One life ended, and another began in the grey shadows of Wool's Orphanage. But Patrik Rosier didn't come to this world to be a victim of fate. In a realm where a single word can shatter a mind and power is the only true currency, he quickly learned a bitter truth: morality is a luxury of the dead. Armed with an ancient name and a hunger for the forbidden arts, Patrik navigates a Wizarding World that is far from a fairy tale. There is no light or dark—only the strength to impose one's will and the cold reality that Magic is Might.
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A Rosier Legacy (HP AU M-SI)
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Statistics (5 threadmarks, 18k words)
User Total PatrikWriter 5
1. Chapter
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PatrikWriter
Getting some practice in, huh?
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Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, settings, and lore from the Harry Potter universe are the property of J.K. Rowling and her respective publishers/licensees. This is a work of fan fiction intended for entertainment purposes only, and no copyright infringement is intended. The character of Patrik Rosier and any other original characters or plotlines are my own creation.
A note on the language: I write in my native language and translate the text into English using AI. I then manually review and edit it to ensure it flows correctly. You might still encounter some grammatical hiccups or "non-native" phrasing, but I believe the story remains clear. Plus, this project is a great way for me to improve my English—a win-win for everyone!
I felt a massive headache, as if I'd spent the entire previous night in a bar drowning in liters of alcohol. Where was I yesterday and what was I doing? I couldn't remember, so I stayed there with my eyes shut. Am I at home? Am I at Bran's, my best friend's place? Or will my girlfriend jump out at me with a ladle the moment I open my eyes? Just kidding… I probably have the best girlfriend I could ever ask for.
Okay… I'm not going to be a coward.
I slowly open my eyes and—bam—total shock. I'm lying in a hospital. It's a bit old-school, but everyone who has spent at least a day in a hospital knows those unpleasant metal beds with plastic-wrapped mattresses and the lingering scent of disinfectant.
What the fuck happened last night? Why do I have an IV in my vein?
And why are my hands so brutally small? Where are the blisters on my palms and the scrapes on my knuckles? Something happened, and something is seriously, completely wrong. At this point, I was just confused, not understanding a thing.
"Okay Patrik, let's calm down. Inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 4, exhale for 4… repeat," I said to myself. (Classic anti-stress breathing—I highly recommend it).
Wait… was it just me, or am I speaking English?
"One-two, one-two, one-two-three. What is your name? How are you?" I started speaking out loud, saying whatever came to mind as a test of my vocal cords… and I became certain that something was seriously fucking wrong.
I wasn't speaking my native language; I was speaking fluent English. How is that possible? English and German are my secondary languages. I speak them fluently, sure, but it's not the primary language I'd default to—and definitely not without realizing I was doing it.
"Okay Patrik, let's look at the facts. You're in a hospital, you don't know what happened, and you don't remember last night. This is definitely not my body; it looks like a child's body. The tattoos and scars are missing too, which confirms it reaaaaally isn't my body. And the primary, native language is English."
Inhaaaaale, hold, exhaaaaaaaale. Inhaaaaale, hold, exhaaaaaaaale. Inhaaaaale, hold, exhaaaaaaaale.
Fine. I'm in an unfamiliar environment; I need to be careful and gather as much information as possible.
The IV is irritating me and I'm thirsty. With a slow movement, I pulled the IV out. I pressed down gently on the puncture site so I wouldn't bleed everywhere. I slowly swung my legs over the side of the bed…
The problem is, they didn't reach the floor. Fuck… I really am in a child's body. Whatever… I jumped down; luckily it wasn't that high. I probably hadn't been in bed for too long; my legs felt fine, muscles weren't weak or stiff—so maybe 24 to 48 hours of lying down… hmmm.
By the door, there was a small sink, a glass, and a mirror. The first thing I did when I shuffled over was fill the glass with water. My throat was a bit dry, so I slowly rinsed my mouth… I still didn't dare look in the mirror.
Did I steal someone's body? A boy who had his whole life ahead of him? What happened to me and what happened to him? Oh well, no one ever solved anything by stalling and procrastinating… I'd only be hurting myself.
I slowly lifted my head to look in the mirror, but hah, shit. I'm a hobbit and I simply can't see myself. Whatever, I hurried back to the bed. Next to the nightstand was a chair, the typical one for visitors. With quite an effort, I dragged it to the mirror. It was relatively heavy—not only am I in a strange body, but I'm also weak.
I slowly climbed onto it in front of the mirror, and then came the next shock. Oval face, dark brown hair, dark brown-green eyes, still some childhood chubbiness. A bandage on the back of my head (looking a bit like a mummy). I looked just like that photo from primary school holding a first-grade textbook that I shared on Instagram for a laugh.
"It is my body… but when I was about 7–10 years old." I stared blankly into the mirror, unable to believe it. Am I in the past? But then why the English? I guess the brain instinctively uses the knowledge it has. So this isn't my body, but at the same time, it is…
Is this some parallel universe? English Patrik? Am I in some super-universe? DC? Marvel? Harry Potter?
I didn't understand it, but I knew I wouldn't get anywhere without more information. I have to prepare for whatever comes next. The main thing is to get fit… my head still hurts as if an angry Thor hit it with his hammer.
I need to sleep; maybe it's just a bad dream…
I slowly closed my eyes and drifted off.
Knock, knock, knock
I woke up to an annoying tapping on the door. Who is it? What do they want? Isn't it the weekend?
I opened my eyes grumpily, had to close them again, and then open them in disbelief.
"It wasn't a dream. I'm in a hospital as a kid. I've gone back in time," a short internal monologue reviewing the facts flashed through my mind at lightning speed.
"Come in!" I shouted. (It sounded like a puppy's yelp. It's going to be hard to gain respect, I thought.)
A short, fat man with an unkempt beard and cheap, ill-fitting clothes entered the room. He was smiling… but it was a fake smile that didn't reach his eyes. If I were a regular kid, I would have believed it, but unfortunately for him, I was instantly on guard. I looked at him a bit closer… yellow, rotten teeth, bad clothes, fake smile… he only lacked candies in his pockets.
My blood ran cold; I immediately felt the adrenaline kicking in. There was absolutely nothing in the room I could use as a weapon (surprisingly, for a hospital). My only option was Muay Thai, with a single chance—a sharp elbow to the temple if he tried anything.
He slowly walked into the room and sat on the chair by the bed.
"How are you feeling, Patrik? I heard you fell down the stairs," he said, trying to sound kind.
"Who are you and how do you know my name?" I replied, trying for a normal tone without any tension.
"You don't remember me? I'm the maintenance man at the home," he replied "kindly," but I saw that fake smile… eyes don't lie, and I caught a flash of triumph.
Right then, it was clear that something stank… and it wasn't just his disgusting smell of sweat, onions, and old clothes.
"From the home? What home?" I blurted out in surprise.
"Wool's Orphanage in London, of course," he replied, and I could still see the triumph in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, I don't remember anything at all. Could you tell me more? What's your name, by the way?"
"My name is Adam Bates. What specifically are you interested in? I just came to check on you quickly; I don't have much time." He stopped pretending entirely; he was talking normally now. I was certain he had something to do with why I was in the hospital.
"What's my last name, Mr. Bates? How old am I and where are we now?"
"Your name is Patrik Rosier. I don't know how old you are; you'll have to ask the matron. You're currently in central London, only a kilometer away from Wool's Orphanage."
As soon as he finished speaking, a nurse burst into the room and immediately started shouting:
"WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING IN HERE!!!!" she yelled angrily. Luckily, she wasn't yelling at me, but at Bates next to me, who immediately jumped off the chair and away from me.
"I… I… I'm Adam Bates, I work at the orphanage. I just came to see if Patrik was alright," he replied, terrified.
Why is he scared? Was he not here officially? It only confirmed my belief that Bates was dangerous and that he wasn't here just because. I have to be careful… Life isn't fair, especially for an orphan.
"OUT AT ONCE, OR I'LL CALL THE POLICE! NO ONE IS ALLOWED IN THIS ROOM WITHOUT STAFF PERMISSION!!!!" she continued to scream.
Bates flew out of the room as if the devils themselves were chasing him. I felt a wave of relief. Bates was dangerous, and as a kid, I wouldn't be able to defend myself properly if he wanted to hurt me.
As soon as he was gone, a doctor arrived. He reminded me a bit of Dr. House, though he didn't limp. He had a friendly face and light stubble. I immediately started to trust him.
"What happened, Helena? How did that man get in here and what was he doing?" the doctor asked, out of breath. He must have run when he heard the shouting.
"I saw him sitting on the chair talking, but I don't know about what. I don't understand how he got in."
The doctor noticed I was tensely listening to what was going on. He gave me a reassuring smile.
"Everything alright, young man? How are you?"
"Great. What's going on here?" I replied sarcastically and asked straight out. No point beating around the bush.
The doctor smiled with amusement and turned back to the nurse.
"Helena, please go call the police and bring me this young man's medical file," he requested and ordered at the same time. The nurse just nodded and immediately left the room…
Hmm, probably a good doctor if he commands that much respect.
"What is your name? So I don't have to call you 'young man'," he asked me. I had a strong urge to snap back and tell him to introduce himself first… but this was important and I can't act like a brat.
"My name is Patrik. I don't remember much," I replied.
"Nice to meet you, Patrik. I'm Doctor Barlow. I can't tell you much because I wasn't working when you were admitted. I need your file to give you more information. Someone should bring it shortly. Could you answer my questions in the meantime?"
I simply nodded…
"Thank you. Who was that man and what did he want?" Barlow went straight to the point. Great doctor.
"He said his name is Adam Bates, he works as maintenance at the orphanage where I live. He told me he just came to see me because I fell down the stairs. But he was acting weird…" I said honestly that Bates was really strange and creepy, and I didn't trust him.
"How weird?"
"He was acting fake—visibly and overly kind. I also felt like he was happy I didn't remember anything." Hah, threw him right under the bus.
"Hmm, thank you. The police will be interested in that as well."
"Why? What happened?"
"You're in a private room, a relatively secret one that the nurses can access easily. Rooms like this are reserved for victims of a crime. Judging by the bandages and your memory loss, I'd say it was an attempted murder," Barlow explained patiently and factually.
"Thank you for being honest, I appreciate it. Won't you get in trouble for telling me?"
I was surprised by his honesty. Who tells a kid someone tried to murder them? I felt grateful he was being direct.
"Orphanage kids grow up faster. You strike me as a strong personality who values reality over lies. No, I won't have problems. If you had a hysterical breakdown and a nervous collapse, someone would surely blame me… but given you're from the orphanage and on that gray edge… it's fine."
Knock, knock, knock
"Enter!" Barlow called out.
A young nurse walked in, probably an intern since she looked like a student, maybe 15–16. She looked at the room and me with interest.
"Doctor, Mrs. Helena sent me with the medical file for patient Patrik Evan Rosier." She handed him the file and winked at me with a smile.
"Thank you, Eliza, you may go," Barlow thanked her politely with a smile.
Eliza waved at me, turned on her heel, and left. Meanwhile, Doctor Barlow was reading my file. The room was quite silent, giving me time to think… Someone tried to kill me, probably that slimeball Bates. The question is why… and at the same time, would he really be stupid enough to check on his victim to see if they're alive or remember anything? How did he get in here if I'm not in a public ward?
My name is strange too… Evan Rosier was probably my father… Rosier sounds familiar, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is. I simply need more information.
"It's a miracle you're alive and talking at all. They found you under the stairs in a pool of blood; you should be in a coma right now. According to the X-rays, you suffered a skull fracture in multiple places," Barlow suddenly spoke up. I jolted a bit, lost in thought.
"Well, I'm glad to be alive, obviously," I laughed. So this body probably died, and I somehow ended up in it from the future or another universe. Interesting.
"We're glad too. The police are investigating the case right now; they'll definitely talk to you soon. I'll inform them about Mr. Bates. In the meantime, I'll check how you're doing." Barlow said with a smile. "Aside from the memory loss, does anything hurt? Do you feel anything unusual?" he added.
"My head hurts a bit, like I drank liters of alcohol and have a terrible hangover. And my stomach is still a bit unsettled," I answered honestly.
"Liters of alcohol? A hangover?" Barlow asked in surprise, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, that's just how people say it, right?" I quickly played it off.
"I see, I see. We'll prescribe some Paracetamol and beef broth," Barlow replied with an amused smile. "Turn your back to me; I'll check the wound on the back of your head to see how it's healing," he ordered.
I turned around and felt him taking off the bandage. It didn't come off easily, even though he was trying to be careful… blood sticks to bandages and then you have to peel it away gently. I hissed like a snake when he pulled a bit harder. The bandage was completely off, and I just heard a surprised gasp.
"Is something wrong, Doctor? Is everything okay?" I asked curiously and cautiously.
"Every… everything is fine. There is no wound."
"How is that possible? You said I had multiple skull fractures," I asked in shock.
"It's true. Even the bandage was soaked with blood after the surgery. I never thought I'd encounter a case like this in my career."
"What do you mean, 'a case like this'?" I asked, bewildered.
"A case where a child is at huge risk of death one day, and the next, there isn't a single trace of the injury. As if the injury vanished by miracle. No one knows why it happens; it's a very rare phenomenon, maybe 1 in a million. A miracle, magic, prayer, or God's second chance. It's only known in medical circles, and even there, only a small percentage believe it. Those it happens to… until recently, I considered them over-dramatic fools who must be making it up…"
I was completely speechless, just like Barlow.
