[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 9

"I don't like places like this," Kaynett remarked, surveying the abandoned factory building. The plant had been shut down since the seventies, and it showed. Concrete walls were stained with mold and patches of moss, layered over with crude graffiti and illiterate slogans of vulgar anarchy. The roof had caved in several places, leaving shattered windows that let in just enough sunlight to illuminate the grimy interior. Trash and scraps of cloth littered the floor, scattered here and there in forlorn piles. Kaynett wouldn’t have been surprised if a skeleton of some long-dead vagrant were buried beneath one of them, frozen to death decades ago. The oppressive atmosphere made his neck itch uncomfortably.

"I’d rather be at a restaurant or on a beach right now, too," MacDuggal admitted, his tone wry. The June heat had prompted him to ditch his usual cloak, leaving him in a simple gray business suit that didn’t draw much attention. "But, unlike you, I’m actually making a living from these kinds of jobs. Honestly, it’s a good spot—still within the city limits but far enough from the nearest houses that even gunshots won’t be heard. Isn’t this exactly what you asked for?"

"Fair enough. I was just thinking aloud. As long as no gang of drunk teenagers shows up and ruins everything, I suppose this will do," Kaynett replied, oblivious to how odd such a statement sounded coming from someone in a child’s body. He gestured to a battered metal drum lying amidst the debris. "This one should suffice—no better or worse than the others."

Kaynett reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wide zirconium bracelet inscribed with runes and Latin phrases. He placed it gently atop the battered drum, wary of the rusting metal collapsing into a cloud of dust at the slightest touch. Then he stepped back carefully, keeping an eye on the uneven floor littered with twisted rebar and shattered glass.

"All set. Your turn now. If this is so necessary," he added skeptically, watching MacDuggal as the man laid down a long case and a small bag near the wall.

"You’ll thank me later if something goes wrong and you need to figure out what happened," MacDuggal replied, pulling out a video camera. After switching it on and verifying it worked, he mounted it on the rickety shelf of a rusting storage rack bolted to the wall. He adjusted its angle to focus on the drum and bracelet before turning back to his gear.

He popped the latches on the case and withdrew a hunting rifle with a polished wooden stock. With deliberate care, he loaded a few cartridges, inspected the scope, and nodded to himself. Moving to the opposite end of the factory, he took aim.

"Ready!" he called.

"Count to five and fire. Aim as close to the bracelet as you can," Kaynett instructed, ducking behind a grimy, crumbling column. From his hiding spot, he had a clear view of the target while staying out of the shooter’s line of fire.

The crack of the rifle shot echoed through the factory, followed immediately by a powerful gust of wind emanating from the drum. Dust, scraps of paper, tattered rags, and bits of debris swirled into the air before slowly settling back down. Over the din of rustling wind and rattling glass shards, a faint impact noise followed.

Swatting away falling debris and silently commending his foresight to wear gloves, Kaynett approached the wobbling drum. He leaned over to pick up a bullet that had rolled onto the concrete floor. Holding it up for MacDuggal to see, he shouted, "Nearly intact! It passed through the barrier but hit the wall on its last legs—didn’t even embed itself. Not bad, but we can do better. Let’s go again."

Kaynett retrieved the bracelet from the drum, now charred slightly in the center. He replaced it with another, nearly identical, but featuring a slightly different arrangement of runes and inscriptions. Returning to his hiding spot, he called, "Fire again—same target."

The sequence repeated. This time, the gust of wind was stronger, sending plastic bottles and glass shards skittering across the floor. A few precariously hanging window fragments gave way, shattering noisily onto the concrete. The second bullet came to rest unscathed on a cushion of moss near the drum. Examining it briefly, Kaynett replaced the now-warped bracelet with a third.

He’d prepared six prototypes for the test, each pair with varying barrier strengths. The weakest had failed almost immediately, while the medium-strength version seemed just right. The two remaining stronger models could likely be sold or used as demonstration pieces for potential clients. For now, though, he had to finish testing.

"Shift the target seven feet to the side," he instructed. "Then three feet in the other direction. Let’s test the radius."

The first shot hit the wall without resistance, the bullet embedding itself cleanly. The second shot triggered another gust, this time deflecting the bullet sideways. It ricocheted off a beam and disappeared through a hole in the roof.

