[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 15

Apologies, I lost internet right before posting yesterday

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“Good morning, boss. Happy birthday.”

“Good morni—wait, what?”

“You said your birthday was November 3rd. That’s today.”

“I know what I said, but I wasn’t planning on celebrating… Forget it. Lin, are you going to let us in, or should we stand here all day?” the magus asked irritably, gesturing toward the slightly neglected facade of the mansion.

“My apologies. Please, come in,” Lin replied, stepping aside to let them enter. He added politely, “Good morning, Mr. MacDuggal.”

“Hey, uh, Lin, right?” Albert replied, a bit awkwardly.

Once the door was closed, their host led them deeper into the house, stopping at an unassuming wooden door that opened to reveal a staircase leading down to the basement. Archibald unlocked it with a regular key, but a flight lower, they were met with a solid steel door that practically hummed with imbued magic and structural reinforcement barriers. There were no visible keyholes or electronic locks; instead, the magus placed his hand on the metal and recited a long incantation in Latin. The mechanisms responded with a heavy click, disengaging the locks and opening the passage.

Archibald allowed his two companions to enter first, then closed the door behind them and reactivated the barriers. Another flight down, Lin flipped a switch on the concrete wall, illuminating the bunker with ceiling lights. The space was utilitarian but clearly optimized for work: shelves lined the walls, though many were still empty; a workbench and a small array of chemical equipment were neatly arranged; materials were stored in crates, and magical protective circles adorned the floor, walls, and low ceiling. At the far end of the room, a door led to another chamber. Near the staircase stood a plain wooden table with several chairs, where the three of them settled.

“Not bad,” Albert remarked as he surveyed the setup. “Not exactly cozy, but definitely better equipped than the last ‘workshop.’”

“Much better,” Archibald agreed, his gaze sweeping over the shelves and workstations. “Still far from perfect, of course, but this was the best option available at the time. There’s enough space for now, and if necessary, we can expand later.”

“Or burn it down and move elsewhere?”

“That’s the backup plan, yes.”

The relocation and setup of the new workshop had been an ongoing ordeal since August. The day they were both captured, Triad thugs had also raided the rented apartment. While the guards MacDuggal had hired put up a fight, they didn’t last long. Thankfully, Miss Stone—forewarned about the possibility of such an attack—managed to barricade herself inside Archibald’s workshop. Using an artifact specifically designed for a non-magical user, she activated a weak but functional barrier. Archibald didn’t particularly care for her well-being, but he valued her competency and didn’t want the potential fallout from her death to create problems for James Murphy.

The thugs lacked the skill to breach the barrier, and sticking around to deal with police wasn’t an option. When Archibald and Albert returned that evening, they found the barrier intact and Stone unharmed, though the apartment had been compromised beyond recovery.

Over the next few days, as the magical press erupted over the murder of a wizard with "Muggle weaponry," it became clear that loose ends had to be tied up decisively. Archibald spent a sleepless 24 hours packing books and equipment into several magically expanded suitcases, dismantling every barrier to erase any trace of their presence. The apartment was then set ablaze in a controlled magical fire, leaving no evidence behind. Hypnosis and a bribe convinced the landlord that the tenants had nothing to do with the incident. Nearby neighbors, too, had their memories subtly altered, describing the event as a mundane robbery gone wrong.

They temporarily relocated to a house on the outskirts of London that Albert had reserved for emergencies. However, Albert’s troubles didn’t end there. When it became clear that enchanted bullets were being traced by both Aurors and the police, MacDuggal had to vanish entirely, severing all ties to both magical and mundane contacts. This evasion wasn’t cheap—his dealings with certain gangs now ran far deeper than before, though at least these new “partners” didn’t try to kill him on sight.

Archibald himself ventured out sparingly in the following weeks. On September 1st, he made an appearance in the magical world to see off his “teacher” and maintain the illusion of normalcy. Days earlier, he had arranged a meeting with Fletcher to acquire Polyjuice Potion in a hurry. Fletcher charged three times the usual rate, possibly suspecting that Archibald had ties to the Travers incident.

During the meeting, Archibald incapacitated Fletcher with a stunning spell disguised as a harmless Lumos gesture. While eliminating Fletcher entirely would have been the simplest solution, the magus knew such an act would draw undue attention. Instead, he altered Fletcher’s memories, substituting James Murphy’s image and voice with that of one of Albert’s associates. The mental manipulation was meticulous—unlike Obliviate, which crudely erases memories, this subtle reweaving of events minimized the risk of contradictions.

In subsequent dealings, Archibald only approached Fletcher while disguised, and the smuggler began bringing backup to their meetings, possibly sensing lingering traces of tampering. Fletcher also raised his prices, but Archibald grudgingly accepted the new terms—better inflated fees than the risk of betrayal. Fletcher, ever motivated by greed, seemed content to keep things as they were for now.