"Well, I'm glad I'm alive and got a second chance. Can I ask what year it is, Doctor?"
"Well, I'm glad you're alive too. I might start believing in God myself. The year is 1988, February 20th. I'll send a nurse with the Paracetamol and that broth for your stomach. I'll come by for rounds tomorrow morning. Do you need anything else for now?"
"No, nothing else. I need to sleep, thank you." I thanked Barlow with a smile. I like it when people are competent.
"I'll leave you for now then. Get some rest, and if anything happens, there's a button on the side of the bed that sends a signal. Please, press it immediately if anyone other than the nurses or me comes in," Barlow ordered as he left.
"You got it, boss!" I saluted for fun before Barlow closed the door.
At least I can think now…
So, what do you guys think? Is the grammar readable? I've gone through it several times and it seems fine to me, but I'm always open to advice and corrections from native speakers. As for the story itself—what are your first impressions? I'm looking for objective feedback. I decided to upload the first part here because this community is known for being active and providing great critiques. I look forward to your comments!
A note on the language: I write in my native language and translate the text into English using AI. I then manually review and edit it to ensure it flows correctly. You might still encounter some grammatical hiccups or "non-native" phrasing, but I believe the story remains clear. Plus, this project is a great way for me to improve my English—a win-win for everyone!
I felt a massive headache, as if I'd spent the entire previous night in a bar drowning in liters of alcohol. Where was I yesterday and what was I doing? I couldn't remember, so I stayed there with my eyes shut. Am I at home? Am I at Bran's, my best friend's place? Or will my girlfriend jump out at me with a ladle the moment I open my eyes? Just kidding… I probably have the best girlfriend I could ever ask for.
Okay… I'm not going to be a coward.
I slowly open my eyes and—bam—total shock. I'm lying in a hospital. It's a bit old-school, but everyone who has spent at least a day in a hospital knows those unpleasant metal beds with plastic-wrapped mattresses and the lingering scent of disinfectant.
What the fuck happened last night? Why do I have an IV in my vein?
And why are my hands so brutally small? Where are the blisters on my palms and the scrapes on my knuckles? Something happened, and something is seriously, completely wrong. At this point, I was just confused, not understanding a thing.
"Okay Patrik, let's calm down. Inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 4, exhale for 4… repeat," I said to myself. (Classic anti-stress breathing—I highly recommend it).
Wait… was it just me, or am I speaking English?
"One-two, one-two, one-two-three. What is your name? How are you?" I started speaking out loud, saying whatever came to mind as a test of my vocal cords… and I became certain that something was seriously fucking wrong.
I wasn't speaking my native language; I was speaking fluent English. How is that possible? English and German are my secondary languages. I speak them fluently, sure, but it's not the primary language I'd default to—and definitely not without realizing I was doing it.
"Okay Patrik, let's look at the facts. You're in a hospital, you don't know what happened, and you don't remember last night. This is definitely not my body; it looks like a child's body. The tattoos and scars are missing too, which confirms it reaaaaally isn't my body. And the primary, native language is English."
Inhaaaaale, hold, exhaaaaaaaale. Inhaaaaale, hold, exhaaaaaaaale. Inhaaaaale, hold, exhaaaaaaaale.
Fine. I'm in an unfamiliar environment; I need to be careful and gather as much information as possible.
The IV is irritating me and I'm thirsty. With a slow movement, I pulled the IV out. I pressed down gently on the puncture site so I wouldn't bleed everywhere. I slowly swung my legs over the side of the bed…
The problem is, they didn't reach the floor. Fuck… I really am in a child's body. Whatever… I jumped down; luckily it wasn't that high. I probably hadn't been in bed for too long; my legs felt fine, muscles weren't weak or stiff—so maybe 24 to 48 hours of lying down… hmmm.
By the door, there was a small sink, a glass, and a mirror. The first thing I did when I shuffled over was fill the glass with water. My throat was a bit dry, so I slowly rinsed my mouth… I still didn't dare look in the mirror.
Did I steal someone's body? A boy who had his whole life ahead of him? What happened to me and what happened to him? Oh well, no one ever solved anything by stalling and procrastinating… I'd only be hurting myself.
I slowly lifted my head to look in the mirror, but hah, shit. I'm a hobbit and I simply can't see myself. Whatever, I hurried back to the bed. Next to the nightstand was a chair, the typical one for visitors. With quite an effort, I dragged it to the mirror. It was relatively heavy—not only am I in a strange body, but I'm also weak.
I slowly climbed onto it in front of the mirror, and then came the next shock. Oval face, dark brown hair, dark brown-green eyes, still some childhood chubbiness. A bandage on the back of my head (looking a bit like a mummy). I looked just like that photo from primary school holding a first-grade textbook that I shared on Instagram for a laugh.
"It is my body… but when I was about 7–10 years old." I stared blankly into the mirror, unable to believe it. Am I in the past? But then why the English? I guess the brain instinctively uses the knowledge it has. So this isn't my body, but at the same time, it is…
Is this some parallel universe? English Patrik? Am I in some super-universe? DC? Marvel? Harry Potter?
I didn't understand it, but I knew I wouldn't get anywhere without more information. I have to prepare for whatever comes next. The main thing is to get fit… my head still hurts as if an angry Thor hit it with his hammer.
I need to sleep; maybe it's just a bad dream…
I slowly closed my eyes and drifted off.
Knock, knock, knock
I woke up to an annoying tapping on the door. Who is it? What do they want? Isn't it the weekend?
I opened my eyes grumpily, had to close them again, and then open them in disbelief.
"It wasn't a dream. I'm in a hospital as a kid. I've gone back in time," a short internal monologue reviewing the facts flashed through my mind at lightning speed.
"Come in!" I shouted. (It sounded like a puppy's yelp. It's going to be hard to gain respect, I thought.)
A short, fat man with an unkempt beard and cheap, ill-fitting clothes entered the room. He was smiling… but it was a fake smile that didn't reach his eyes. If I were a regular kid, I would have believed it, but unfortunately for him, I was instantly on guard. I looked at him a bit closer… yellow, rotten teeth, bad clothes, fake smile… he only lacked candies in his pockets.
My blood ran cold; I immediately felt the adrenaline kicking in. There was absolutely nothing in the room I could use as a weapon (surprisingly, for a hospital). My only option was Muay Thai, with a single chance—a sharp elbow to the temple if he tried anything.
He slowly walked into the room and sat on the chair by the bed.
"How are you feeling, Patrik? I heard you fell down the stairs," he said, trying to sound kind.
"Who are you and how do you know my name?" I replied, trying for a normal tone without any tension.
"You don't remember me? I'm the maintenance man at the home," he replied "kindly," but I saw that fake smile… eyes don't lie, and I caught a flash of triumph.
Right then, it was clear that something stank… and it wasn't just his disgusting smell of sweat, onions, and old clothes.
"From the home? What home?" I blurted out in surprise.
"Wool's Orphanage in London, of course," he replied, and I could still see the triumph in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, I don't remember anything at all. Could you tell me more? What's your name, by the way?"
"My name is Adam Bates. What specifically are you interested in? I just came to check on you quickly; I don't have much time." He stopped pretending entirely; he was talking normally now. I was certain he had something to do with why I was in the hospital.
"What's my last name, Mr. Bates? How old am I and where are we now?"
"Your name is Patrik Rosier. I don't know how old you are; you'll have to ask the matron. You're currently in central London, only a kilometer away from Wool's Orphanage."
As soon as he finished speaking, a nurse burst into the room and immediately started shouting:
"WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING IN HERE!!!!" she yelled angrily. Luckily, she wasn't yelling at me, but at Bates next to me, who immediately jumped off the chair and away from me.
"I… I… I'm Adam Bates, I work at the orphanage. I just came to see if Patrik was alright," he replied, terrified.
Why is he scared? Was he not here officially? It only confirmed my belief that Bates was dangerous and that he wasn't here just because. I have to be careful… Life isn't fair, especially for an orphan.
"OUT AT ONCE, OR I'LL CALL THE POLICE! NO ONE IS ALLOWED IN THIS ROOM WITHOUT STAFF PERMISSION!!!!" she continued to scream.
Bates flew out of the room as if the devils themselves were chasing him. I felt a wave of relief. Bates was dangerous, and as a kid, I wouldn't be able to defend myself properly if he wanted to hurt me.
As soon as he was gone, a doctor arrived. He reminded me a bit of Dr. House, though he didn't limp. He had a friendly face and light stubble. I immediately started to trust him.
"What happened, Helena? How did that man get in here and what was he doing?" the doctor asked, out of breath. He must have run when he heard the shouting.
"I saw him sitting on the chair talking, but I don't know about what. I don't understand how he got in."
The doctor noticed I was tensely listening to what was going on. He gave me a reassuring smile.
"Everything alright, young man? How are you?"
"Great. What's going on here?" I replied sarcastically and asked straight out. No point beating around the bush.
The doctor smiled with amusement and turned back to the nurse.
"Helena, please go call the police and bring me this young man's medical file," he requested and ordered at the same time. The nurse just nodded and immediately left the room…
Hmm, probably a good doctor if he commands that much respect.
"What is your name? So I don't have to call you 'young man'," he asked me. I had a strong urge to snap back and tell him to introduce himself first… but this was important and I can't act like a brat.
"My name is Patrik. I don't remember much," I replied.
"Nice to meet you, Patrik. I'm Doctor Barlow. I can't tell you much because I wasn't working when you were admitted. I need your file to give you more information. Someone should bring it shortly. Could you answer my questions in the meantime?"
I simply nodded…
"Thank you. Who was that man and what did he want?" Barlow went straight to the point. Great doctor.
"He said his name is Adam Bates, he works as maintenance at the orphanage where I live. He told me he just came to see me because I fell down the stairs. But he was acting weird…" I said honestly that Bates was really strange and creepy, and I didn't trust him.
"How weird?"
"He was acting fake—visibly and overly kind. I also felt like he was happy I didn't remember anything." Hah, threw him right under the bus.
"Hmm, thank you. The police will be interested in that as well."
"Why? What happened?"
"You're in a private room, a relatively secret one that the nurses can access easily. Rooms like this are reserved for victims of a crime. Judging by the bandages and your memory loss, I'd say it was an attempted murder," Barlow explained patiently and factually.
"Thank you for being honest, I appreciate it. Won't you get in trouble for telling me?"
I was surprised by his honesty. Who tells a kid someone tried to murder them? I felt grateful he was being direct.
"Orphanage kids grow up faster. You strike me as a strong personality who values reality over lies. No, I won't have problems. If you had a hysterical breakdown and a nervous collapse, someone would surely blame me… but given you're from the orphanage and on that gray edge… it's fine."
Knock, knock, knock
"Enter!" Barlow called out.
A young nurse walked in, probably an intern since she looked like a student, maybe 15–16. She looked at the room and me with interest.
"Doctor, Mrs. Helena sent me with the medical file for patient Patrik Evan Rosier." She handed him the file and winked at me with a smile.
"Thank you, Eliza, you may go," Barlow thanked her politely with a smile.
Eliza waved at me, turned on her heel, and left. Meanwhile, Doctor Barlow was reading my file. The room was quite silent, giving me time to think… Someone tried to kill me, probably that slimeball Bates. The question is why… and at the same time, would he really be stupid enough to check on his victim to see if they're alive or remember anything? How did he get in here if I'm not in a public ward?
My name is strange too… Evan Rosier was probably my father… Rosier sounds familiar, but I can't for the life of me remember what it is. I simply need more information.
"It's a miracle you're alive and talking at all. They found you under the stairs in a pool of blood; you should be in a coma right now. According to the X-rays, you suffered a skull fracture in multiple places," Barlow suddenly spoke up. I jolted a bit, lost in thought.
"Well, I'm glad to be alive, obviously," I laughed. So this body probably died, and I somehow ended up in it from the future or another universe. Interesting.
"We're glad too. The police are investigating the case right now; they'll definitely talk to you soon. I'll inform them about Mr. Bates. In the meantime, I'll check how you're doing." Barlow said with a smile. "Aside from the memory loss, does anything hurt? Do you feel anything unusual?" he added.
"My head hurts a bit, like I drank liters of alcohol and have a terrible hangover. And my stomach is still a bit unsettled," I answered honestly.
"Liters of alcohol? A hangover?" Barlow asked in surprise, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, that's just how people say it, right?" I quickly played it off.
"I see, I see. We'll prescribe some Paracetamol and beef broth," Barlow replied with an amused smile. "Turn your back to me; I'll check the wound on the back of your head to see how it's healing," he ordered.
I turned around and felt him taking off the bandage. It didn't come off easily, even though he was trying to be careful… blood sticks to bandages and then you have to peel it away gently. I hissed like a snake when he pulled a bit harder. The bandage was completely off, and I just heard a surprised gasp.
"Is something wrong, Doctor? Is everything okay?" I asked curiously and cautiously.
"Every… everything is fine. There is no wound."
"How is that possible? You said I had multiple skull fractures," I asked in shock.
"It's true. Even the bandage was soaked with blood after the surgery. I never thought I'd encounter a case like this in my career."
"What do you mean, 'a case like this'?" I asked, bewildered.