When the dust settled, Kaynett stepped out from behind the column. "The second one works. The range is decent too," he concluded. Ideally, further testing under varied conditions—terrain, weapons, and weather—would provide more reliable data. But he lacked the magical energy for such extensive trials, especially for a product rather than personal research.

"It’s more expensive than I’d planned, but a bullet that hits the face even at the end of its flight and without any power or threat to life can ruin the image of our product. So, the cost will be higher. Let’s say thirty-five thousand for a new bracelet, twenty for recharging one that is already used—provided it’s undamaged."

"Steep, isn’t it?" MacDuggal observed, packing up his rifle and unused rounds. He switched off the camera, stored it in his bag, and slung both over his shoulder. "All that for one stopped bullet. Clients might not see the value."

"One bullet—or several in quick succession. That’s your problem, my dear business partner," Kaynett replied with dry sarcasm. "How you market the product is up to you. Besides, from what I recall of human anatomy, a single bullet to the head or chest is usually enough to end someone’s existence or leave them permanently crippled. Your clients fear assassination attempts by ‘dear friends’ or ‘beloved relatives’ far more than a squad of soldiers firing en masse, don’t they? A sniper’s bullet ranks high on their list of concerns, somewhere between a car bomb and cyanide in their morning coffee."

"Fair enough. But how do you know that?" MacDuggal asked, glancing back as they picked their way toward the car, careful to avoid the treacherous terrain.

"My mentor was part of high society—wizard or not," Kaynett explained. "He attended parties, moved in those circles, and overheard plenty of conversations about what wealthy Muggles worry about. He’d share some of it as examples for me. These aren’t the days of honorable duels anymore; some degenerate might bring a rifle instead of a wand. What are you supposed to do then?"

Archibald didn’t exactly lie—he just replaced himself with a fictional mentor, Kayneth mused as they walked. It wasn’t far from the truth. Much to his dismay, he had indeed overheard such conversations in his time, but back then, they hadn’t left much of an impression. As a professor at the Clock Tower, the troubles of ordinary people had mattered little to him. He would never have imagined in his worst nightmares that the ancient and venerable Einzbern family would stoop so low as to hire a barely-competent mercenary spellcaster (not even a magus), barging into a noble Holy Grail War with barbaric mines and guns. At the time, Kayneth had been convinced his defenses were impervious to such primitive weaponry. That delusion had cost him dearly, and he had no intention of repeating that mistake. Especially now, with MacDuggal as a living example that even in magical Britain, running into someone armed with a gun was entirely possible.

"How does it even work? A force field?" MacDuggal asked, gesturing to the barrier's remnants.

"Wind magic. One spell monitors airflow within a limited radius. When an object moving too fast approaches, a secondary spell creates what is essentially a wall of compressed air, rushing to meet it. You’re familiar with how a crosswind can deflect bullets, right? Properly manipulated, it can even stop them. But such a system consumes a significant amount of magical energy—energy I could use far more effectively elsewhere. I’m expending my time, knowledge, and magic on these designs, and I expect to be compensated fairly for it."

"Yeah, but still—"

"Still, what? Do you have a system in mundane science that offers the same level of protection without encasing someone in armor head-to-toe? For any price? This isn’t just a defense against a single bullet; it’s a chance at survival. It deflects the first sudden attack, giving you time to seek cover before the next one comes."

"Alright, alright, I get it," MacDuggal relented, whether genuinely convinced of its potential or simply realizing he wouldn’t win a price negotiation. "I’d better jot these arguments down for the sales pitch."

"Feel free to take notes. I can repeat it all if necessary," Kayneth replied.

MacDuggal didn’t ask for a repeat. Perhaps he thought he’d remember it all well enough. The drive back to the workshop was silent, allowing Kayneth to contemplate the energy expenditure required for his latest creations. The bracelets were, after all, nothing more than simplified versions of the automated defense mechanisms he’d once incorporated into his mystic code. Instead of a shield of enchanted mercury, these used an air barrier.

And therein lay the main challenge. In his original body, Archibald had an affinity for two elemental properties—water and air—a rare combination. Proper training had allowed him to master the flow of energy, wind, and even liquids like blood or molten metal. But the rituals he had performed over the past month made it clear that James Murphy’s body had a full elemental alignment only with water. While this was better than being bound to earth or fire, as he had feared, wind-based spells would now cost him more energy and effort. This limitation extended to the enchantments on the protective bracelets.