In September, Archibald finally found a suitable apartment, nearly identical to the previous one. However, with newspapers reporting constant checks and large-scale hunts for "dark wizards" and traces of black magic—even in the ancestral manors of old families—he decided to take a more thorough approach this time. His new workshop would be hidden much more securely, and he would maintain his guise as a first-generation wizard with greater diligence. This led him to purchase a small single-story house with a fully-equipped bunker just three blocks from his new residence in a private housing sector.

The previous owner had apparently been a paranoid prepper terrified of World War III and Soviet missile strikes on London. Under the modest house, they had built a shelter almost equal in size to the property itself, preparing for the apocalypse. With the dissolution of the USSR a year prior and the waning nuclear threat, such properties had plummeted in value. It was the type of house no one wanted—unless, of course, you were Archibald, who found it perfect. Naturally, the purchase was made under the names of unrelated individuals. Archibald had planned to relocate his workshop closer to the time of his enrollment in school, but circumstances accelerated that timeline.

Even so, the endeavor was costly. The Mafia loaned him the money for the purchase, secured by Albert’s promise from his undisclosed hideout and guarantees of exclusive services. As a result, Archibald spent the first half of September abandoning his own research to focus entirely on healing the wounded from gang-related territorial skirmishes and other “operations.” Some injuries were too severe or costly for regular doctors, forcing him to exhaust his magical reserves, ancestral techniques, basic healing spells with local mystic codes, and a variety of potions—both purchased and brewed himself. It was unpleasant, not to mention humiliating, but having a proper workshop was worth the hassle.

For now, he couldn’t conduct meaningful research. His equipment and books remained packed in the refuge, while renovations on the basement of the new house consumed time and money. Walls were demolished, ventilation and electrical systems improved, and doors and walls reinforced to meet his requirements.

At the same time, he realized he needed at least one assistant. MacDuggal was still in hiding, and involving any of James’s acquaintances would compromise everything. Most of them were also out of reach in Scotland. The idea of hiring someone from Knockturn Alley or similar semi-legal London spots was tempting but far too risky.

Working with injured gang members sparked another idea. While wizards were highly visible and interconnected within Britain’s magical society, squibs—descendants of magical families with minimal or no magical ability—were an overlooked resource. Some squibs lived among wizards, performing menial jobs, while many integrated into the non-magical world, often unaware of their heritage. Albert himself had been an example. Among the wounded gang members Archibald treated, he found individuals with one or two magic circuits and faint, almost useless magical talents. Finding the right candidate seemed feasible.

The gang's leader agreed to lend him one of their rookies as a "student," again on Albert’s word and for a price. Two weeks of careful testing and observation—without arousing suspicion—yielded four candidates with latent magical abilities. From them, Archibald selected the one who suited his purposes best.

“Rumor has it,” Albert said, studying the young man sitting across from him, “that you managed to teach an ordinary person magic from scratch in just over a month. Is that true?”

Lin, the young man in question, looked like an average college student—not particularly wealthy, dressed modestly, and utterly unremarkable among London’s thousands. He was just nineteen.

“James, weren’t you the one who told me that was impossible?”

“It is impossible,” Archibald replied calmly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Albert. After two months in hiding, the man looked pale and tired, but otherwise unharmed. He had likely been laying low in basements and warehouses, avoiding sunlight and fresh air. Given how many people were after him, there wasn’t much choice. If the Aurors caught him, they might literally "go after his soul"—a particularly grim possibility under magical Britain’s laws, which allowed for executions by Dementor. Fascinating creatures, those Dementors.

Now that the investigation seemed to have quieted, especially on the Aurors’ end, Albert planned to adjust his appearance with magic and gradually re-enter his old networks under the guise of a distant relative. He still had contacts, after all, and losing them would be a waste.

“Don’t listen to amateurs who don’t know what they’re talking about,” Archibald continued. “This isn’t really magic—not the kind wizards use, anyway. Lin, demonstrate.”

“Got it, boss,” Lin replied. He pulled a short knife with a bone handle from his jeans, adjusted his grip, and concentrated. With a quick slash upward, he unleashed a powerful gust of wind that struck the concrete ceiling between the lights, causing the protective circle etched there to faintly glow. Two more strikes followed from different angles.

“That’s all I can do for now, but a week ago, I couldn’t even manage that,” Lin said, lowering the knife.