"A case where a child is at huge risk of death one day, and the next, there isn't a single trace of the injury. As if the injury vanished by miracle. No one knows why it happens; it's a very rare phenomenon, maybe 1 in a million. A miracle, magic, prayer, or God's second chance. It's only known in medical circles, and even there, only a small percentage believe it. Those it happens to… until recently, I considered them over-dramatic fools who must be making it up…"
I was completely speechless, just like Barlow.
"Well, I'm glad I'm alive and got a second chance. Can I ask what year it is, Doctor?"
"Well, I'm glad you're alive too. I might start believing in God myself. The year is 1988, February 20th. I'll send a nurse with the Paracetamol and that broth for your stomach. I'll come by for rounds tomorrow morning. Do you need anything else for now?"
"No, nothing else. I need to sleep, thank you." I thanked Barlow with a smile. I like it when people are competent.
"I'll leave you for now then. Get some rest, and if anything happens, there's a button on the side of the bed that sends a signal. Please, press it immediately if anyone other than the nurses or me comes in," Barlow ordered as he left.
"You got it, boss!" I saluted for fun before Barlow closed the door.
At least I can think now…
- It's 1988. I'm not in the past; I didn't live in this year.
- I look exactly as I did when I was a kid.
- Someone tried to murder me. They succeeded. I'm a different Patrik.
- I'm miraculously alive. Was it a miracle or something else? (Superpowers? Magic? Something else?)
- Why am I in an orphanage? Where is my family?
- My last name and my father's name sound familiar. Evan Rosier… who is that and where have I heard that last name before? Rosier—Rose, something with flowers?
So, what do you guys think? Is the grammar readable? I've gone through it several times and it seems fine to me, but I'm always open to advice and corrections from native speakers. As for the story itself—what are your first impressions? I'm looking for objective feedback. I decided to upload the first part here because this community is known for being active and providing great critiques. I look forward to your comments!
2. Chapter
New
PatrikWriter
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2025
- Messages
- 5
- Likes received
- 13
"Knock, knock, knock."
That annoying knocking sound again, though it woke me up instantly…
I live alone in my flat, so there's no one to be knocking on the door; the postwoman always rings the bell.
"Fuck, it wasn't a dream," I thought with unease.
The door opened slowly, and Nurse Helena was already shouting from the threshold: "ROUNDS! Good morning, young man, how are we doing?"
"Sleepy, but good. The soup helped yesterday, and my head doesn't hurt anymore today," I replied. The sooner I answer her, the sooner I can get back to sleep.
"I'm glad to hear that. You're a little miracle, Patrik. Did you dream of anything, or have you remembered anything?" she asked with curiosity and a hint of tension.
"No, I don't remember my dream, nor the time before." It was the truth; I rarely remembered my dreams.
The nurse visibly exhaled, the tension leaving her body.
"Was she afraid I'd have some psychological fallout from my attempted murder?" I wondered.
"Victims of violence carry trauma with them for the rest of their lives in 91.9% of cases. Your case is a bit more specific due to the amnesia. If you don't remember the time before, I assume you won't have any trauma or bad memories. If you do happen to remember, please tell the head of the home. She's already been informed, and if you start remembering, a psychologist will be assigned to help you process your trauma and the fact that someone tried to murder you. Can you promise me that, Patrik? For your own good?" the nurse concluded, her voice full of care.
"Of course, ma'am, I'll tell the head as soon as I remember," I replied with a faint smile. Of course, I was lying… I don't want a psychologist; no one tried to kill me.
This body with my face died. I don't know why I ended up in it, or why someone murdered him… but the least I can do is find out why and avenge him.
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth… even if I have to go to hell and back. I owe him that much," I thought.
"Knock, knock, knock," echoed through the suddenly quiet room.
"Come in!" Helena shouted.
"Shouldn't I be the one shouting that? Oh well, no one respects kids. This is going to be hard," I thought.
Doctor Barlow entered. I could tell immediately that something serious was happening. He was completely expressionless, tense…
"Good morning, Patrik, how are you feeling?" he asked with a forced smile—stiff and fake—which was more unsettling than comforting.
"What's going on, Doctor?" It had to be something serious. I went straight to the point; Barlow had been honest with me yesterday, so I took the risk.
"Helena, please leave us alone, I'll finish the rounds," Barlow said tensely to the nurse.
We waited in silence until the nurse left the room. With the soft click of the door closing, Barlow turned to me.
"There's an investigation underway at the orphanage. Bates was arrested by the police yesterday. He was suspected of trying to kill you, but there was no direct evidence. By coming to see you yesterday when he wasn't supposed to, he drew attention to himself," Doctor Barlow explained tensely.
"But that's good, isn't it? Now that we know it was him," I asked. I trusted my instincts. Bates was a creep.
"Yes, it's good; he won't be able to hurt anyone else." He was still holding something back, keeping a secret from me. The tension hadn't left him.
"Why did he try to kill me? An eight-year-old in an orphanage... The motive is important…" I thought.
"Why did he try to kill me?" I asked, but what I meant was: "Why did he kill me?!"
At my question, the doctor stiffened even more. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and I was starting to suspect it was going to be worse than I thought.
Barlow exhaled sharply after my question and hung his head in defeat.
"You're more intelligent than one would expect."
I needed to know what the fuck was going on here. What was happening in that orphanage? What happened to this body? I trusted Barlow. He didn't want to tell me for my own sake… but in my experience, reality is better than a bitter lie or obfuscation.
"Thank you. Why did he try to kill me?" I asked again.
"I shouldn't tell you. It's better not to know." It had to be really bad for him to be dodging it like this.
I was starting to get pissed off. I needed to know. I have to know; I owe it to this body.
"I want to know, Doctor, tell me," I commanded. My squeaky voice didn't help much, but I could see that just a little more and he'd break.
"The headmistress should be the one to tell you." He was no longer looking at the floor, but into my eyes with compassion.
Something exploded inside me. I wanted to know, I needed to know. More than anything else. It was my only desire when suddenly, something strange happened.
…a flash, of police loading Bates into a car with handcuffs on his wrists… …a flash, of an older woman speaking… …"Every child will need to be examined. This was a massive failure..."… …a flash of a policeman talking… …"Bates is a pedophile, he was on the registry, he had no business being there..."…
"What was that? What happened? Was Bates a pedophile?" I thought. I felt a bit tired and was slightly out of breath.
"Doctor, I trust you. Was Bates a pedophile?" I asked directly, with the coolness of an Englishman.
The doctor's eyes widened like ping-pong balls in surprise… For a moment, he reminded me of Gollum from Lord of the Rings.
"How did you figure that out?" he asked, stunned.
I remained silent. I looked him straight in the eyes. Sometimes, silence is better than a thousand words.
"You really are very intelligent. Yes, he was a pedophile. Bates confessed during interrogation. What I'm about to tell you, you must keep to yourself. You can't tell anyone because it's an ongoing investigation and I, as a doctor, am bound by oath. However, I believe that if I didn't tell you, it would only haunt you mentally. This information is only held by the police, your headmistress as your legal guardian, and me as the doctor who is treating and will be examining every child."
"I promise, Doctor, I won't tell anyone," I promised quickly, before he could change his mind.
"Bates was convicted 15 years ago for child rape; he was on the sex offender registry. He was released for good behavior after 8 years. He was prohibited from approaching schools, playgrounds, orphanages, and the like. However, a systemic failure occurred."
"What kind of failure?"
"The head of an orphanage must check the criminal record before hiring an employee to see if they are fit to work with children. Bates applied with a CV where he spelled his surname with two 'T's. The headmistress checked his name according to the CV. Battes had no record… because no one named 'Battes' even exists," Barlow explained.
I was starting to worry about what this body had gone through. I literally hated pedophiles. Animals.
Systemic error… hmmm. "Computers didn't exist yet; they checked everything via landline?" Another realization that I was in a different year and a different body hit me like a hammer.
"One stroke of luck is that Bates only worked at the orphanage for a month. Under interrogation, he said he didn't abuse any children. He confessed that he tried to knock out a little girl with chloroform, drag her into the maintenance room and abuse her, but he claims you saw him. You started running and screaming. Bates panicked and ran after you, caught up with you under the stairs, and hit you on the back of the head with a pipe wrench. There was blood everywhere. He heard footsteps, so he fled," Barlow explained.
"Since the ambulance and police were contacted immediately, Bates didn't dare do anything else. The police investigated the headmistress, the cook, and the rest of the staff. It was immediately clear it wasn't an accident. A fall down the stairs can be heard, and some children also heard you screaming as you ran. You had no injuries anywhere else, only on the back of your head—no fractures, bruises, or contusions. Based on the wound, it was a blunt object, and therefore classified as attempted murder," Barlow continued.
"And by Bates coming to see his victim in the hospital, he pointed a massive finger at himself," I remarked.
"Yes, exactly. You were already examined upon admission. The only thing you had was a fractured skull, which is miraculously fine today. You were not sexually assaulted," Barlow concluded.
I exhaled with relief. Death is better than sexual assault. The only thing that ever terrified me in life was sexual abuse. Helplessness and suffering. Thank God he didn't manage to hurt any child in the home.
"When I'm older, I'll find him and he'll regret being born," I promised my body in my mind.
"Thank you for your honesty, Doctor, I really appreciate it. What happens now?" I asked Barlow.
"We'll finish the rounds, check if the wound is still okay, and after lunch, the headmistress will come for you. You're going back home," the doctor smiled. He was no longer tense. I suppose I reacted calmly enough.
Barlow checked the back of my head. It was easier than yesterday… Judging by his fascinated mumbling, everything was fine. He recorded the rounds in my medical chart and said goodbye.
"If you need anything, remember the button on the bed," Barlow reminded me and left.
I stretched out on the bed and put my hands behind my head with a sigh.
"I have time to think," I thought.
"What were those flashes when I looked into his eyes?" I asked myself. "They were either thoughts or memories. Barlow thought I deduced that Bates was a pedophile. So what I saw was true. That confirms I'm in another universe… The question is, which one?"
"Telepathy and regeneration? Did I get superpowers during the murder attempt? A mutant gene? Or was it Legilimency and I'm in Harry Potter? Maybe Marvel? DC? But then again, regeneration could be from Harry Potter too—didn't his wounds heal better? Didn't his hair grow back when he tried really hard?"
I knew the name Rosier rang a bell, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember from where.
"I'll try to use telepathy again when I get the chance, and we'll see," I told myself.
"Knock, knock, knock."
"Come in!" I shouted.
The student nurse from yesterday entered with a tray of food. Perfect, my stomach was just starting to rumble.
"Little Patrik is hungry," she said in a childish voice.
"Little Patrik is the hungriest," I replied with a smile.
"Here you go: omelet, toast, and fruit yogurt. Enjoy."
She placed the tray on my bed and started to leave.
Before the door closed behind her, I managed to shout: "Thanks, Eliza, you're sweet."
She turned to me with a smile and a surprised look, waving. She was probably surprised I remembered her name. There was only the click of the closing door, and I could tear into the food like a wolf.
After breakfast—great at least in terms of nutritional value—I was starting to get bored.
"I don't know what world I'm in, but my body is weak. I need to improve it, it must get stronger. The world isn't fair," I thought.
"Dumbbells and heavy weights are a no-go. If I have increased regeneration, it would be fine, but it's not confirmed and I definitely don't want to be stunted in a child's version of a grown man."
"So, boxing classics it is. Squats, push-ups, crunches, and the pull-up bar. Shadowboxing and full-body power stretching." The training was planned out, but it would probably be weird if I started shadowboxing and working out here after such an injury. So, stretching until I bite my lip from boredom.
During the painful stretching, I realized something very important that I think will significantly help me in the future.
"I am 100% focused, I have 100% motivation to improve. No annoying mobile notifications forcing me to look, I don't miss my phone or computer. No games or e-reader. My brain is clear, no dopamine from social media. No bad habits, just a clear head and knowledge from 29 years of life. I know the technological future, which will definitely help me. At least regarding the general development of technology and what's worth investing in. What I lack is capital. I'll have to solve that."
"I absolutely must find out which universe I'm in as soon as possible." I need to know the risks of the future and what to watch out for.
"Next, my priority will be my abilities. In every universe where there are superpowers, there are brutal risks, and I want to have control over my destiny," I promised myself.
After stretching, I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead and sat back on the bed. Time for meditation—that's necessary if I want to know my abilities. I didn't know how to meditate, but I tried it once in my original life. I remember the basics were about controlling your breathing. I had experience with that—pre-fight breathing and stress breathing…
I closed my eyes and started counting: "1 2 3 4 – inhaaaaale." "1 2 3 4 – hold breath in lungs." "1 2 3 4 – exhaaaaale."
I don't know how long I spent trying to meditate. I expected to find or realize something interesting. Maybe that I'd start reading the thoughts of the whole hospital… but unfortunately, to my disappointment, nothing like that happened. No chakra, no hidden power… simply nothing.
"Fuck!" I cursed out loud. "I don't have any hack system, no gamer system, nothing for free. Just hard mode in a hard world. Only my mind, my body, and my abilities, which I know nothing about. It's tough, but I have to grind. In real life, nothing is for free. You have to work for everything or earn it. I'm not a little bitch, I'm keeping at it…"
I cursed myself out mentally, got myself motivated, and meditated further….