"By the way, I wanted to ask you something," MacDuggal broke the silence, pulling Kayneth from his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Remember that trick you showed me with the fork in the restaurant?"

"It wasn’t a ‘trick.’ It was a standard structural transformation," Kayneth corrected him in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," MacDuggal waved it off, clearly unfazed. Kayneth merely shook his head—what else could he expect from a businessman with no regard for scientific precision? "What I’m asking is—could you enchant the fork beforehand so a regular person, not a wizard, could trigger the transformation by, say, speaking a command?"

"I could. Embed the energy in advance and set an activation key. That’s essentially how the bullets I make operate."

"Got it. I’ve been thinking—security these days is insane. You can’t even smuggle a pocketknife or a sharpened coin past some of these checkpoints. But what if you had a bracelet, a belt buckle, or something innocuous? Slip it past the scanners without issue, and once you’re inside the club or mansion, say the trigger word, spit three times, and voila—you’ve got a knuckle duster, a dagger, or a garrote wire in your hand."

"An interesting idea. Simple enough that I hadn’t bothered to think of it. Hypnotizing a guard to ignore the scanner would be easier for me, but for a mundane client? It’s viable. Compile a list of desired items, and I’ll estimate the materials and energy required. Would it sell?"

"James, you wouldn’t believe the lengths people go to just to smuggle something sharp past security," MacDuggal said with a sly grin. "But to answer your question—yes, it would sell. Very well, in fact."

"Good. That suits me fine. I’ll need the money soon anyway."

"Fletcher finally ready to negotiate for real instead of all this back-and-forth?"

"Yes. The meeting is set for tomorrow."

"Need backup?"

"Just an escort to the rendezvous. Someone to ensure I make it there without incident. If Fletcher and I come to terms, we’ll likely head to a wizarding settlement—no place for Muggles."

"Take a mobile phone with you, just in case you need to call for help."

"I will, though it may not work in certain areas," Kayneth acknowledged. He remained skeptical of the device MacDuggal had provided, given the uneasy relationship between modern electronics and local magic, but he could see its potential utility. "And one more thing. Procuring a pistol or rifle isn’t an issue for you, is it, Mr. MacDuggal? What about a bladed weapon."

"A knife’s even easier to get than a gun."

"I’m talking about more exotic weapons. A sword, a halberd, a morning star. Functional, of course—not cheap props for a film."

"Can be easily arranged," MacDuggal shrugged, not at all surprised by the request. "It’s not like it is illegal to buy functional replicas. You’ll just have to sharpen it yourself. Or did you have something specific in mind?"

"Yes, but not yet," Archibald replied. "Give me a couple of weeks. By then, I should have a clearer idea on what exactly I need. The weapon will have to follow my design precisely."

"Whenever you’re ready, then. But custom order would cost you a pretty penny and take time.”

“As long as it gets done.”

“Heh. Fair enough. Strange requests like yours is what keeps me in the business. If people didn’t want unusual things, I wouldn’t be trading them. I’d still be stuck at Heathrow, scraping by on a laughable customs officer salary. But that’s a long story."

The meeting was set early in the morning, in a nearly empty park not far from the magical quarter. Archibald arrived, prepared for anything. He carried the same mystic codes he had brought to their previous deal, plus a couple of new ones. His vigilance never wavered—there was always the chance of reinforcements Apparating in to back up a wizard. He had considered asking Albert for a gun but ultimately decided not to stoop so low, even with his current limited magical reserves.

Fletcher was already waiting for him, lounging on a bench with a nonchalant air, as if to signal he was no threat. His attire was just as tasteless as last time; even the chain (likely just gold-plated) was still there. Still, he had taken precautions—Archibald could sense the faint presence of a weak ward around the alley, one designed to deflect the attention of ordinary people.

"Morning, Jimmy. You managed to wake up early, I see," Fletcher greeted him with faux warmth.

"I assume you’re finally ready to get down to business, or are we going to keep circling each other?" Archibald cut through the pleasantries. "We’ve been negotiating for almost a month now, and I’ve yet to see any results."

"You don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you," Fletcher replied calmly. "Deals like this require mutual trust. And I’ve got more reason to be cautious than you do."