“Not bad. You’re improving,” Archibald said dryly. He turned to Albert. “This isn’t traditional wizardry. It’s the physical manifestation of an innate property of the soul—a concept called an Origin. His is ‘Gale.’ It’s useful but highly unpredictable. Since I have some knowledge of wind-based magic, I created a sort of catalyst for him—runes, amplifiers, a spirit of air bound within, and a fragment of his own bone. It took over a week to calculate and assemble. It enhances his natural talent by several orders of magnitude, making it practical. To be honest, there’s more magic in that knife than in either of you.”

"In what sense 'his own bone'?" Albert asked, convinced he must have misheard.

"In the most literal sense," Archibald replied without hesitation. "A piece of his shinbone was used for the inlays on the knife handle. It made focusing the magic much simpler. With the help of some potions, we regrew the bone within a couple of days. Painful, of course, excruciating even, but I think it was worth it. The fact that he, like you, has a very faint magical gift made it easier for him to adapt to the new abilities. That said, it would have been possible to work with a completely ordinary person too, though it would take far longer.

"And to answer your unspoken question—no, it’s too late for you to awaken your gift. Adapting would be much harder, and even if you did, there’s no guarantee your abilities would be useful."

"Too bad," Albert sighed with a shrug. "But I got by just fine without it before."

Lin sat quietly, listening but not participating in their conversation. His full name was Llewellyn Smith, an orphan raised in a shelter like Murphy. Tall, with dark blond hair and brown eyes, he bore no striking resemblance to anyone from the pure-blood wizarding families Archibald had read about—names like the Weasleys or Malfoys. However, the name he was given suggested a magical heritage. Who else but a wizard would leave a baby at an orphanage's doorstep with the name of an ancient Welsh king?

Life hadn’t been kind to him. His impulsive nature—likely tied to his Origin, "Gale"—combined with a childhood full of ridicule for his "impossible" stories about gnomes and ghosts, made him anything but compliant. He cycled through three foster homes, escaped them all, wandered the streets, joined teenage gangs, and eventually climbed his way into the lowest ranks of the Mafia by eighteen.

Winning him over wasn’t difficult for Archibald. It was enough to convince him that he wasn’t crazy, that the magical creatures he'd seen as a child were real. To drive the point home, Archibald even summoned a couple of his own ghosts as proof. From there, Lin eagerly agreed to develop his meager abilities in exchange for becoming Archibald’s assistant. He continued to work for "the family," but now with a slightly elevated rank.

While Lin could never become a full-fledged magus with his paltry and low-grade magic circuits, he could be trained as a competent assistant and bodyguard—someone who could hand over a scalpel or shield him from a spell in combat. Loyalty wouldn’t be an issue, either. Once a person experienced magic, they inevitably came to see the problems of the mundane world as inconsequential.

By October, after the renovations to the bunker-turned-workshop were complete, Lin moved into the house. He kept it clean and maintained Archibald's cover as a "first-generation wizard." After all, what could be more normal than a young wizard occasionally visiting a squib neighbor to discuss their paranormal work—things far beyond the understanding of ordinary Muggles?

"And overall, how have things been without me?" Albert asked, eyeing the workbench where a short sword's blade and its disassembled hilt and guard lay.

"I take it business has slowed, and you’ve focused on… let’s call it local demand?"

"Mostly," Archibald said, glancing at the bench. "Healing injuries, crafting amulets, brewing potions for the 'family.' I even had to deal with a few hauntings—some basements and warehouses where too much blood had been spilled were attracting ghosts and even a phantom. I banished one; it wasn’t particularly useful. But the others I kept. That phantom, in particular, might be worth something."

He gestured toward the dismantled sword. "For now, I’ve paused work on enchanted bullets and adaptive blades to avoid unnecessary attention. Protective bracelets are still in demand, though. I’ll refine the design when I have the time."

"And why’s there been such a fuss, anyway?" Albert asked irritably, slapping the table. "Sure, I shot the guy, and yeah, your bullets are nasty pieces of work. But why all this uproar—why are they turning the world upside down looking for us?"

"It’s simple. We got unlucky," Archibald replied. He walked to a nearby shelf and returned with a stack of magical newspapers from late August and September. Spreading them out in a fan on the table, he pointed to the headlines: ‘Cursed Weapon,’ ‘Dark Wizard,’ ‘Dark Magic,’ ‘Cursed Weapon.’

"The problem isn’t the bullets themselves but the enchantment on them. The British Ministry of Magic has this unhealthy habit of labeling anything they don’t understand as ‘dark magic’ so they can brag about fighting it. They need something to justify their budgets and bonuses," he added with disdain.

"A fifty-pounds wand and the Incendio spell—something they teach eleven-year-olds—can burn a man alive in seconds, and nobody bats an eye. But an enchanted dagger that sets blood aflame? Suddenly, it’s an abomination. Hypocrites.