***
What do you think about this chapter? What did you like, and what didn't work for you? When I read it back myself, it feels pretty okay, but I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your feedback really helps me and motivates me to keep writing and improve faster. And if you enjoyed the chapter, don't forget to drop a Power Stone — it helps a lot and keeps me motivated. Anyway, I wish you all a Merry Christmas.
3. Chapter
New
PatrikWriter
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2025
- Messages
- 5
- Likes received
- 13
I continued meditating for I don't know how long, as the room lacked a clock. I hoped to experience some sort of enlightenment, progress, or at least something that would give me a clue as to where I actually was. Unfortunately, nothing of the sort happened.
The only thing I noticed was that my breathing was easy, calm, and stress-free. I might have been stress-free, but I was pissed off as hell. I had no idea what had happened in my world, or why I was here. Did my body die there? What about my family? My girlfriend? My cat? My friends? Or is this all just a figment of my imagination? Am I dreaming?
"Knock, knock, knock." The knocking jolted me from my thoughts.
"Come in," I shouted. Still that high-pitched, childish voice, I thought with a sigh.
An older woman entered the room—the exact one I had seen in a flash during the conversation with Barlow. She looked to be about fifty-five. Her grey hair was pulled back into a simple bun, not out of a habit of vanity, but for practicality. She wore a grey spring jacket, slightly worn at the pockets, as if she had been wearing it for several seasons. Her face was narrow and pale, with fine wrinkles born not of laughter, but of years of responsibility and fatigue.
"Good day, Patrik. Are you ready to go home?" Her eyes radiated neither the warmth nor the kindness I would have expected from a head of an orphanage. They seemed wary instead.
Was she afraid of me?
If so, why? I was certain she was the head of the orphanage, but her behavior didn't fit the picture. It wasn't the fake smile of Bates, which oozed sliminess. With her, it felt different—natural, even uncomfortably honest.
"Who are you?" I tried for a cold tone, but if you heard an eight-year-old kid talking coldly in a squeaky voice, it would probably make you laugh.
"Do you really remember nothing, Patrik?"
Was she suspecting me of something?
"I really don't remember anything," I replied. "But I can see you're afraid of me. Maybe it would be better to call Doctor Barlow—just in case you're just another Bates."
I pressured her with a subtle threat. To be safe, however, I placed my hand on the call button by the bed.
She paled slightly, but then she chuckled. It was so unexpected that I froze in surprise.
"Just like Riddle," she muttered. If the room hadn't been filled with such a tense silence, I might not have caught it at all.
Riddle? Another name that sounded familiar.
"My name is Amy Benson," she continued. "I am the matron of Wool's Orphanage. You may call Doctor Barlow if you wish; he's already on his way regardless. Formally, he must sign the hospital discharge papers. He should be here any moment."
She paused for a second. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm just cautious. You've been a strange child since you were little. Strange things happened around you—and I don't exactly have good memories of such things."
Benson explained this matter-of-factly, with the same calmness she would use to comment on a change in the weather.
Hmm... so I have some abilities, but what kind? I thought.
"Could you please tell me more?" I asked. The information was too important for my pride to stop me from asking.
She looked into my eyes as if trying to see if I was serious. What she saw there apparently convinced her to continue.
"Strange things happened around you. Objects moved on their own, as if obeying your will. When someone took a toy from you, it returned to you immediately. Some things flew, others trembled gently in the air or changed position, as if you were giving them a signal."
"A priest, who once saw a teddy bear moving toward you, was convinced you were possessed by the devil and wanted to perform an exorcism." She gave a cynical half-smile and continued.
"Thank God, the priest used to drink wine when no one was looking. I managed to convince him he was hallucinating. I told him that if he didn't stop drinking so much and kept having hallucinations, I would report him."
"I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to protect you and the other children, so you were given a separate room. As if by a miracle, all those strange things happening around you stopped."
"Then why are you so cautious with me?" I asked. I was already starting to suspect where I was.
"I come from an orphanage myself, and I have experience with a boy similar to you. My matron, Mrs. Cole, didn't know how to handle him at all. She didn't protect him, and the priest regularly tried to exorcise him. They locked him in solitary confinement and he received no food. Looking back, I don't understand how that could happen—it was abuse. It's true he was different, strange. But the more they hurt him, the more he hurt others. With you, I vowed to protect you, but every time I look at you, I see him," Benson admitted bitterly.
"What was his name?" I asked. If it was Tom Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort, I knew exactly where I was... and even who my father was.
"Tom Riddle," she answered simply.
"Thank you, Mrs. Benson, for the information and for taking care of me." I smiled at her sincerely and with gratitude.
It was clear to me why she was afraid, even if she wouldn't admit it. A wizard child would frighten almost any Muggle—especially in these years. Thank God she had experience with a young Voldemort.
I also noticed her clothes: scuffed, older, but practical. For someone who receives government funds to care for children, it looked trustworthy. Many heads would keep part of the money for themselves and give the children only the minimum. But maybe that was just my cynical mind and distrust of people from government organizations.
She looked into my eyes for a moment as if checking if I meant it, but finally nodded with a small, gentle smile.
"You're welcome. It is my duty... and also a joy to help orphans," she said sincerely.
"Knock, knock, knock."
Without waiting for permission, Doctor Barlow walked in.
"Sorry, we're in a rush. The ambulance brought in a stabbing victim—the twelfth one this week," panted an apologetic Barlow.
"Here are the papers, Mrs. Benson. Patrik, it was a pleasure to meet you." He quickly handed Benson a stack of documents, shook my hand, and vanished again.
He entered and left with such speed that Benson and I were left standing there in surprise.
"Ready to go, Patrik? A taxi is waiting for us in front of the hospital," she asked after a moment of silence.
"Yes, let's go." I didn't have to pack—I had nothing here and had been changed out of the hospital clothes since morning.
The journey was indeed short. I was surprised by the taxi and the other cars—all vintage models, at least to me. The sky was overcast, but fortunately, it wasn't raining. The air was cold and carried a faint whiff of smog.
Wool's Orphanage was strange, but its aesthetic immediately caught my attention. The tall tower and sharp gate resembled an old fortress. The entire building felt dark and cold, as if it radiated silence and discipline on its own. Up close, you could see the weathered bricks, cracks in the plaster, and signs of wear—clear indications that the home's best days were long behind it. It looked like the residence of a poorer nobleman. They say rich people donated their houses and money to orphanages, but here, time and neglect had left their mark on every detail. That was exactly how Wool's felt: majestic, yet neglected, with a hint of ancient glory that now only slept silently within the walls.
As soon as I entered, I felt a staleness, cold, and dampness. Strangely, though, there was no smell of mold.
Cold... heating this whole place must cost a fortune. I'll have to dress warmly, I thought, and at that moment I shivered, as if its cold corridors were already welcoming me.
"Come, Patrik. I'll show you your room. You'll be able to rest—lunch is at 12:30, so I'll come for you then," Benson announced.
The room was small, cold, and ascetically bare. It didn't surprise me; this was exactly what I expected. A massive wardrobe stood right by the door. To the left cowered a bed—nothing more than a steel frame with a pitifully thin mattress. The right side was occupied by a stark desk and a chair. Above it opened a large rectangular window in a cheap metal frame. I could feel a draft uninvitedly seeping in.
"I'll have to dress warmly even in bed here," I sighed. I immediately missed sealed plastic windows.
On the other hand, I considered myself a relatively modest person, so the room suited me well enough. It was small, but I had space for training, studying, and meditation. However, I considered the biggest plus to be that I was alone here. It would probably drive me crazy if I had to live with other kids.
I flopped onto the bed with relish. I had time to go over all the facts and clarify the information I had gained today.
"So I'm in the world of Harry Potter," I mused aloud. "In the orphanage where a young Voldemort grew up. And according to what Benson said, I'm a wizard."
I recalled what I had read in Rowling's books. My father was Evan Rosier—a Death Eater and loyal follower of Voldemort, killed by Moody. If I remember correctly, he belonged to Barty Crouch Jr.'s year. My "daddy" must have been pretty young when he created me. Really clever... I laughed cheerfully.
The laughter quickly faded, however, replaced by questions. How is it possible I ended up in an orphanage? Or rather, why did this body end up in an orphanage? The Rosiers were a pure-blood family. Surely there are relatives somewhere—cousins, anyone.
For me, though, it was good news—it guaranteed me freedom. Freedom was always the most important thing to me. To go where I want, do what I see fit, and whenever I feel like it. As a child, it will be harder, but it's still better than being under the constant supervision of a family. There are surely a lot of kids in this home, so the staff's attention will be scattered. That suited me perfectly.
Those flashes with Barlow... that was definitely Legilimency, I pondered. I peered directly into his memories. I'll have a talent for the Mind Arts. I paused for a moment, letting the thought sink in.
I remembered that young Riddle was able to use magic consciously: he sensed lies, moved objects, and caused pain without touching anyone. I assume he mastered his abilities while being locked in solitary and left hungry. A desperate desire to survive and seek revenge was his greatest motivation.
"If he could master wandless magic, so can I," I promised myself resolutely.
I must succeed; I have no other choice. I live in a world where a wizard can simply control you so that you follow his orders with a joyful smile. Or they erase your memory so thoroughly that you won't even remember how to hold a pen... It's terrifying.
I have three years to consciously master my abilities and improve my fitness and agility. I must be ready to defend myself and decide my own fate. I certainly have no plans to follow in my "father's" footsteps and bow to a noseless guy who only pretends to be someone with pure blood. But I don't plan on being a moral compass in the style of Dumbledore either, giving everyone second chances.
My goal was clear: to be happy, free, to live in comfort and with people I will love.
For that, however, I need strength and power.
I am sure I can be powerful. Even the greatest talent in the world will remain mediocre if they don't work on themselves. But what happens when talent, hard work, and the knowledge necessary for success combine?
Fate has granted me perfect circumstances to succeed and create my own path. I knew I had talent—Legilimency at eight years old? Even if it was unconscious, I took it as a clear sign. Moreover, as an adult trapped in a child's body, I can focus and work on myself much more effectively than a real child.
Magic is power. And I will master it.
Later, Benson came for me and led me to lunch. Even before entering the dining hall, I heard children's laughter and muffled chatter. The moment we crossed the threshold, however, everyone fell silent. A deathly hush followed.
It didn't last long, though. The children immediately began to debate excitedly, and I noticed more than one admiring glance cast my way.
It was strange. Why are they looking at me like that? I asked myself inwardly.
"By preventing Bates from hurting Laura, you've become a hero to many," Benson whispered to me. "But please, keep the details to yourself. Not all children are as mature as you."
For a moment, I felt a chill. I wondered if she too could read minds, but I immediately dismissed it—she probably just saw the surprise on my face.
This is going to be hard, I thought as soon as I sat down at the table.
Here we have another chapter! Did you know that Amy Benson grew up in the orphanage alongside Tom Riddle? It was her and other children he hurt during that famous trip to the seaside.
The plot is starting to pick up, and in the next part, I plan to move it forward even more significantly. I will be very grateful for your comments—they help me improve. Write to me about what you like and what you don't. Are there too many dialogues? Too little description? Does the plot seem slow to you? Every bit of feedback is important to me.
Finally, I wish you a beautiful holiday season!
The only thing I noticed was that my breathing was easy, calm, and stress-free. I might have been stress-free, but I was pissed off as hell. I had no idea what had happened in my world, or why I was here. Did my body die there? What about my family? My girlfriend? My cat? My friends? Or is this all just a figment of my imagination? Am I dreaming?
"Knock, knock, knock." The knocking jolted me from my thoughts.
"Come in," I shouted. Still that high-pitched, childish voice, I thought with a sigh.
An older woman entered the room—the exact one I had seen in a flash during the conversation with Barlow. She looked to be about fifty-five. Her grey hair was pulled back into a simple bun, not out of a habit of vanity, but for practicality. She wore a grey spring jacket, slightly worn at the pockets, as if she had been wearing it for several seasons. Her face was narrow and pale, with fine wrinkles born not of laughter, but of years of responsibility and fatigue.
"Good day, Patrik. Are you ready to go home?" Her eyes radiated neither the warmth nor the kindness I would have expected from a head of an orphanage. They seemed wary instead.
Was she afraid of me?
If so, why? I was certain she was the head of the orphanage, but her behavior didn't fit the picture. It wasn't the fake smile of Bates, which oozed sliminess. With her, it felt different—natural, even uncomfortably honest.
"Who are you?" I tried for a cold tone, but if you heard an eight-year-old kid talking coldly in a squeaky voice, it would probably make you laugh.
"Do you really remember nothing, Patrik?"
Was she suspecting me of something?
"I really don't remember anything," I replied. "But I can see you're afraid of me. Maybe it would be better to call Doctor Barlow—just in case you're just another Bates."
I pressured her with a subtle threat. To be safe, however, I placed my hand on the call button by the bed.
She paled slightly, but then she chuckled. It was so unexpected that I froze in surprise.
"Just like Riddle," she muttered. If the room hadn't been filled with such a tense silence, I might not have caught it at all.
Riddle? Another name that sounded familiar.
"My name is Amy Benson," she continued. "I am the matron of Wool's Orphanage. You may call Doctor Barlow if you wish; he's already on his way regardless. Formally, he must sign the hospital discharge papers. He should be here any moment."