"Do you?" Archibald’s tone was skeptical. "One of those wizards gave a pretty clear hint as to whose side you’re on, Mr. Fletcher. And we both know what that person thinks of certain branches of magic. Turning me over to the Aurors would be a great way for you to curry favor, wouldn’t it?"

"Maybe," Fletcher said, still relaxed but with a faint tension beneath the surface. Archibald could sense he was ready to grab a mystic code or Apparate at the first sign of danger, bravado notwithstanding. "I knew both of those wizards personally. We weren’t friends, but… well. Now I’m guessing not even their bones will be found."

"So?" Archibald pressed, though his mind was already working out attack scenarios. If the local wizards were this quick to react, it would be best to strike from multiple directions simultaneously to overload any defense. Wind manipulation to disorient, followed by a coordinated strike with two mystic codes—it should be enough.

"So, this isn’t how things are done here," Fletcher continued, spreading his hands as though the topic bored him. "If you wanted to craft a backstory, you should’ve done a better job or come better prepared. If I figured you out, others could too."

"And who exactly do you think I am?" Archibald asked, his tone even. He was genuinely curious to hear Fletcher’s theory.

"If you’re still playing, I’ll indulge you," Fletcher replied with a shrug. "The idea of you being some eager Muggle-born kid hungry for knowledge doesn’t add up, not with a few glaring details. For one, you’re doing business with Weasley—"

"Who?" Archibald interrupted, confused.

"Albert. He’s distantly related to the pureblood families, though their reputation isn't great. His great-grandfather, a Squib, left the family to live among Muggles, and now the great-grandson’s come full circle. But that’s not the point," Fletcher waved the digression away. "He’s selling magical toys to Muggles—fine. But a nine-year-old kid couldn’t make those. And then, you and Albert run into two very dangerous wanted men, with enough crimes to fill the Aurors’ cabinets. Against them, it’s just you—a supposedly untrained kid—and a Squib with a gun. And within a week, the only thing left of those two is a wand fished out of the river.

"I told you, I knew them," Fletcher continued. "Mortimer was weak, sure, but Abelard? He had a reputation. Plenty of folks in Knockturn Alley were afraid of him. Yet you wiped them both out so thoroughly that not even bodies were found. That’s not how things are done here, even in Knockturn. Killing someone over a handful of Galleons? Not done. But a fugitive wizard from the Continent, someone who doesn’t know our rules, needing a place to hide, money, and perhaps connections? That fits."

"If you’re so certain of that, why am I still free?" Archibald asked, genuinely curious. His backstory wasn’t airtight—he knew that much. But the notion that murder was so frowned upon here hadn’t even crossed his mind.

"Because I need money," Fletcher answered bluntly, without a hint of shame. "And you’re willing to pay."

"Then why aren’t we doing business already?"

"Because you could just kill me once I’m no longer useful. For now, I’ve got something you need, and that’s my only leverage."

"What do you want from me?" Archibald sighed, closing his eyes. Negotiating with people like Fletcher wasn’t new to him, but back in his prime, he’d had the leverage of being an Archibald and a lord of the Clock Tower. That kind of authority had been more than enough to dictate the terms of any deal. "Guarantees?"

"Exactly. A Unbreakable Vow would do nicely," Fletcher said, extending his left hand.

"Not worried about taking on such a burden on your soul?" Archibald asked, his tone darkening as he stood his ground. He already knew about this ritual from his reading: a magical contract akin to the Clock Tower’s geas. The difference was that here, it was verbal, required a minimum of one witness, and could be amended at the last moment if the third party wasn’t truly neutral. Like a geas, breaking it would result in severe consequences—loss of magic at best, death at worst. "The vow binds both parties."

"I’m worried, but I’ve got no choice," Fletcher admitted, lowering his hand. "I don’t want to make promises either, but I can’t trust you without them."

"And now we’re at an impasse," Archibald summarized. He sighed, glancing around as if hoping to find an answer in the park around them. But no brilliant solutions came to mind. Both needed this deal, yet neither trusted the other enough to risk binding themselves with magic. Archibald had no influence, no reputation, no formal authority here. All he had were his skills and… "Money?"

"What?"

"I think I've found a solution." Archibald pulled a coin pouch from his pocket. "As an advance on future purchases and a sign of mutual trust, I’ll give you, say, a thousand gold pieces. No receipts, no witnesses, no vows—just here and now, hand to hand. Then you’ll take me to the craftsman we discussed, also without contracts, oaths, or tricks. After that, we can discuss further business."