"And Lin," he added sternly, glancing at his assistant, "don’t go flashing your knife around unnecessarily, especially near anyone from their side. It’s a perfectly innocent tool, but they’d never see it that way."

"Understood, boss," Lin replied.

"And why do they keep claiming this guy ‘fought a dark wizard and won’?" Albert asked, jabbing a finger at one of the headlines. "Right here, it says the fire was so intense there were no remains. So how can they even be sure he won?"

"That’s propaganda," Archibald said with a scoff. "They might want the truth for their investigation, but preserving public confidence and saving face are higher priorities. While the Aurors scour slums and hideouts for us, the Ministry is telling everyone there’s no danger, that the dark magic they’ve been scaremongering about for a decade is no longer a threat."

He sneered. "They’ve backed themselves into a corner. They don’t even know what true dark magic or forbidden arts really are."

“Do you know, boss?” Lin asked quietly. Despite the apparent age difference, he treated Archibald with a measure of respect—a natural result of witnessing the magus's impressive demonstrations and hearing his lectures on the magical world and its fantastical creatures. Archibald hadn’t revealed much about himself, only that he was older than he looked, and that had been enough to cement Lin’s regard for him.

“Of course I know,” Archibald replied confidently, casting a disdainful glance at the moving photograph of the Auror Chief addressing the press. “Remember, Mr. MacDuggal, when you asked why I’m so meticulous about erasing traces of my work? It’s not just a quirk of mine but a necessity, and I can tell you exactly what happens when you don’t. Take, for example, a case from about twenty years ago. A certain wizard decided to conduct experiments on vampires on a remote tropical island. He probably thought that, should anything go wrong, no one would ever find out. Naive…”

Archibald shared a few tales from his home world, detailing instances where breaches of secrecy led to brutal repercussions—entire districts and settlements razed to the ground in retaliation. True, this world lacked the Holy Church’s Executors and their lethal efficiency. Here, the Magical Confederation preferred covering up supernatural events with mass memory erasure rather than obliterating the site of the incident. Still, the effects were far from harmless: people left with permanent amnesia, driven mad, or reduced to "vegetables" due to hastily executed memory-altering procedures often performed by those unskilled in mental magic.

Reiterating the importance of secrecy was a lesson Lin and Albert, both squibs now entangled in the affairs of wizards, needed for their own safety. The warnings also served to curb any overenthusiastic experiments with their newfound magical "toys," a temptation many novices struggled to resist.

Roughly half an hour later, they parted ways. Albert left to "test the waters" before re-establishing connections for his trade network, while Lin headed off on an errand for his Mafia superiors. Archibald stayed in the bunker.

His first task was potion brewing. Consulting a recipe, he carefully combined ingredients following the local methodology. A cloudy solution simmered over a low flame. While he had become adept at brewing standard concoctions by strictly adhering to instructions, modifying recipes—or creating new ones—remained challenging. His failure rate for such experiments was frustratingly high. “Conceptual" alchemy as practiced here—where the potion embodied a specific mystery—required accounting for countless variables: ingredient selection, preparation, and even the process of blending components.

Despite the frustration to his pride as a master alchemist, Archibald had no choice but to treat the process as practice, accepting wasted ingredients and efforts. Occasionally, a successful result justified the effort. Today’s brew, for instance, came from a necromancy textbook he had purchased from Fletcher for thirteen thousand Galleons (after a price hike). The formula, centuries old, was meant to create a barrier that repelled ghosts and spirits. Archibald had attempted a minor modification, shortening the drying time of the applied solution from thirty minutes to five. Only practical tests would reveal if his adjustments had compromised the potion’s inherent mystery.

With the potion simmering, Archibald retreated to a curtained corner of the lab, separated from the alchemical section by a barrier. Settling into a chair, he retrieved Hermione Granger’s latest letter from his coat pocket. The young witch had taken his "student’s" request for updates on Hogwarts life quite seriously, sending regular, detailed accounts every weekend via familiar. While the letters arrived at his decoy apartment rather than the bunker, they painted a vivid picture of life at the castle and its academic environment.

For the most part, nothing unusual stood out. Hermione described her progress in basic alchemy and introductory transfiguration, the latter of which, once she grasped the underlying principles, came remarkably easily to her. Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology were straightforward, though she noted the History of Magic class was, as others had warned, terribly taught despite its importance. Tonks had once made a similar complaint.

Unsurprisingly, Defense Against the Dark Arts posed the biggest challenge. By early October, Hermione admitted with clear frustration in her letter that Professor Lockhart, while perhaps a celebrated hunter of magical creatures and a talented writer, was a dreadful teacher. Archibald had suspected as much but waited for Hermione’s initial infatuation with the "people’s hero" to fade before encouraging her to critically assess his teaching methods.