She paused for a second. "I'm not afraid of you. I'm just cautious. You've been a strange child since you were little. Strange things happened around you—and I don't exactly have good memories of such things."
Benson explained this matter-of-factly, with the same calmness she would use to comment on a change in the weather.
Hmm... so I have some abilities, but what kind? I thought.
"Could you please tell me more?" I asked. The information was too important for my pride to stop me from asking.
She looked into my eyes as if trying to see if I was serious. What she saw there apparently convinced her to continue.
"Strange things happened around you. Objects moved on their own, as if obeying your will. When someone took a toy from you, it returned to you immediately. Some things flew, others trembled gently in the air or changed position, as if you were giving them a signal."
"A priest, who once saw a teddy bear moving toward you, was convinced you were possessed by the devil and wanted to perform an exorcism." She gave a cynical half-smile and continued.
"Thank God, the priest used to drink wine when no one was looking. I managed to convince him he was hallucinating. I told him that if he didn't stop drinking so much and kept having hallucinations, I would report him."
"I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to protect you and the other children, so you were given a separate room. As if by a miracle, all those strange things happening around you stopped."
"Then why are you so cautious with me?" I asked. I was already starting to suspect where I was.
"I come from an orphanage myself, and I have experience with a boy similar to you. My matron, Mrs. Cole, didn't know how to handle him at all. She didn't protect him, and the priest regularly tried to exorcise him. They locked him in solitary confinement and he received no food. Looking back, I don't understand how that could happen—it was abuse. It's true he was different, strange. But the more they hurt him, the more he hurt others. With you, I vowed to protect you, but every time I look at you, I see him," Benson admitted bitterly.
"What was his name?" I asked. If it was Tom Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort, I knew exactly where I was... and even who my father was.
"Tom Riddle," she answered simply.
"Thank you, Mrs. Benson, for the information and for taking care of me." I smiled at her sincerely and with gratitude.
It was clear to me why she was afraid, even if she wouldn't admit it. A wizard child would frighten almost any Muggle—especially in these years. Thank God she had experience with a young Voldemort.
I also noticed her clothes: scuffed, older, but practical. For someone who receives government funds to care for children, it looked trustworthy. Many heads would keep part of the money for themselves and give the children only the minimum. But maybe that was just my cynical mind and distrust of people from government organizations.
She looked into my eyes for a moment as if checking if I meant it, but finally nodded with a small, gentle smile.
"You're welcome. It is my duty... and also a joy to help orphans," she said sincerely.
"Knock, knock, knock."
Without waiting for permission, Doctor Barlow walked in.
"Sorry, we're in a rush. The ambulance brought in a stabbing victim—the twelfth one this week," panted an apologetic Barlow.
"Here are the papers, Mrs. Benson. Patrik, it was a pleasure to meet you." He quickly handed Benson a stack of documents, shook my hand, and vanished again.
He entered and left with such speed that Benson and I were left standing there in surprise.
"Ready to go, Patrik? A taxi is waiting for us in front of the hospital," she asked after a moment of silence.
"Yes, let's go." I didn't have to pack—I had nothing here and had been changed out of the hospital clothes since morning.
The journey was indeed short. I was surprised by the taxi and the other cars—all vintage models, at least to me. The sky was overcast, but fortunately, it wasn't raining. The air was cold and carried a faint whiff of smog.
Wool's Orphanage was strange, but its aesthetic immediately caught my attention. The tall tower and sharp gate resembled an old fortress. The entire building felt dark and cold, as if it radiated silence and discipline on its own. Up close, you could see the weathered bricks, cracks in the plaster, and signs of wear—clear indications that the home's best days were long behind it. It looked like the residence of a poorer nobleman. They say rich people donated their houses and money to orphanages, but here, time and neglect had left their mark on every detail. That was exactly how Wool's felt: majestic, yet neglected, with a hint of ancient glory that now only slept silently within the walls.
As soon as I entered, I felt a staleness, cold, and dampness. Strangely, though, there was no smell of mold.
Cold... heating this whole place must cost a fortune. I'll have to dress warmly, I thought, and at that moment I shivered, as if its cold corridors were already welcoming me.
"Come, Patrik. I'll show you your room. You'll be able to rest—lunch is at 12:30, so I'll come for you then," Benson announced.
The room was small, cold, and ascetically bare. It didn't surprise me; this was exactly what I expected. A massive wardrobe stood right by the door. To the left cowered a bed—nothing more than a steel frame with a pitifully thin mattress. The right side was occupied by a stark desk and a chair. Above it opened a large rectangular window in a cheap metal frame. I could feel a draft uninvitedly seeping in.
"I'll have to dress warmly even in bed here," I sighed. I immediately missed sealed plastic windows.
On the other hand, I considered myself a relatively modest person, so the room suited me well enough. It was small, but I had space for training, studying, and meditation. However, I considered the biggest plus to be that I was alone here. It would probably drive me crazy if I had to live with other kids.
I flopped onto the bed with relish. I had time to go over all the facts and clarify the information I had gained today.
"So I'm in the world of Harry Potter," I mused aloud. "In the orphanage where a young Voldemort grew up. And according to what Benson said, I'm a wizard."
I recalled what I had read in Rowling's books. My father was Evan Rosier—a Death Eater and loyal follower of Voldemort, killed by Moody. If I remember correctly, he belonged to Barty Crouch Jr.'s year. My "daddy" must have been pretty young when he created me. Really clever... I laughed cheerfully.
The laughter quickly faded, however, replaced by questions. How is it possible I ended up in an orphanage? Or rather, why did this body end up in an orphanage? The Rosiers were a pure-blood family. Surely there are relatives somewhere—cousins, anyone.
For me, though, it was good news—it guaranteed me freedom. Freedom was always the most important thing to me. To go where I want, do what I see fit, and whenever I feel like it. As a child, it will be harder, but it's still better than being under the constant supervision of a family. There are surely a lot of kids in this home, so the staff's attention will be scattered. That suited me perfectly.
Those flashes with Barlow... that was definitely Legilimency, I pondered. I peered directly into his memories. I'll have a talent for the Mind Arts. I paused for a moment, letting the thought sink in.
I remembered that young Riddle was able to use magic consciously: he sensed lies, moved objects, and caused pain without touching anyone. I assume he mastered his abilities while being locked in solitary and left hungry. A desperate desire to survive and seek revenge was his greatest motivation.
"If he could master wandless magic, so can I," I promised myself resolutely.
I must succeed; I have no other choice. I live in a world where a wizard can simply control you so that you follow his orders with a joyful smile. Or they erase your memory so thoroughly that you won't even remember how to hold a pen... It's terrifying.
I have three years to consciously master my abilities and improve my fitness and agility. I must be ready to defend myself and decide my own fate. I certainly have no plans to follow in my "father's" footsteps and bow to a noseless guy who only pretends to be someone with pure blood. But I don't plan on being a moral compass in the style of Dumbledore either, giving everyone second chances.
My goal was clear: to be happy, free, to live in comfort and with people I will love.
For that, however, I need strength and power.
I am sure I can be powerful. Even the greatest talent in the world will remain mediocre if they don't work on themselves. But what happens when talent, hard work, and the knowledge necessary for success combine?
Fate has granted me perfect circumstances to succeed and create my own path. I knew I had talent—Legilimency at eight years old? Even if it was unconscious, I took it as a clear sign. Moreover, as an adult trapped in a child's body, I can focus and work on myself much more effectively than a real child.
Magic is power. And I will master it.
Later, Benson came for me and led me to lunch. Even before entering the dining hall, I heard children's laughter and muffled chatter. The moment we crossed the threshold, however, everyone fell silent. A deathly hush followed.
It didn't last long, though. The children immediately began to debate excitedly, and I noticed more than one admiring glance cast my way.
It was strange. Why are they looking at me like that? I asked myself inwardly.
"By preventing Bates from hurting Laura, you've become a hero to many," Benson whispered to me. "But please, keep the details to yourself. Not all children are as mature as you."
For a moment, I felt a chill. I wondered if she too could read minds, but I immediately dismissed it—she probably just saw the surprise on my face.
This is going to be hard, I thought as soon as I sat down at the table.
Here we have another chapter! Did you know that Amy Benson grew up in the orphanage alongside Tom Riddle? It was her and other children he hurt during that famous trip to the seaside.
The plot is starting to pick up, and in the next part, I plan to move it forward even more significantly. I will be very grateful for your comments—they help me improve. Write to me about what you like and what you don't. Are there too many dialogues? Too little description? Does the plot seem slow to you? Every bit of feedback is important to me.
Finally, I wish you a beautiful holiday season!
4. Blood and Gold
New
PatrikWriter
Getting some practice in, huh?
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- Dec 28, 2025
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A year passed. A year in Wool's Orphanage, a year spent in a vacuum, severed from everything I once loved and considered my life. I won't lie – grief and depression returned to me regularly. That's just life: one day you're up, the next you're down.
As Rocky would say: "Life doesn't hit fair. It hits hard and without warning. It's not about how many times you fall, but whether you get back up and keep going every time."
Paradoxically, what helped me most was that I simply didn't have time for self-pity.
After returning from the hospital, I was swallowed by a relentless cycle of duties. Suddenly, I found myself behind a school desk, surrounded by noisy children. I should have expected it, yet the sudden change caught me unprepared. In the end, it wasn't entirely in vain; school provided a perfect screen behind which I could attempt the impossible – mastering magic.
I spent weeks staring intently at a pen lying on my desk. I tried to move it by sheer force of will, but the world around me remained motionless. Initially, I attributed the failure to poor concentration, or worse, my own incompetence. It bothered me, gnawing at my insides, but I refused to give up. If others could do it, why couldn't I? I refused to be inferior.
The breakthrough didn't come until the summer holidays. August was pivotal. The weather changed constantly – hot sunny days were replaced by classic English foul weather, damp and weeping. I noticed something strange: whenever the air was heavy with humidity or a downpour started, I felt "more like myself." It was as if water acted as a natural catalyst, waking me up.
One Friday, after coming home from school, the heaviest August downpour yet hit. I sat locked in my room, immersed in deep meditation. Rain drummed on the windowpane in a wild rhythm, and I let myself be completely absorbed by the sound. That was the moment it happened. I felt something foreign within me, yet intimately familiar.
If I had to compare it to anything, it would be a small, glowing tennis ball. It wasn't green, as one might expect, but glowed with a deep, electric blue. Through sheer will and absolute focus, I touched it in my mind. In that split second, I understood – this is my magic.
Dozens of questions raced through my head. Do wizards really have something like a magical core? Does its power grow with age, or does it increase with regular training? My original theory – that magic springs from the earth and wizards are just antennas that catch and use it – crumbled to dust. The source was within me.
It immediately dawned on me why my previous attempts at telekinesis or Legilimency were doomed to fail. I had been attempting them like a Muggle. I was just staring blankly and hoping for a miracle, but I wasn't using the tool itself. The source was inside me and had been sleeping until now. This knowledge triggered a wave of pure euphoria and kicked me into even harder training.
The real triumph came in October. It was the first time I used magic consciously and successfully. The whole trick lay in "holding onto the magic, moving it with will," and focusing on what I wanted to do. It was no longer just about wishing; it was about a precise process.
The problem was that even simple levitation of a pen exhausted me incredibly. That pen weighed barely a few grams; I held it in the air for only a few seconds, but I felt as if I had just passed an exam in nuclear physics. When I caught my breath and tried again, it was even worse. I didn't last even half as long as before. How is it possible that it's so demanding? Am I really that weak? It's just a few-gram pen, and I honestly expected more of myself.
The following day, however, brought a discovery. The second attempt went smoother, and on the third, I held the pen for as long as the very first time. By the fourth, I felt significant tension and managed only two-thirds of the time, while the fifth attempt ended in a fiasco after just a few moments.
Despite the exhaustion, I was smiling. It confirmed to me that the magical core works like a muscle – it grows by being pushed to the limit.
Before falling asleep, I spun plans for Legilimency training in my head. At school or in the orphanage, it would be a piece of cake – after all, there are plenty of games built on eye contact. Cards, "staring contests," and the like. I wasn't worried about hurting them; Barlow was perfectly fine after my intervention, he didn't even blink and noticed nothing. Their privacy? I couldn't care less. What could I possibly find in the memories of kids that would be so groundbreaking? Them crying over Pokémon?
The opportunity arose the next morning. It was enough to bet my deskmate on who would look away first. "First one to look away is a donkey." Hah, that always gets kids.
Legilimency was magically incomparably more demanding than levitating a pen. Good thing I tried it in the morning while I was "fresh." Flashes of his breakfast and a scene of his mother helping him pack his school bag flickered before my eyes. For the rest of the day, I felt like a squeezed lemon. It wasn't physical fatigue, nor essentially mental.
It was an empty magical core. I simply felt... drained. That fatigue didn't leave me even the next day, and honestly, it scared the hell out of me. What if I overdid it? What if I permanently deprived myself of magic and became a Squib?
Not until the third day did I start feeling relatively okay. Though I still sensed the fatigue, curiosity was stronger. I couldn't help myself and tried to levitate the pen again. When it rose, I felt a massive sense of relief. At that moment, I promised myself I wouldn't rush into magic so aggressively.
School, cleaning at the home, physical training, and shadowboxing – my daily schedule was taking its toll. However, I made sure to play football with the other kids. After all, it was better to chase a ball (Manchester United, let's goooo!) and socialize a bit than to rot alone in my room and just mechanically practice.