"Fifteen hundred," Fletcher countered, his greed visibly wrestling with caution—a battle destined to be lost from the start. He pulled out his wallet, a modern but cheap and gaudy leather piece, and opened it to activate a spatial distortion charm. "Fifteen hundred Galleons, and we have a deal."

"Done." Archibald glanced around to confirm they were alone, then whispered a password, tipped his pouch over Fletcher’s wallet, and said firmly, "Fifteen hundred Galleons."

With a soft clink, a stream of heavy coins began flowing from one pouch to the other—a peculiar analog of a bank transfer. The sight quickly grew monotonous as the golden torrent continued.

"Why haven’t you brits introduced a higher denomination than one Galleon?" Archibald asked, not bothering to deny Fletcher’s assumption that he was an outsider unfamiliar with local norms. After all, it wasn’t entirely untrue. "Five pounds isn’t much by modern standards."

"Tradition," Fletcher replied with a grimace. "That’s how the goblins have done it since time immemorial—the standard of three metals: Knut, Sickle, Galleon. Back in Merlin’s day, they say a Galleon was worth seven thousand times more than now. One gold coin could sustain you for years. But then... inflation happens to us too, not just Muggles. And the annual fluctuations in the value of gold, silver, and copper—don’t even get me started."

"Let’s stick to the matter at hand," Archibald interrupted as the last of the coins transferred. He tucked his pouch back into his pocket. "I think it’s time we went to see the craftsman, isn’t it?"

"Indeed." Fletcher also put away his wallet, sighing as he stood up and scanned the park to ensure they were still alone. Then he extended his hand. "Come on, I’ll Apparate us there."

"You want me to let you control the method of transportation? And you expect me to agree to this?"

"‘Mutual trust,’ remember? It would do wonders for our relationship. I trusted you. Now I expect the same in return."

Grinding his teeth, Archibald tightened his grip on the hilt of the dagger hidden in his pocket but extended his hand nonetheless. A flash, the sensation of flight and swift motion, and the next moment, they were standing in a dense forest before an old two-story log house. The moss-covered walls bore the greenish tint of age, and there were no visible paths or trails leading to it. The house seemed as though it had simply appeared on this clearing two centuries ago.

Archibald felt several wards placed on and around the house—protective, monitoring, and distraction charms for ordinary people, along with something more specialized from the local magical repertoire.

"See, all good," Fletcher remarked dryly. "Come on, they’re expecting us inside. You’re lucky the Aurors have calmed down with their raids; otherwise, they might’ve caught us right here. After your little ritual stunt, they shook poor Francois down daily for weeks. His shack’s probably never been cleaner in the last forty years."

"What ritual?"

"Oh, right, of course," Fletcher said sarcastically. "It wasn’t some outsider interested in necromancy and a wand without tracking charms. Could’ve been anyone..."

Inside, the corridor was dimly lit and smelled of dust, the wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. Fletcher paused to open a massive old wardrobe, retrieving a baggy, dirt-gray cloak. He handed it to Archibald, saying, "Put this on and pull the hood down low."

"What do I need this rag for?" Archibald asked, disdain evident in his voice as he looked at the shabby garment.

"It’s illegal to sell wands to children under eleven—too dangerous. And to anyone under seventeen, they can only be sold with tracking charms monitored by the Ministry. Francois knows the law as well as anyone and won’t deal with a child. But if a short adult wizard with a thin voice shows up? A half-goblin, perhaps? No laws against selling to them. And even under Veritaserum, the craftsman can truthfully say he didn’t break any rules. Catch my drift, Jimmy?"

Grimacing, Archibald took the dusty cloak and donned it without a word. He followed Fletcher, scrutinizing the surroundings from beneath the low hood.

The house’s interior was typical for the local magical world—no wires, nothing more modern than the 19th century. The dim room, likely serving as a shop, was lit by several candles in an ancient candelabrum and a faintly glowing orb of light near the ceiling—probably a fixed version of the Lumos charm.

Behind a darkened wooden counter that looked old enough to have seen Columbus’s voyages stood the craftsman. The wizard’s appearance screamed "hermit": tangled, unkempt hair and a long beard, his thin, almost emaciated body wrapped in something resembling a monk’s robe rather than a wizard’s cloak. Archibald wouldn’t have been surprised if the man turned out to be barefoot.