She described how Lockhart had begun his first lesson by releasing a swarm of minor elementals—a cross between pixies and gremlins—into a packed classroom and telling the students to subdue them. It was a chaotic and dangerous exercise. A fight against unknown creatures in a confined space, without the ability to use area-of-effect spells, would be difficult even for magi trained in close combat. For twelve-year-olds with no magic crests or instant-cast familial spells, it bordered on impossible. Predictably, the students failed to handle the threat effectively.

Lockhart declared the class woefully unprepared for his subject and shifted focus to theory. Using his books as a basis, he lectured on combating various magical creatures, discussing spell combinations, potion preparation, tracking methods, and tactical positioning for confrontations. While the methods themselves were solid—if somewhat dramatic—his teaching fell short. He failed to explain why certain spells were used in specific orders or why he chose one potion over a potentially better alternative. Nor could he justify why, in one scenario, he relied on a combination of freezing and kinetic spells, while in another, he exclusively used elemental magic.

In short, Lockhart presented the students with rigid templates—effective but inflexible—and lacked the ability to break them down into modular components. This deprived his students of the chance to adapt these methods to their own affinities, magical styles, and resources.

Roughly a third of his correspondence with Granger revolved around Defense Against the Dark Arts—dissecting topics that Professor Lockhart either couldn’t or wouldn’t explain. To Archibald’s mild surprise, the young witch had taken an unexpectedly serious interest in the subject. Based on hints in her letters, he suspected that the Travers incident had profoundly affected her. More concerning was her apparent belief that the killer might pose a direct threat to the school, specifically to her house, her circle of friends, or even herself. This fear seemed to fuel her determination to master defensive magic, and Archibald offered advice within the bounds of what a gifted Muggle-born could feasibly accomplish.

Occasionally, as he read her letters, Archibald wondered if the “teacher” was hiding something from him. Did she have a concrete reason to fear an attack? Perhaps something had happened during her first year that made her take magic even more seriously than most pure-blood wizards?

During her clumsy attempt to uncover his secrets, she had panicked and let slip something about a stone and a professor who had turned out to be someone else entirely. According to her, the previous Defense teacher had suffered an unfortunate accident at the end of the school year. Cross-referencing newspapers from that time revealed an obituary for Quirinus Quirrell. Could he have attacked a Muggle-born first-year for some reason—prejudice, perhaps, or something more mundane? And had Granger actually killed an adult wizard in self-defense?

The mere possibility opened a floodgate of questions. Had he been wrong to dismiss the idea of involving her in the library altercation with the gang? Could she have dealt with them on her own if she’d been aware? Though he felt no threat from her despite these speculations, Archibald decided it might be prudent to treat her with a little less indulgence until he learned the full story. What could have happened to make a thirteen-year-old girl seriously anticipate an attack from an unknown wizard?

A soft bubbling sound from the brewing potion drew Archibald from his musings. He quickly finished the letter and found its conclusion unremarkable. Granger described a surprise inspection of the castle, including student dormitories, led by the Board of Governors and Lucius Malfoy, searching for dark or illegally enchanted items per Ministry decrees. The inspection had yielded no significant results. She also recounted a ghostly celebration at Hogwarts, which Archibald skimmed through; as a spiritualist, he regarded ghosts and phantoms as tools rather than personalities, useful for tasks like guarding or spying.

Folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket, he headed to the alchemy station to prevent the potion from boiling over, which could lead to unpredictable consequences. There would be time to write a reply tomorrow. Tonight, he had an appointment in the magical quarter. It was time for James Murphy to officially acquire a mystic code and establish himself as a proper wizard in the eyes of society.

Nymphadora Tonks felt uncomfortably out of place at the table, and Archibald had gone to great lengths to ensure this.

“Would you like more tea, Lady Tonks?” asked Mrs. Stone, her tone overly polite.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Stone. And please, don’t call me ‘Lady.’ Just ‘Miss’ is fine—I’m not from an aristocratic family.”

Archibald observed the exchange with interest. Convincing Tonks to visit had been no easy feat, but it was essential for several reasons. To achieve the desired effect, the atmosphere had to be just right.

“You know, James has spoken so much about you. Without your help, Miss Tonks, he would never have managed to navigate your world on his own,” Mrs. Stone continued, joining them at the table with a cup of tea. Archibald couldn’t help but admit that his "stepmother" earned her keep. For the past six months, her role as a caretaker had primarily been to fool ordinary neighbors, whose memories could be easily adjusted if needed. This time, however, her performance carried far greater stakes.

“I really can’t thank you enough for all your efforts. I know how busy you must be with your studies.”