My sudden desire to socialize even surprised Mrs. Benson. The first few times I played football with the others, she watched me warily, as if waiting for me to hurt someone. Riddle had apparently avoided social games like the plague. Over time, however, I caught her watching me with a soft, satisfied smile. It was as if she felt her effort and protectiveness had saved me from the fate of the "exorcised" Riddle. Maybe she was right. Perhaps, if this body had experienced the same treatment as Tom, the original Patrick wouldn't have been "murdered," but would have grown into a tyrant.
Children under eleven were under strict supervision; they simply didn't let us into the city alone. I understood they were trying to protect us from the pitfalls of the outside world, but for me, it was a complication. I needed to find the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley. I couldn't wait to finally get my hands on actual books about magic, but it was clear I couldn't take the Muggles from the home with me.
My escape attempts failed due to the staff's surprisingly sharp instincts. It was as if they had eyes in the back of their heads – they always caught me before I could leave the grounds. When Benson caught me the second time, her look boded no good. I had to solemnly promise her that I wouldn't attempt any secret trips. Although it restricted me, I couldn't feel resentment toward her. In her eyes, I was just a child she was responsible for, and her fear for me was genuine. I decided to act like a man – I gave her my word and made no further attempts to escape.
I decided to handle it delicately. Getting to Diagon Alley before my eleventh birthday was a matter of life and death for me. I used my upcoming birthday and played gently on her emotions – claiming my only wish was to be able to explore London on my own for at least one day. Benson knew I was more mature than the others. I had straight A's in school; it wasn't hard to seem like a genius when I had to study such primitive material.
I felt that I had grown close to her heart over time. She no longer looked at me with suspicion, but rather with maternal pride. Eventually, she took pity on me. It helped especially that I had kept my word for the whole year and didn't attempt any escapes. However, I had to solemnly promise her that I would be careful and be back at the home by evening. I happily promised her that.
I set off right after breakfast. I knew the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley were located somewhere in central London, on a street full of theaters and bookstores. Wool's Orphanage was also in the center, but I had never seen it on the way from the hospital or during group outings. Therefore, I was certain I had to go in the exact opposite direction.
The simplest thing was to ask passersby for the theater district. The first gentleman I approached, however, only shook his head. I should have expected that – by his appearance, he looked like neither a fan of literature nor a lover of theatrical art.
An elderly lady in a fur coat became my salvation; she knew exactly which street I meant. She gave me precise instructions on how to get to Charing Cross Road.
The whole way, I prayed silently that the Leaky Cauldron would be right there. My wish came true. From the outside, the inn looked neglected, almost shabby, with old wooden doors that a Muggle would pass without notice. With unconcealed tension, I stepped inside and immediately felt relief. No one paid me any attention. Magic here was practically tangible; not only could I feel it in my bones, but I saw it all around me. Smoky ghosts of dragons and unicorns rose from the tables, while families in robes ate lunch peacefully.
I expected a noise similar to a regular pub, but only quiet chatter echoed from the tables. Were they using silencing charms, or was it something else? I noticed a hunched, balding man serving food and drink to one of the families. "That must be Tom," I thought.
He looked like he had his hands full. I knew that I just had to pass through the back courtyard to find myself at the entrance to Diagon Alley. But I had to wait a while. I didn't have a wand, and although I might have been able to open the gate with raw magic without one, I didn't know the correct sequence of bricks.
Luckily, I didn't wait long. A wizard in a simple black robe didn't even give me a look and tapped the code directly on the wall. It wasn't complicated, and I immediately memorized the movements. When the bricks began to move, I set off right behind him.
I must admit, I didn't expect to be enchanted. Surprised? Definitely. Enchanted? Certainly not. My adult self maintained a distance and logical perspective, but Diagon Alley had something about it that couldn't be ignored. It was an assault on all senses at once.
The stone pavement wound between buildings that seemed to be held together only by sheer will and a good dose of magic – they leaned over the street like old, curious friends. Every storefront was different: from dusty second-hand bookshops with books that flipped their own pages, to shiny displays where the latest broomsticks floated. The air was filled with the hooting of owls, the scent of sulfur from potions, and the muffled clink of Galleons.
What hit me most, however, wasn't the visual chaos, but that feeling in my chest. My magical core, until now accustomed only to levitating a pen in a sterile room, began to practically vibrate here. Magic was tangible here, floating in the air like a fine static tension. It was as if I had stepped into a strong magnetic field that, instead of pain, brought a sense of endless possibilities. The light fell differently here, as if breaking through an invisible dome of a spell that isolated this place from the grey and noisy reality of Muggle London.
"It's organized chaos," I smiled to myself. Despite the mess everywhere, I finally felt like I was home.
I decided to walk through the entire Diagon Alley first. I wanted to take a good look at the shop windows of the main stores to get at least somewhat oriented. Right after that, however, another, much more important step awaited me: getting money. What was the point of access to all these magical wonders if I couldn't afford anything? In the orphanage, it worked strictly – all allowances went straight into savings accounts that we were to access only at eighteen to have something for a start. No pocket money existed; although we got everything necessary, my pockets were completely empty.
But I was a Rosier. I knew it was an ancient pure-blood family, so it was almost certain they had a vault at Gringotts Bank. The only problem was the key. I didn't have it. In the world of magic, however, there had to be a way for descendants of a house to access their wealth even if they lost the key. Identity must be provable in other ways in this world.
"I have no choice," I thought and stepped decisively toward the bank.
It was a grand, imposing building of snow-white marble. Even at first glance, it radiated elegance and power. Before the doors, I noticed the familiar engraving with a warning for thieves. I skimmed it quickly and ignored it. I didn't care. I didn't come to steal; I just came for what rightfully belongs to me.
I entered without hesitation. The hall was huge, cold, and entirely of white marble. It radiated power and luxury; it was a completely different world from the one with cheap metal windows and creaking desks at the orphanage. Around me echoed guttural laughter and a harsh language I didn't understand, the scratching of quills, and the clinking of coins on scales. The hall was almost empty, except for one wizard in the distance. That played into my hands. Without hesitation, I walked to the nearest counter marked "Available."
I found it funny how goblins needed to compensate for their height. They sat on significantly elevated chairs, just so they could look down on wizards. It amused me rather than intimidated me.
"Good day," I said clearly and loudly.
After a moment, the goblin leaned over the edge of his counter. For child customers, this architecture wasn't exactly ideal. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. Was he surprised I even greeted him?
"Good day. How can I help you?" he asked with cold professionalism.
I honestly didn't expect such professionalism. I assumed that relations between goblins and wizards were, diplomatically speaking, on the rocks.
"My name is Patrick Evan Rosier," I introduced myself. "I currently live in an orphanage, but I am sure of my heritage. I want to know if my family has a vault in this bank, and if so, how I can access it," I asked directly.
The goblin raised his eyebrow even higher. "It is possible to perform an inheritance test. If it is confirmed that you are an heir or a member of the house, we will assign you a new key and determine a withdrawal limit according to your status. The price of the test is five Galleons. Do you have them with you?"
"No, I don't," I replied calmly. "However, I am certain of my heritage. After the test, I will gladly pay you even ten Galleons."
"I must warn you," the goblin continued just as matter-of-factly. "In the event that you do not have the funds for payment after the test, you will become our debtor. That means forced labor until you work off the amount. And it isn't exactly a small sum."
"I understand. I am sure," I confirmed without the slightest worry. I had no idea why I ended up in the home, but the name Evan Rosier was a household name in this world. My father is dead, and I, as his son, am the rightful heir. There was no risk for me.
"Very well then, wait a moment, I will inform the Rosier family banker. He will be right here," he said calmly.
Those few minutes of waiting passed like a second. Perhaps I was under deeper stress than I was willing to admit. When firm footsteps echoed behind me, I turned calmly. A taller, broad-shouldered goblin walked toward me. Authority radiated from every movement and his confident gaze.
"Good day, Mr. Rosier. It is a pleasure to see you," he greeted me surprisingly politely. "Please, come to my office. We will discuss our matters in private."
I felt he meant it sincerely, which startled me. What goblin would be sincerely happy about the presence of a wizard?
The office was small but felt like a vault. The walls were lined with massive stone shelves full of numbered files and heavy silver boxes. An obsidian desk dominated the room, on which there was no object other than a single blank parchment and a silver dagger. The air here was heavy, smelling of old metal and ink. There was no unnecessary luxury, only Spartan efficiency.
I didn't look around much; I focused only on the expected inheritance test.
"Sit down, please. Would you like something to drink? Juice, tea, or plain water?" the goblin offered.
"No, thank you. I only came for the test," I refused in a firm voice.
"Of course, it will be right away. It's a simple process," he smiled. "By the way, you bear a striking resemblance to your father. Except for that nose; you have your mother's elegant one. You have nothing to fear."
He took a quill from the desk. I immediately sensed it wasn't ordinary. Magic pulsed in it, and I caught a sharp taste of iron in the air.
"Simply write your full name on the parchment," he said and slowly pushed the quill and parchment in front of me.
"Is it safe? I feel magic from it," I asked cautiously.
"Oh? Magical sensitivity is not common in your houses. Yes, it is safe. The quill is enchanted to have direct access to your blood without it flowing anywhere else. Blood serves instead of ink. Blood captures the magic that connects your name. We then compare that with the blood and magic of your ancestors. It's a bulletproof test."
I still felt sincerity from him, but also an increasing joy. The question remained – why?
I didn't hesitate and wrote on the parchment: "Patrick Evan Rosier." It was strange, writing with my own blood, but I felt no pain.
With expectation in his eyes, he reached out and took the parchment and the quill. I only saw him open a drawer and place it there. I saw nothing more, but when he straightened up, he announced the result with a smile.
"Congratulations, Gringotts Bank officially recognizes you as a member of the House of Rosier. I will issue you a vault key; however, you have a limit on Galleon withdrawals and also item selection. Certain specific things can only be taken by the Head of the House," he informed me proudly.
"Thank you. But may I ask why you are so visibly happy?" My curiosity finally won. "I thought there was mostly hatred between goblins and wizards."
"Ah, of course. I forgot to introduce myself," he replied and bowed slightly. "My name is Ranrok III. I am a descendant of Ranrok, who once led a great rebellion. After our defeat, my family became outcasts. We were hated by our own and by wizards alike. We survived only with difficulty. Until after the death of the old manager Rodrik, your great-grandfather gave my father a chance. Since then, we have been indebted to your house. For a long time, I feared that the House of Rosier would perish for good with your father. I am immensely glad I was wrong."
So that explained everything. "Thank you, great-grandfather," I thought. An ally like this was priceless. Someone who would stand or fall with me.
"Nice to meet you, Ranrok," I replied and also bowed slightly. Then I paused. "Wait, shouldn't I be the Head of the House automatically? After all, my family is dead, right?" I asked.
"Your father, Evan, is currently in Azkaban," Ranrok began in a serious tone. "I know that roughly ten years ago, Auror Moody and other Aurors attacked your house. Your grandfather died in that attack, and your father was taken away as a follower of Lord Voldemort. You still have an Aunt Victoria, who was at school at the time of the attack. That's about all I know – there was a big article about it in the papers back then." He paused and moved to legal facts. "So your father is still the Head of the House, and you are his heir. You can become the Head of the House only when your father dies or renounces his position. The minimum age is set at fifteen, or you must possess an amount of magic equivalent to a fifteen-year-old wizard. Given your sensitivity, I assume you will reach that much sooner."
"Thank you for the explanation. My birth must have been a secret, since I ended up in an orphanage," I noted quietly, more to myself.
"Probably so," Ranrok nodded. "If they had known about you, your aunt or another allied family would undoubtedly have taken you in. Whether for good, through the blood bond, or with ill intentions. Child masters are often a harbinger of the downfall of the entire house."
"Can my existence remain a secret for now?" I asked. I didn't want to risk my aunt getting rid of me before I could find my bearings. Without a wand and sufficient knowledge, I couldn't defend myself, and I definitely didn't plan to underestimate an adult witch. We are a dark family, after all.
"Of course, Mr. Rosier. Information about your person is safe with me," Ranrok nodded. "Though I must point out that I cannot imagine your aunt hurting you. She suffered immensely from the loss of her family."
"Trust, but verify, Ranrok," I replied matter-of-factly. "First I must get to know this world, only then will I meet my family. For now, though, I would need access to money and the vault."
"Of course. Just a moment longer... the Heir's Ring." Ranrok pulled an ornate box from the desk drawer and handed it to me. I opened it eagerly. Inside rested a massive gold signet ring with an engraved letter "R" surrounded by thorny roses. I had to admit, from a design perspective, it was practically fascinating.
I felt my magic from it, or was it the magic of my house? The feeling was identical to when I felt my magic in my core. I wasn't sure, but I put it on the middle finger of my left hand. Automatically, the ring shrank and fit my finger perfectly.
"Congratulations, Mr. Rosier. I had not the slightest doubt the ring would accept you," Ranrok noted with a sharp, appreciative smile.
"Fuck, and what would have happened if it rejected me?" flashed through my head, but outwardly I showed no emotion.
