as well go all in."

Kayenth raised a hand, cutting him off before he could launch into another breathless rant.

It almost seemed like Charles was excited about the whole thing rather than disturbed.

He could probably go on for hours marveling at the school’s latest chaos, but something in his words caught Kayneth’s attention.

"A second-year, you said?"

"Yeah, supposedly from Gryffindor."

Without a word, Kayneth reached into his pocket, pulled out the letter, and scanned the uneven handwriting, the ink blotches—a rushed note, lacking Lovegood’s usual elaborate loops and flourishes.

"Hermione… attack on Sunday… badly injured… hospital wing…"

"How… inconvenient," he muttered, tucking the letter away. He asked, keeping his tone calm, "She survived?"

"My sister says she did. The important thing is that Bole caught her in time—the rest is just details. But she won’t be leaving the hospital wing until April, at the earliest."

"Maybe it wasn’t the maniac?" Kayneth mused. "She could have just messed up an experiment—maybe a spell misfired and launched her through the window?"

"The Healers say someone hit her with Obliviate at the last moment," Charles countered, as if the mere suggestion that it was an accident ruined the entire excitement of the story. "And when the professors questioned her, all she could remember was walking back from the library—then the next thing she knew, she was falling.

"Whoever did this, they definitely don’t want to get caught.

"But they’re also careful not to kill anyone—probably so no one takes their crimes too seriously.

"And they know the school way too well—always attacking in staircases and corridors where there are no portraits, no ghosts, no house-elves.

"Sneaky bastard—that’s why they still haven’t been caught."

Kayenth tilted his head, watching the boy curiously.

"You’re not afraid?" he asked, intrigued by the clear excitement in Charles' voice. "In six months, we’ll be there. We’d both be immediate targets—you're a half-blood, and I’m even worse in their eyes."

"Oh, please—they’ll catch him long before then," Charles waved him off carelessly. "And besides, who’s stupid enough to wander the castle alone with a psycho on the loose?"

"Maybe she thought she could defend herself?"

"A second-year girl?" Charles scoffed, throwing up his hands as if the idea was the height of absurdity. "The lunatic clearly only goes after younger students because he knows he can take them.

"He’s not dumb enough to pick a fight with seventh-years.

"If she thought she was some kind of second coming of Morgana and went looking for trouble, that’s on her.

"My sister says people find her annoying anyway—some Muggle-born who acts like she knows everything, always raising her hand in class.

"Well, there’s her reward.

"No thanks—I might already know a few spells from first-year, but I’m not stupid enough to go up against some psycho seventh-year only armed with a wand."

"I doubt she was using just a wand."

"What?"

"Nothing," Kayneth deflected smoothly, unwilling to betray too much knowledge. "It’s just that, if the House system is really worth anything, then wouldn’t it be strange if all the ‘brave lions’ spent their nights cowering in corners, too afraid to step outside their tower?"

He let the question hang in the air before adding, almost idly,

"Should wizards really fear a lone maniac like common folk? Just sit and wait, wondering who’ll be next?"