“No, no, it’s nothing, Mrs. Stone,” Tonks replied, her cheeks turning red and her hair shifting to a bright orange. “In fact, we should be thanking you on behalf of the wizarding community. Taking in a child knowing he’s a wizard is a truly admirable act—not everyone would be so open-minded. Unfortunately, there are still many prejudices and superstitions about magic and ‘evil sorcerers,’ even today.”

“Oh, what prejudices? We’re long past the Middle Ages. How could anyone deny a child a family just because they’re a little different? And James said that magic is strictly forbidden at home anyway, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, until the age of seventeen—that’s Ministry law.”

“Well, tell me, Miss Auror…” began Kaybeth’s assistant.

“I’m just a trainee, Llywelyn,” Tonks corrected, forcing her hair back to its usual violet hue. “It’ll be another year and a half before I qualify as a full Auror.”

“But James said you’ve already participated in patrols and arrests, even as a trainee,” Llywelyn said with genuine admiration. Though he was playing a role, the sentiment wasn’t entirely feigned. Despite his difficult past and involvement in criminal activities, Llywelyn had developed a sincere, almost childlike awe for wizards and their abilities since meeting Archibald. Archibald had used this to his advantage, inviting Llywelyn to the meeting and introducing him as a curious squib neighbor eager to meet a real wizard, especially an Auror. The setup added to Tonks’s discomfort, precisely as planned.

“That’s nothing special,” Tonks said modestly, brushing off the compliment. “It’s just like police work—searches, interrogations, setting up barriers. Trainees aren’t trusted with solo arrests yet; we’re still learning from the senior Aurors.”

“It’s still remarkable. Miss Tonks, can you show us something… magical? You’re allowed to use magic freely now, aren’t you?” Llywelyn asked, his curiosity genuine.

“May I?” Tonks turned to Mrs. Stone, seeking permission.

“Of course, as long as it’s not dangerous or disruptive to the neighbors. Honestly, I’d love to see it too,” Mrs. Stone admitted.

“Alright, I’ll keep it simple.” Drawing her wand, Tonks pointed it at the table and intoned, “Expecto Patronum.”

“Whoa, is that… a rabbit?” Llywelyn asked, marveling at the silvery creature bounding gracefully across the tabletop.

“Where? I don’t see anything,” Mrs. Stone admitted, looking puzzled.

“This spell conjures a protector against dark creatures,” Archibald explained, his gaze fixed on the manifestation. The materialization of emotions into a semi-physical familiar intrigued him. He had read about this kind of magic but had never witnessed it firsthand. While its effectiveness was limited to creatures that thrived on negative emotions, he speculated it might also counter certain cursed objects or trap-based spells triggered by fear or anger. “Unfortunately, ordinary people can’t see them.”

“What a shame.”

“My apologies—I didn’t think of that,” Tonks said, dispelling the Patronus. Her tone lacked sincerity, suggesting the demonstration might have been a subtle test to confirm whether Llywelyn was truly a squib or if Murphy had breached the Statute by revealing magic to a Muggle.

Perhaps to soften the atmosphere, she levitated the empty teacups, making them spin gracefully in mid-air. “Is this easier to see?”

After the impromptu magic show, Llywelyn thanked Tonks enthusiastically before heading home, and Mrs. Stone busied herself with chores. This left Archibald and Tonks alone in his room. One of the main objectives of her visit was to give her a clear view of his living conditions—before anyone at the Ministry decided to investigate what a Muggle-born boy with nearly a year left before attending Hogwarts was doing with a legally purchased wand. Archibald wasn’t certain whether such inspections occurred before acceptance letters were issued, but eliminating any potential risk of exposure seemed prudent. Inviting a trainee Auror to see everything openly lent an air of transparency.

The room itself was deliberately mundane: a bed, a desk with a lamp, a television, and a workout machine in the corner—because even James’s physical form needed development alongside his magic circuits. The few magical items were unobtrusive: an owl cage by the window, a wand on a stand, and a bookshelf filled with introductory texts on magic. Most of these were among the less useful books he had purchased during his first trip to Diagon Alley, alongside textbooks for the first three years at Hogwarts and a few higher-level theoretical works. Some were duplicates of volumes stored in his secret workshop. Anything potentially incriminating—like the older tomes or materials from Fletcher—was securely hidden elsewhere.

“So, you mentioned you wanted to ask me something besides offering thanks?” Tonks prompted, settling into a chair.

“Yes, there’s a problem I’m facing, and I don’t know anyone else I can turn to for advice,” Archibald began, retrieving some parchment scrolls from his desk before sitting across from her. “It’s about a girl I introduced you to on September first—Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born two years older than me. She helped me prepare for school over the summer. We’ve kept corresponding; she asks about news from the Muggle world, and I ask about her lessons at Hogwarts. But about a month and a half ago, after Halloween, she started mentioning some troubling incidents.