"This ring is almost identical in design to the Head of House ring," Ranrok continued. "The difference is only in authority. The Head of House ring is superior in sealing official documents or managing the blood wards of your estate. The rings possess important defense: they can detect danger in objects. However, it is not one hundred percent. It reacts to magical substances, poisoned food, or cursed artifacts. It won't warn you against flying spells in combat, though; it focuses only on static threats in the surroundings. It won't catch Muggle toxins at all because magic, which the ring is tuned to, doesn't flow in them. And an important detail – if someone were to give you poison with good intentions, the ring would not warn you. It cannot detect a harmful substance if it doesn't sense hostile intent or dark magic behind it."
"Thank you," I thanked him dryly. The ring was definitely useful.
"You are very welcome. Now we can head to your vault," Ranrok suggested. "The inheritance test fee will be automatically deducted from your vault."
The trip to the vault was definitely interesting. In the cart, I felt like I was on a crazy roller coaster cutting corners deep in the bowels of the earth. Cold air hit my face and my stomach was somewhere in my throat. Luckily, the trip didn't last long.
We arrived at the vault. Ranrok placed his hand on the door and slid his finger sharply downward. The massive metal door opened with a muffled click and a magical creak. Inside spread a vast room. On the left side, shining gold coins towered in huge piles. The right side, however, was even more interesting. Immediately, a library full of old, leather-bound volumes caught my eye, and next to it, an impressive collection of weapons. Daggers and swords of various shapes, among which I even caught sight of a katana with a handle made of white snakeskin.
In the deeper corners of the vault stood carved chests from which rolls of colorful magical fabrics protruded. Open trunks full of raw gemstones were laid out on low tables; rubies and emeralds just lay there, casting bloody and green reflections on the cold walls. It was staggering wealth. However, I had no idea how the wealth of my house stood compared to other pure-blood families.
"Ranrok, are there any pouches I can take to grab some Galleons?" I asked. At that moment, I really missed paper bills and a credit card.
Ranrok smiled amusedly and pulled a leather pouch from his pocket. "It costs twenty Galleons. It has an anti-theft enchantment and a capacity of up to a thousand Galleons, which is also your current limit."
"Fill it to the maximum then," I ordered.
"Certainly, 975 Galleons, here you go," he handed me the pouch with a smile.
"May I ask how much that is in pounds?" I couldn't help it.
"It is roughly 4,900 pounds according to the current exchange rate. Will you need pounds as well?"
It was a good question. It would definitely simplify my life, if only for taxi money.
"Yes, please change part of the Galleons for 200 pounds. Thank you."
"I will hand you the pounds upon leaving the bank," Ranrok promised.
I was a bit disappointed that I didn't see any older wands of former family members anywhere. I knew that the legal purchase of a wand is possible only from age eleven, but I needed something for defense right now. My wandless magic was not yet strong enough to survive a real magical duel.
"Ranrok, what about those weapons in the corner? Can I take one of them?" it occurred to me immediately.
"Yes. As the Heir, you are entitled to a thousand Galleons a year and one weapon of your choice. Only the Head of House may handle everything else," Ranrok replied with a smile. I saw that he approved of my question. Although I didn't know much about weapons, the principle was simple: stick them with the pointy end. But which one to choose?
Swords were out of the question, and the katana, although it looked amazing, was impractical. Running around London with a sword on my back? I'd be stopped immediately. That left daggers. I needed something small that I could easily hide in a pocket or under a sleeve.
"Could you advise me on the choice? I'd like a dagger. You surely have more experience with weapons than I do," I asked him.
With visible enthusiasm, Ranrok began searching the racks. It took a while, but eventually, he laid three pieces before me. I immediately rejected one – it was too long. The second and third daggers were the same length, and I felt pulsing magic from both. Both had blades covered in finely engraved runes, but one of them had a blood-red crystal set in the handle.
"Could you tell me more about these two?" I asked him. "I want to choose correctly."
"Both have steel reinforced with runes. They will never break and will remain perfectly sharp forever because they constantly absorb surrounding magic," Ranrok explained with a sharp, almost bloodthirsty smile. "The one without the crystal is safer for you. However, the one with it has a darker enchantment. Upon hitting a target, it triggers a boiling blood curse in the victim's body. If the victim doesn't use a specific counter-spell, their own blood will boil them alive within an hour."
I am small, young, and weak. I need weapons that erase this gap. Mercy and a fair fight are the privileges of the powerful – I can't afford them for now. The choice was clear. I took the dagger with the crystal, slid it into the sheath, and hid it in my pocket.
Ranrok nodded approvingly.
"That will be all," I announced.
"Now just the shopping," I thought contentedly as we left the vault.
That was a bit of a longer chapter today, but I hope you enjoyed it! In the next part, we continue with the shopping and you can expect the first bit of action. The start at Hogwarts is inexorably approaching.
Did you notice the small change from the canon? In my story, Evan Rosier survived the attack, although in the books Moody killed him in a duel. So far, everything is going exactly according to plan...
If you liked today's part, I will be very grateful for every comment or feedback. It pleases me and motivates me to keep writing!
As Rocky would say: "Life doesn't hit fair. It hits hard and without warning. It's not about how many times you fall, but whether you get back up and keep going every time."
Paradoxically, what helped me most was that I simply didn't have time for self-pity.
After returning from the hospital, I was swallowed by a relentless cycle of duties. Suddenly, I found myself behind a school desk, surrounded by noisy children. I should have expected it, yet the sudden change caught me unprepared. In the end, it wasn't entirely in vain; school provided a perfect screen behind which I could attempt the impossible – mastering magic.
I spent weeks staring intently at a pen lying on my desk. I tried to move it by sheer force of will, but the world around me remained motionless. Initially, I attributed the failure to poor concentration, or worse, my own incompetence. It bothered me, gnawing at my insides, but I refused to give up. If others could do it, why couldn't I? I refused to be inferior.
The breakthrough didn't come until the summer holidays. August was pivotal. The weather changed constantly – hot sunny days were replaced by classic English foul weather, damp and weeping. I noticed something strange: whenever the air was heavy with humidity or a downpour started, I felt "more like myself." It was as if water acted as a natural catalyst, waking me up.
One Friday, after coming home from school, the heaviest August downpour yet hit. I sat locked in my room, immersed in deep meditation. Rain drummed on the windowpane in a wild rhythm, and I let myself be completely absorbed by the sound. That was the moment it happened. I felt something foreign within me, yet intimately familiar.
If I had to compare it to anything, it would be a small, glowing tennis ball. It wasn't green, as one might expect, but glowed with a deep, electric blue. Through sheer will and absolute focus, I touched it in my mind. In that split second, I understood – this is my magic.
Dozens of questions raced through my head. Do wizards really have something like a magical core? Does its power grow with age, or does it increase with regular training? My original theory – that magic springs from the earth and wizards are just antennas that catch and use it – crumbled to dust. The source was within me.
It immediately dawned on me why my previous attempts at telekinesis or Legilimency were doomed to fail. I had been attempting them like a Muggle. I was just staring blankly and hoping for a miracle, but I wasn't using the tool itself. The source was inside me and had been sleeping until now. This knowledge triggered a wave of pure euphoria and kicked me into even harder training.
The real triumph came in October. It was the first time I used magic consciously and successfully. The whole trick lay in "holding onto the magic, moving it with will," and focusing on what I wanted to do. It was no longer just about wishing; it was about a precise process.
The problem was that even simple levitation of a pen exhausted me incredibly. That pen weighed barely a few grams; I held it in the air for only a few seconds, but I felt as if I had just passed an exam in nuclear physics. When I caught my breath and tried again, it was even worse. I didn't last even half as long as before. How is it possible that it's so demanding? Am I really that weak? It's just a few-gram pen, and I honestly expected more of myself.
The following day, however, brought a discovery. The second attempt went smoother, and on the third, I held the pen for as long as the very first time. By the fourth, I felt significant tension and managed only two-thirds of the time, while the fifth attempt ended in a fiasco after just a few moments.
Despite the exhaustion, I was smiling. It confirmed to me that the magical core works like a muscle – it grows by being pushed to the limit.
Before falling asleep, I spun plans for Legilimency training in my head. At school or in the orphanage, it would be a piece of cake – after all, there are plenty of games built on eye contact. Cards, "staring contests," and the like. I wasn't worried about hurting them; Barlow was perfectly fine after my intervention, he didn't even blink and noticed nothing. Their privacy? I couldn't care less. What could I possibly find in the memories of kids that would be so groundbreaking? Them crying over Pokémon?
The opportunity arose the next morning. It was enough to bet my deskmate on who would look away first. "First one to look away is a donkey." Hah, that always gets kids.
Legilimency was magically incomparably more demanding than levitating a pen. Good thing I tried it in the morning while I was "fresh." Flashes of his breakfast and a scene of his mother helping him pack his school bag flickered before my eyes. For the rest of the day, I felt like a squeezed lemon. It wasn't physical fatigue, nor essentially mental.
It was an empty magical core. I simply felt... drained. That fatigue didn't leave me even the next day, and honestly, it scared the hell out of me. What if I overdid it? What if I permanently deprived myself of magic and became a Squib?
Not until the third day did I start feeling relatively okay. Though I still sensed the fatigue, curiosity was stronger. I couldn't help myself and tried to levitate the pen again. When it rose, I felt a massive sense of relief. At that moment, I promised myself I wouldn't rush into magic so aggressively.
School, cleaning at the home, physical training, and shadowboxing – my daily schedule was taking its toll. However, I made sure to play football with the other kids. After all, it was better to chase a ball (Manchester United, let's goooo!) and socialize a bit than to rot alone in my room and just mechanically practice.
My sudden desire to socialize even surprised Mrs. Benson. The first few times I played football with the others, she watched me warily, as if waiting for me to hurt someone. Riddle had apparently avoided social games like the plague. Over time, however, I caught her watching me with a soft, satisfied smile. It was as if she felt her effort and protectiveness had saved me from the fate of the "exorcised" Riddle. Maybe she was right. Perhaps, if this body had experienced the same treatment as Tom, the original Patrick wouldn't have been "murdered," but would have grown into a tyrant.
Children under eleven were under strict supervision; they simply didn't let us into the city alone. I understood they were trying to protect us from the pitfalls of the outside world, but for me, it was a complication. I needed to find the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley. I couldn't wait to finally get my hands on actual books about magic, but it was clear I couldn't take the Muggles from the home with me.
My escape attempts failed due to the staff's surprisingly sharp instincts. It was as if they had eyes in the back of their heads – they always caught me before I could leave the grounds. When Benson caught me the second time, her look boded no good. I had to solemnly promise her that I wouldn't attempt any secret trips. Although it restricted me, I couldn't feel resentment toward her. In her eyes, I was just a child she was responsible for, and her fear for me was genuine. I decided to act like a man – I gave her my word and made no further attempts to escape.
I decided to handle it delicately. Getting to Diagon Alley before my eleventh birthday was a matter of life and death for me. I used my upcoming birthday and played gently on her emotions – claiming my only wish was to be able to explore London on my own for at least one day. Benson knew I was more mature than the others. I had straight A's in school; it wasn't hard to seem like a genius when I had to study such primitive material.
I felt that I had grown close to her heart over time. She no longer looked at me with suspicion, but rather with maternal pride. Eventually, she took pity on me. It helped especially that I had kept my word for the whole year and didn't attempt any escapes. However, I had to solemnly promise her that I would be careful and be back at the home by evening. I happily promised her that.
I set off right after breakfast. I knew the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley were located somewhere in central London, on a street full of theaters and bookstores. Wool's Orphanage was also in the center, but I had never seen it on the way from the hospital or during group outings. Therefore, I was certain I had to go in the exact opposite direction.
The simplest thing was to ask passersby for the theater district. The first gentleman I approached, however, only shook his head. I should have expected that – by his appearance, he looked like neither a fan of literature nor a lover of theatrical art.
An elderly lady in a fur coat became my salvation; she knew exactly which street I meant. She gave me precise instructions on how to get to Charing Cross Road.
The whole way, I prayed silently that the Leaky Cauldron would be right there. My wish came true. From the outside, the inn looked neglected, almost shabby, with old wooden doors that a Muggle would pass without notice. With unconcealed tension, I stepped inside and immediately felt relief. No one paid me any attention. Magic here was practically tangible; not only could I feel it in my bones, but I saw it all around me. Smoky ghosts of dragons and unicorns rose from the tables, while families in robes ate lunch peacefully.
I expected a noise similar to a regular pub, but only quiet chatter echoed from the tables. Were they using silencing charms, or was it something else? I noticed a hunched, balding man serving food and drink to one of the families. "That must be Tom," I thought.
He looked like he had his hands full. I knew that I just had to pass through the back courtyard to find myself at the entrance to Diagon Alley. But I had to wait a while. I didn't have a wand, and although I might have been able to open the gate with raw magic without one, I didn't know the correct sequence of bricks.
Luckily, I didn't wait long. A wizard in a simple black robe didn't even give me a look and tapped the code directly on the wall. It wasn't complicated, and I immediately memorized the movements. When the bricks began to move, I set off right behind him.
I must admit, I didn't expect to be enchanted. Surprised? Definitely. Enchanted? Certainly not. My adult self maintained a distance and logical perspective, but Diagon Alley had something about it that couldn't be ignored. It was an assault on all senses at once.