"My old acquaintance, Francois Deserte," Fletcher introduced. "A wandmaker and creator of other magical items. Some considered his methods... unconventional, so he left sunny France and moved here. Two-thirds of the market is in Ollivander’s hands anyway, so instead of dealing with competitors, he just ignores them."

"And what’s so ‘unconventional’ about his methods?" Archibald asked with genuine curiosity. The place didn’t scream "progressive researcher," but appearances could be deceiving.

"Do you know how wands are usually paired with wizards?" Francois asked, scrutinizing Archibald. His voice was raspy and loud, with a noticeable accent.

"I’ve seen it from a distance and read about it in books," Archibald replied. "If I’m not mistaken, the craftsman just tests what they have on hand, ‘guided by intuition, experience, and a keen sense,’ or something like that. And they continue until they find the match because, as they say, ‘the wand chooses the wizard.’"

"Exactly," Francois began to explain, his tone deliberate, as if he relished talking about his craft. "Ollivanders, like our masters in Paris, have been in this business for centuries. The process has been refined—stockpiles of materials, charms, and combinations. Some rare wands have likely been waiting for their match for three centuries.

"Technically, any adult wizard can cast spells with any functional wand. The question is compatibility—how easily a wizard can work with a particular wand. That’s entirely individual. Established craftsmen can afford to sift through dozens, even hundreds, of ready-made wands to find the best match.

"But if you’re new to the trade, you don’t have thousands of premade wands at your disposal. You’d either apprentice with an established craftsman or abandon the profession. Or," Francois gestured toward a corner of the room where two racks of wands stood—one with a dozen, the other with several dozen, "you find another way.

"My method? The client tests them all, I take notes, then I identify the most suitable components and craft a new wand tailored specifically for them."

"Sounds reasonable," Archibald agreed. After all, a mystic code should always be custom-made for the specific magus, tailored to their repertoire of spells, mastered schools, combat style, and personal traits. It’s not something you buy off the rack like cheap suits with half a dozen universal sizes for every occasion—it’s crafted bespoke. "Shall I begin?"

"Not so fast. Protego Duo," the wizard muttered, drawing a wand from the sleeve of his tattered robe. A grayish, nearly transparent barrier shimmered into existence, cordoning off the corner with the racks from the rest of the room. Archibald immediately tensed, calculating how he might dismantle it if this turned out to be a trap.

"Protego," Fletcher added from his seat on an ancient chair by the opposite wall, erecting a shield of his own—just in case.

"Now you can start. The rack rotates; begin with the first wand. Just take it in hand, give it a wave toward the wall, then move on to the next, all the way through to number twelve," Francois instructed.

Relaxing slightly when no attack came, Archibald stepped forward and began testing. He picked up the first short wand and gave it a wave. Each movement required him to suppress his instincts and remind himself that the usual approach didn’t apply here. Unlike the mystic codes he was accustomed to—where his own magical energy flowed through the tool to achieve an effect—these wands required only a mental image of the desired impact and a gesture to gather external mana. The wand would then open his magic circuits and draw the necessary energy itself.

An experienced wizard could adjust the power of a spell or the amount of energy it consumed, but the method was entirely alien to Archibald’s years of practice. For this trial, he settled on a basic gust of wind, a fundamental element in mastering air-based magic and the foundation of more advanced spells.

"Nothing," he noted, lowering the wand. He’d felt the signal to activate his circuits, but it was too faint to trigger the necessary response. He could have forced it, manually channeling the required energy, but that wasn’t the goal here—and doing so might damage the wand, which wasn’t designed for such experiments. Without the initiating charge, the gathered mana simply dispersed back into the air after a half-second.

"Try the next one. Even if something works, keep going—you need to test them all."

The process repeated several times. The fourth wand produced a weak breeze, and the ninth yielded a similar result. The sixth, however, practically vibrated in his grip, conjuring a small whirlwind that rocked the shelves—the activation process had passed through almost instantaneously.

Returning the twelfth wand, which had no response, to the rack, Archibald turned to François.

"Finite," the craftsman said, dispelling the barrier with a wave of his wand. He began sketching something on a piece of parchment, occasionally pausing to calculate. Finally, he looked up and spoke.