“First, one of her friends… it’s like he’s cursed, but not in the textbook sense. There’s no direct spell involved, nor has he touched any cursed items. But misfortunes follow him constantly. He’s on his house Quidditch team and has already been sent to the hospital wing three times. A rogue Bludger broke his arm, his broom nearly snapped in half mid-flight, and another time, a different broom crashed into a wall at full speed. Beyond that, potions explode unexpectedly, basic spells fail for no reason, and he’s constantly tripping or being hit by doors and objects.

“They suspected students from a rival house—apparently, some there really dislike him—but they’ve never caught anyone. And it’s not like these kids could be using advanced invisibility or masking charms that even most adults wouldn’t know. He’s already suffered fractures, concussions, and other injuries. And someone has been leaving him ominous notes in the hospital wing, saying things like, ‘Leave Hogwarts immediately, or you’ll be in grave danger.’”

“Do you think someone’s targeting him? Maybe an older student?” Tonks asked, her tone serious. She herself had endured bullying during her school years, for being a Metamorphmagus, a half-blood, and because of her parents, though it had never escalated to this level.

“I’m not sure yet. But that’s not the worst of it. About a week after his troubles began, something else started happening at the school. Once a week, sometimes more often, first- and second-years have been found unconscious, stunned by a spell. They’re often covered in bruises or cuts, and their magical energy is almost completely depleted. It’s as if someone has been tormenting them, but the victims either can’t remember or refuse to talk about it.

“I’ve seen something similar in the orphanage—though, of course, without the magic. It happened to me this year too—‘accidentally fell down the stairs’ and ended up nearly dead. But this is Hogwarts. Surely the teachers care about their students, right?” He sounded more doubtful than convinced. “There’ve been seven or eight incidents so far. Hardly anyone stayed at the castle over Christmas, but there’s no guarantee the attacks won’t resume in January.

“The worst part is that rumors are linking all of this to Hermione’s friend. People are saying his ‘curse’ is spreading—first affecting kids in his house, then all the second-years, and now even the first-years. If it keeps escalating, they’re saying it could reach the older students next—and eventually the teachers themselves.”

"What utter nonsense!" Tonks exclaimed, throwing up her hands in frustration. "Curses don’t work like that. I say this as someone who got top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts—it’s just not possible."

"I believe you," Kayneth agreed. From his perspective, it sounded like complete rubbish as well, contradicting everything he knew about the theory and mechanics of curses. Still, he understood that children, especially those whose knowledge of magic began only a year or two ago, couldn’t be expected to grasp such nuances. The same likely applied to many purebloods; based on the Ministry’s ban on underage magic outside school grounds, he suspected that family-level instruction here was far inferior to what he was accustomed to.

"I haven’t seen anything remotely like this in any books I’ve read either. And Granger agrees, as do the professors. They think it’s all some cruel, idiotic prank. They’ve been trying to catch the culprits for over a month but with no luck. Classes won’t be suspended over something like this. The problem is, some students believe the rumors, and now they’re openly threatening that boy, shouting for him to leave the school and stop endangering them. It’s possible this is all part of one big scheme, with the attacks on him and others being connected."

"Does anyone have a reason to hate a second-year that much? Is he from a family with a bad reputation?"

"His surname is Potter, Lady Tonks."

"Oh…" Tonks blinked, her surprise genuine. She quickly nodded and said, "That explains a lot, actually. And yes, I can see why some people would hold a grudge. But what does this have to do with you? What exactly were you going to ask me?"

"I was just getting to that. Granger believes—and I agree with her—that eventually the culprits will be caught. The castle isn’t that big, and someone involved will slip up sooner or later. But until then, Potter and his friends, who are also getting dragged into this, need a way to cope—with this so-called ‘curse,’ with whoever is attacking people, and with the students who believe the rumors.

"They tried asking their current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for extra lessons, but unfortunately, Mr. Lockhart is a much better writer than he is a teacher." Kayneth cast a skeptical glance at a row of books on the shelf. "His practical lessons are far too advanced for children, and his theory lessons focus on memorizing fixed methods rather than preparing for unknown threats. He failed to organize practical sessions outside of class, though he recently made an attempt. Upper years are too busy with exams or their own problems to help. Other teachers are overwhelmed with their own subjects and extra tutoring. And despite their efforts, the staff hasn’t found the culprits after a month. They’ve even investigated the most obvious suspects to no avail.

"That’s when Granger turned to me, knowing I have a connection to you." He left out the fact that he had subtly nudged her toward this idea, steering her away from futile attempts to find the culprits themselves. Looking out the window at the mix of sleet and rain, he added, "Christmas break starts in less than a week. Her group will return to London, and she’d like to request—through me—a couple of lessons on practical defense against magic and curses. Just enough to learn some techniques they can practice on their own back at school. Otherwise, it’s only a matter of time before the injuries go beyond broken bones."

"If it’s this serious, they should turn to someone else," Tonks said after a pause. "I’m not even a full Auror yet, just a trainee. The heads of houses, the headmaster, parents, or the Education Committee should handle this. Maybe they need to add extra lessons or get the Ministry involved to find the culprits. In the worst case, Potter could be moved to homeschooling for his safety."

"That all sounds reasonable, but only because you trust me, and I trust Granger. To the teachers and heads of houses, these are just ‘schoolyard pranks’—nothing worth alerting the Ministry over. Students at Hogwarts are always throwing newly learned spells at each other. Is that a reason to panic? No one’s been seriously hurt. When a cauldron explodes in Potions and a few students get scalded or splashed with acid, does that warrant canceling classes, calling in healers, or seeking Ministry help? Or when someone falls twenty feet off a broom during Quidditch? These things happen. They’ll be patched up in the infirmary in a day or two.

"As for adults, Potter doesn’t have parents. Granger’s Muggle-born like me; her parents’ voices mean nothing in the wizarding world. Weasley’s too afraid his mother will pull him out of school. So these two are left to fend for themselves, alone with their problems. They’ve asked for help where they could but received nothing of real use. That’s why they turned to me, and why I’m asking you for help. They just need to hold on for a while, but they can’t rely on anyone else because no one else believes them."

"Couldn’t they ask a real Auror for help?" Tonks suggested. "Someone who not only knows what they’re doing but also has the experience to teach. You said the current Defense teacher is a good fighter but a poor instructor. I’m not sure I’d do any better."

"Do you think they’d agree? To help a Muggle-born like me who hasn’t even started at Hogwarts? Or Granger, a second-year also born to Muggles? What could we possibly know about curses and spells to gauge the danger? Isn’t that right, Lady Tonks?"

Tonks fell silent. Unfortunately, James wasn’t wrong. Without solid evidence, even if the second-years managed to get a hearing with the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement—which wasn’t impossible since one of them was the son of a department head—they wouldn’t be taken seriously. At best, the Ministry would send a query to the school, which the headmaster would promptly reject. They might try the Board of Governors, but with Lucius Malfoy in charge, the trio—"the Boy Who Lived, a blood traitor, and a Mudblood"—would be the perfect storm of grievances for him. He wouldn’t help; he’d probably push to have them expelled.

So what options were left? She could ask someone herself, discreetly. Scrimgeour or Kingsley wouldn’t believe her, and even if they did, they wouldn’t interfere with what they’d see as “schoolyard mischief.” Alastor Moody would jump at the chance, but he was the last person to involve with twelve-year-olds; his idea of training had no concept of restraint, and he’d run them ragged before any villain could.

That left no real alternatives. She could refuse outright, but what if this truly was a case of targeted harassment? If Potter was being punished for his parents’ actions or if someone sought vengeance for fallen relatives? And what if she could’ve helped but chose to do nothing, like so many adults had when she was a student?

"I can show the basics—not even from the Auror training program, just material from the upper years. But nothing dangerous, and certainly no dark magic, not even as examples."

"That’s more than enough," Kayneth nodded appreciatively. Truthfully, he didn’t particularly care about others’ problems, except for the fact that Granger being ostracized could negatively impact her reputation—and, by extension, that of her “student.” But this was also an opportunity to learn at least the fundamentals of the local combat magic system, taught by someone training to hunt down criminals and renegades. That promised a significantly higher level of expertise than the magi he’d encountered in battle so far—brainless thugs or a young aristocratic heir who didn’t know what he was getting into and wasn’t prepared for a real fight. It would be a waste to pass up such a chance, which was why he had gone to such lengths to set this up.

"At the very least, I’d like to speak with them. Maybe this Granger is exaggerating in her letters or taking ordinary pranks far too seriously."

"I’d like that to be the case," Kayneth replied, his tone firm. "But I’m heading there in a year, and I have no desire to wake up half-dead under a staircase... again."

"Believe me, I understand you perfectly." Tonks sighed. "Alright, it’s decided. Two or three lessons during the holidays—just the basics, with a focus on defensive magic. But we’ll need a place where underage magic is allowed."

"I already have a location in mind," Kayneth assured her. "The most important thing is that you’ve agreed to help. The rest is just logistics we can figure out later. You are an exceptional person, Lady Tonks. I’m sure you’ll make a first-rate Auror. And, uh, I hope I’ll be allowed to sit in on these lessons? Purely for observational purposes. I have a feeling that in a year, these skills might come in very handy."