"A fairly simple case. Strong affinity with water, equally weak affinity with air and aether. No response to fire, earth, or the rarer elements. For the core, we’ll need something that harmonizes with water: undine hair, a kirin’s horn, or powdered kraken beak would work best."

"And we spent all this time just to figure that out?" Archibald asked irritably. "You could’ve just asked me what my base elements were."

"Among the wizards I’ve met—Merlin as my witness—you’d be lucky if one in twelve could name their primary elements," Francois replied, eyeing him up and down. Not that there was much to see under the dusty cloak. "And of those, maybe one in three would get them all correct. Most don’t bother to think about it. If they’re not making wands or replacing them every few years, they just use the one they got at eleven and keep it until it breaks—or they do."

"Fine. At least you verified the information. No harm in that," Archibald said, letting the matter drop. Instead, he gestured toward the other rack. "What’s in the second set?"

"Elements alone aren’t enough. They’re the foundation, but magic is more than that. Every one of us has a unique connection to magic, and that connection influences how spells behave. A poorly matched wand can clash with it. Rare, but it happens."

"Interesting…" Archibald mused. Judging by the description, Francois was referring to what magi called the Origin. From what he’d read, local magical theory hadn’t developed that concept as far. They’d uncovered its existence but seemed to treat it as relevant only when crafting wands. The broader implications of the Origin—that it exists in all people, magical or not, subtly influencing behavior—seemed beyond their grasp. Not that it mattered right now. Archibald gestured to the rack. "Even forty samples wouldn’t be enough to measure that accurately."

"Not nearly," Francois agreed, nodding with a trace of respect. "For a deeper analysis, you’d need Ollivander or someone like him, with thousands of wands and endless combinations of elements and traits. I can only determine a rough result to avoid conflicts."

"Let’s not waste time on guesswork, then. I already know—my attribute relates to time. I haven’t narrowed it down further yet."

"Interesting… In that case, try wand thirty-six. Then twenty-five, sixteen, thirty-one, and thirty-three… Ah, I see. The response is tied to ‘age’ and ‘dawn.’ I’d say your attribute is ‘youth,’ or something very close to it."

"Intriguing. Thank you, master," Archibald said, offering a polite nod. The result resonated with him. More importantly, the craftsman had saved him considerable effort and time he would otherwise have spent meditating to identify his Origin. He hadn’t expected such progress from local magic, to be honest.

The revelation tempered his disappointment that his Origin had no practical application for awakening or advancing personal mysteries. In his past life, Archibald’s Origin had also been useless for magical research or development. He was accustomed to such limitations. Identifying one’s Origin was a long but straightforward process—mostly meditation and self-hypnosis.

However, useful Origins, ones that could be weaponized or enhance magic, were exceedingly rare. Even then, they required entirely new mysteries to be developed from scratch. For a pyromancer family to produce an heir with the Origin of “fire” was more the stuff of dreams than reality. Usually, they were abstract concepts. It seemed he’d drawn the short straw for a second time. 

“The attribute is useless for magic but knowing it would probably be helpful to you for crafting the wand,” he concluded.

"Convenient, working with someone competent," Francois remarked. "I suppose I'll use a wood suited to your affinity, like myrtle, viburnum, or sakura."

"Sakura won't do," he declared firmly, waving his hand dismissively. "Myrtle's fine. Let's skip the Far Eastern motifs, shall we?"

"The wizard knows best," Francois shrugged easily. "You'll be the one carrying it, after all. Now, let’s talk about the contemptible subject of payment. Are you familiar with the pricing in Diagon Alley?"

"I am. Ten to twenty Galleons for a standard wand from the best craftsman—which, for such a dangerous tool, is absurdly cheap. Custom work runs up to fifty, and there’s no limit for ornate designs and decorations—like a golden lion’s head pommel with ruby eyes. Utterly garish. Other shops charge about half as much."

"More or less. For selection, enchanting, and assembly, I charge thirty Galleons. You’ll know exactly what’s inside and how it interacts with your magic. Decorations, lacquerwork, engraving, and such—up to an additional twenty, depending on complexity. Skipping the Ministry’s trace charms, which, under my license"—Francois gestured to a framed parchment scroll on the wall—"I’m obligated to include, adds another three hundred. Naturally, if you try summoning fiendfire in the middle of London or enchanting an entire bank with the Imperius Curse, the Aurors will find you regardless. But for minor magic, you’ll have freedom akin to any adult wizard. Turnaround time: two to three weeks. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly," Archibald agreed. "No polish on the finish, though—make the lower third rough for a better grip. As long as it doesn’t harm its magical properties, of course. So, three hundred and forty in total. Half now, half upon completion." He poured the required coins onto the counter and glanced toward Fletcher, who was lounging in the corner. "And for your brokerage?"

"Fifty," the smuggler replied.

"Fifty." Archibald counted out the gold. He suspected the man had inflated the price at the last second but couldn’t be bothered to argue. It wasn’t a significant sum, even given his less-than-stable finances. No point quibbling over every coin, especially considering how much Fletcher had already squeezed from him in "advances." "I assume you’ll let me know when the wand is ready. One more thing, Monsieur Deserte?"

"Yes?"

"Do you craft items with expanded internal space?"

"Rarely, but I can take commissions. Looking for something specific you can’t find in the Alley?"

"I’m not certain yet. But I might need something eventually, so it’s good to know you’re an option."

"At the very least, we can discuss it. Depends on the complexity of the request—this isn’t my specialty, so I don’t take just anything."

"Fair enough. I believe that concludes our business. It’s been a pleasure."

Shedding the wretched cloak in the wardrobe, Archibald stepped outside and inhaled deeply, the fresh air tinged with the unpleasant scent of swamp. Fletcher followed, waiting until the magus gave an agreeing nod before placing a hand on his shoulder and Apparating them back to the park. The area was still deserted.

"A solid start, I’d say. What about the books I asked for?" Archibald inquired, scanning the surroundings. Everything was proceeding satisfactorily so far—Fletcher hadn’t pulled any tricks, nor had he teleported him straight to the Ministry, though such a betrayal had seemed a distinct possibility.

"Now that we’re being specific, I need details. The field’s completely outlawed, but it’s vast. Do you want descriptions of particular rituals or creatures? Certain spells?"

"My interest is purely academic. If any school textbooks on the subject have been published over the last three or four centuries, those would be ideal. General information: what, how, who’s notable, the main branches and subdivisions. With that foundation, I can focus on the topics that catch my attention."

"Even that will cost a fortune. A ‘textbook’ like that is a one-way ticket to Azkaban—there’s no talking your way out of it. Two thousand Galleons just to send out feelers. If I find anything, it’s another ten, minimum."

"I doubt you or your associates have many clients interested in such material. Let’s temper your greed—eight for everything."

"Ten. Not a Knut less. If we’re caught, we’ll be feeding Dementors for life. That kind of risk deserves compensation."

"Feeding who?" Archibald asked, frowning. He vaguely remembered the term from a bestiary under the section on ghosts, but it had referred him to another book "Dark Creatures and Spawn."

"Ah, I see there’s a lot you still don’t know. Look them up when you get the chance—Dementors. I’m guessing you don’t have them where you’re from. Learn what we’re risking and what Azkaban really is. Did you think it’s like Muggle prisons? Bars, fat guards with batons, four inmates per cell?"

"I didn’t," Archibald admitted. He’d seen the Tower’s prison floors and had some understanding of how dangerous magi were contained. Apparently, the local Ministry’s imagination worked well enough to make the word ‘Azkaban’ as fearsome as ‘Voldemort.’ "But I’ll look into it. Either way, you needed money, yes? Who else will offer such sums for those books, if not me? I haven’t refused to pay for valuable goods—that’s the foundation of mutually beneficial business, isn’t it?"

Receiving no answer to his rhetorical question and deciding the conversation was over, Archibald strolled leisurely toward the park’s exit. Though his back was turned to one of the most unscrupulous men in London, he didn’t let his guard down for an instant. The new metal pendant hanging alongside his cross held a magical shield spell, capable of blocking or at least dampening a surprise attack of low to medium power—a stunning or binding curse, for instance. It would buy him enough time to fight back with his other mystic codes.

Fletcher didn’t seem like the type to stoop to outright robbery, not if it put his own life at risk. But Archibald had no doubt he’d eagerly sell him out to the Aurors the moment the potential profit outweighed the danger. Sooner or later, that would have to be dealt with.

Unfortunately, even in his best years, studying magic had rarely been possible without dealing with people like Fletcher—those who could acquire anything for anyone, with no regard for academic value, morality, or the number of lives sacrificed in the process. Some things never change, no matter the world.