The stone pavement wound between buildings that seemed to be held together only by sheer will and a good dose of magic – they leaned over the street like old, curious friends. Every storefront was different: from dusty second-hand bookshops with books that flipped their own pages, to shiny displays where the latest broomsticks floated. The air was filled with the hooting of owls, the scent of sulfur from potions, and the muffled clink of Galleons.
What hit me most, however, wasn't the visual chaos, but that feeling in my chest. My magical core, until now accustomed only to levitating a pen in a sterile room, began to practically vibrate here. Magic was tangible here, floating in the air like a fine static tension. It was as if I had stepped into a strong magnetic field that, instead of pain, brought a sense of endless possibilities. The light fell differently here, as if breaking through an invisible dome of a spell that isolated this place from the grey and noisy reality of Muggle London.
"It's organized chaos," I smiled to myself. Despite the mess everywhere, I finally felt like I was home.
I decided to walk through the entire Diagon Alley first. I wanted to take a good look at the shop windows of the main stores to get at least somewhat oriented. Right after that, however, another, much more important step awaited me: getting money. What was the point of access to all these magical wonders if I couldn't afford anything? In the orphanage, it worked strictly – all allowances went straight into savings accounts that we were to access only at eighteen to have something for a start. No pocket money existed; although we got everything necessary, my pockets were completely empty.
But I was a Rosier. I knew it was an ancient pure-blood family, so it was almost certain they had a vault at Gringotts Bank. The only problem was the key. I didn't have it. In the world of magic, however, there had to be a way for descendants of a house to access their wealth even if they lost the key. Identity must be provable in other ways in this world.
"I have no choice," I thought and stepped decisively toward the bank.
It was a grand, imposing building of snow-white marble. Even at first glance, it radiated elegance and power. Before the doors, I noticed the familiar engraving with a warning for thieves. I skimmed it quickly and ignored it. I didn't care. I didn't come to steal; I just came for what rightfully belongs to me.
I entered without hesitation. The hall was huge, cold, and entirely of white marble. It radiated power and luxury; it was a completely different world from the one with cheap metal windows and creaking desks at the orphanage. Around me echoed guttural laughter and a harsh language I didn't understand, the scratching of quills, and the clinking of coins on scales. The hall was almost empty, except for one wizard in the distance. That played into my hands. Without hesitation, I walked to the nearest counter marked "Available."
I found it funny how goblins needed to compensate for their height. They sat on significantly elevated chairs, just so they could look down on wizards. It amused me rather than intimidated me.
"Good day," I said clearly and loudly.
After a moment, the goblin leaned over the edge of his counter. For child customers, this architecture wasn't exactly ideal. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. Was he surprised I even greeted him?
"Good day. How can I help you?" he asked with cold professionalism.
I honestly didn't expect such professionalism. I assumed that relations between goblins and wizards were, diplomatically speaking, on the rocks.
"My name is Patrick Evan Rosier," I introduced myself. "I currently live in an orphanage, but I am sure of my heritage. I want to know if my family has a vault in this bank, and if so, how I can access it," I asked directly.
The goblin raised his eyebrow even higher. "It is possible to perform an inheritance test. If it is confirmed that you are an heir or a member of the house, we will assign you a new key and determine a withdrawal limit according to your status. The price of the test is five Galleons. Do you have them with you?"
"No, I don't," I replied calmly. "However, I am certain of my heritage. After the test, I will gladly pay you even ten Galleons."
"I must warn you," the goblin continued just as matter-of-factly. "In the event that you do not have the funds for payment after the test, you will become our debtor. That means forced labor until you work off the amount. And it isn't exactly a small sum."
"I understand. I am sure," I confirmed without the slightest worry. I had no idea why I ended up in the home, but the name Evan Rosier was a household name in this world. My father is dead, and I, as his son, am the rightful heir. There was no risk for me.
"Very well then, wait a moment, I will inform the Rosier family banker. He will be right here," he said calmly.
Those few minutes of waiting passed like a second. Perhaps I was under deeper stress than I was willing to admit. When firm footsteps echoed behind me, I turned calmly. A taller, broad-shouldered goblin walked toward me. Authority radiated from every movement and his confident gaze.
"Good day, Mr. Rosier. It is a pleasure to see you," he greeted me surprisingly politely. "Please, come to my office. We will discuss our matters in private."
I felt he meant it sincerely, which startled me. What goblin would be sincerely happy about the presence of a wizard?
The office was small but felt like a vault. The walls were lined with massive stone shelves full of numbered files and heavy silver boxes. An obsidian desk dominated the room, on which there was no object other than a single blank parchment and a silver dagger. The air here was heavy, smelling of old metal and ink. There was no unnecessary luxury, only Spartan efficiency.
I didn't look around much; I focused only on the expected inheritance test.
"Sit down, please. Would you like something to drink? Juice, tea, or plain water?" the goblin offered.
"No, thank you. I only came for the test," I refused in a firm voice.
"Of course, it will be right away. It's a simple process," he smiled. "By the way, you bear a striking resemblance to your father. Except for that nose; you have your mother's elegant one. You have nothing to fear."
He took a quill from the desk. I immediately sensed it wasn't ordinary. Magic pulsed in it, and I caught a sharp taste of iron in the air.
"Simply write your full name on the parchment," he said and slowly pushed the quill and parchment in front of me.
"Is it safe? I feel magic from it," I asked cautiously.
"Oh? Magical sensitivity is not common in your houses. Yes, it is safe. The quill is enchanted to have direct access to your blood without it flowing anywhere else. Blood serves instead of ink. Blood captures the magic that connects your name. We then compare that with the blood and magic of your ancestors. It's a bulletproof test."
I still felt sincerity from him, but also an increasing joy. The question remained – why?
I didn't hesitate and wrote on the parchment: "Patrick Evan Rosier." It was strange, writing with my own blood, but I felt no pain.
With expectation in his eyes, he reached out and took the parchment and the quill. I only saw him open a drawer and place it there. I saw nothing more, but when he straightened up, he announced the result with a smile.
"Congratulations, Gringotts Bank officially recognizes you as a member of the House of Rosier. I will issue you a vault key; however, you have a limit on Galleon withdrawals and also item selection. Certain specific things can only be taken by the Head of the House," he informed me proudly.
"Thank you. But may I ask why you are so visibly happy?" My curiosity finally won. "I thought there was mostly hatred between goblins and wizards."
"Ah, of course. I forgot to introduce myself," he replied and bowed slightly. "My name is Ranrok III. I am a descendant of Ranrok, who once led a great rebellion. After our defeat, my family became outcasts. We were hated by our own and by wizards alike. We survived only with difficulty. Until after the death of the old manager Rodrik, your great-grandfather gave my father a chance. Since then, we have been indebted to your house. For a long time, I feared that the House of Rosier would perish for good with your father. I am immensely glad I was wrong."
So that explained everything. "Thank you, great-grandfather," I thought. An ally like this was priceless. Someone who would stand or fall with me.
"Nice to meet you, Ranrok," I replied and also bowed slightly. Then I paused. "Wait, shouldn't I be the Head of the House automatically? After all, my family is dead, right?" I asked.
"Your father, Evan, is currently in Azkaban," Ranrok began in a serious tone. "I know that roughly ten years ago, Auror Moody and other Aurors attacked your house. Your grandfather died in that attack, and your father was taken away as a follower of Lord Voldemort. You still have an Aunt Victoria, who was at school at the time of the attack. That's about all I know – there was a big article about it in the papers back then." He paused and moved to legal facts. "So your father is still the Head of the House, and you are his heir. You can become the Head of the House only when your father dies or renounces his position. The minimum age is set at fifteen, or you must possess an amount of magic equivalent to a fifteen-year-old wizard. Given your sensitivity, I assume you will reach that much sooner."
"Thank you for the explanation. My birth must have been a secret, since I ended up in an orphanage," I noted quietly, more to myself.
"Probably so," Ranrok nodded. "If they had known about you, your aunt or another allied family would undoubtedly have taken you in. Whether for good, through the blood bond, or with ill intentions. Child masters are often a harbinger of the downfall of the entire house."
"Can my existence remain a secret for now?" I asked. I didn't want to risk my aunt getting rid of me before I could find my bearings. Without a wand and sufficient knowledge, I couldn't defend myself, and I definitely didn't plan to underestimate an adult witch. We are a dark family, after all.
"Of course, Mr. Rosier. Information about your person is safe with me," Ranrok nodded. "Though I must point out that I cannot imagine your aunt hurting you. She suffered immensely from the loss of her family."
"Trust, but verify, Ranrok," I replied matter-of-factly. "First I must get to know this world, only then will I meet my family. For now, though, I would need access to money and the vault."
"Of course. Just a moment longer... the Heir's Ring." Ranrok pulled an ornate box from the desk drawer and handed it to me. I opened it eagerly. Inside rested a massive gold signet ring with an engraved letter "R" surrounded by thorny roses. I had to admit, from a design perspective, it was practically fascinating.
I felt my magic from it, or was it the magic of my house? The feeling was identical to when I felt my magic in my core. I wasn't sure, but I put it on the middle finger of my left hand. Automatically, the ring shrank and fit my finger perfectly.
"Congratulations, Mr. Rosier. I had not the slightest doubt the ring would accept you," Ranrok noted with a sharp, appreciative smile.
"Fuck, and what would have happened if it rejected me?" flashed through my head, but outwardly I showed no emotion.
"This ring is almost identical in design to the Head of House ring," Ranrok continued. "The difference is only in authority. The Head of House ring is superior in sealing official documents or managing the blood wards of your estate. The rings possess important defense: they can detect danger in objects. However, it is not one hundred percent. It reacts to magical substances, poisoned food, or cursed artifacts. It won't warn you against flying spells in combat, though; it focuses only on static threats in the surroundings. It won't catch Muggle toxins at all because magic, which the ring is tuned to, doesn't flow in them. And an important detail – if someone were to give you poison with good intentions, the ring would not warn you. It cannot detect a harmful substance if it doesn't sense hostile intent or dark magic behind it."
"Thank you," I thanked him dryly. The ring was definitely useful.
"You are very welcome. Now we can head to your vault," Ranrok suggested. "The inheritance test fee will be automatically deducted from your vault."
The trip to the vault was definitely interesting. In the cart, I felt like I was on a crazy roller coaster cutting corners deep in the bowels of the earth. Cold air hit my face and my stomach was somewhere in my throat. Luckily, the trip didn't last long.
We arrived at the vault. Ranrok placed his hand on the door and slid his finger sharply downward. The massive metal door opened with a muffled click and a magical creak. Inside spread a vast room. On the left side, shining gold coins towered in huge piles. The right side, however, was even more interesting. Immediately, a library full of old, leather-bound volumes caught my eye, and next to it, an impressive collection of weapons. Daggers and swords of various shapes, among which I even caught sight of a katana with a handle made of white snakeskin.
In the deeper corners of the vault stood carved chests from which rolls of colorful magical fabrics protruded. Open trunks full of raw gemstones were laid out on low tables; rubies and emeralds just lay there, casting bloody and green reflections on the cold walls. It was staggering wealth. However, I had no idea how the wealth of my house stood compared to other pure-blood families.
"Ranrok, are there any pouches I can take to grab some Galleons?" I asked. At that moment, I really missed paper bills and a credit card.
Ranrok smiled amusedly and pulled a leather pouch from his pocket. "It costs twenty Galleons. It has an anti-theft enchantment and a capacity of up to a thousand Galleons, which is also your current limit."
"Fill it to the maximum then," I ordered.
"Certainly, 975 Galleons, here you go," he handed me the pouch with a smile.
"May I ask how much that is in pounds?" I couldn't help it.
"It is roughly 4,900 pounds according to the current exchange rate. Will you need pounds as well?"
It was a good question. It would definitely simplify my life, if only for taxi money.
"Yes, please change part of the Galleons for 200 pounds. Thank you."
"I will hand you the pounds upon leaving the bank," Ranrok promised.
I was a bit disappointed that I didn't see any older wands of former family members anywhere. I knew that the legal purchase of a wand is possible only from age eleven, but I needed something for defense right now. My wandless magic was not yet strong enough to survive a real magical duel.
"Ranrok, what about those weapons in the corner? Can I take one of them?" it occurred to me immediately.
"Yes. As the Heir, you are entitled to a thousand Galleons a year and one weapon of your choice. Only the Head of House may handle everything else," Ranrok replied with a smile. I saw that he approved of my question. Although I didn't know much about weapons, the principle was simple: stick them with the pointy end. But which one to choose?
Swords were out of the question, and the katana, although it looked amazing, was impractical. Running around London with a sword on my back? I'd be stopped immediately. That left daggers. I needed something small that I could easily hide in a pocket or under a sleeve.
"Could you advise me on the choice? I'd like a dagger. You surely have more experience with weapons than I do," I asked him.
With visible enthusiasm, Ranrok began searching the racks. It took a while, but eventually, he laid three pieces before me. I immediately rejected one – it was too long. The second and third daggers were the same length, and I felt pulsing magic from both. Both had blades covered in finely engraved runes, but one of them had a blood-red crystal set in the handle.
"Could you tell me more about these two?" I asked him. "I want to choose correctly."
"Both have steel reinforced with runes. They will never break and will remain perfectly sharp forever because they constantly absorb surrounding magic," Ranrok explained with a sharp, almost bloodthirsty smile. "The one without the crystal is safer for you. However, the one with it has a darker enchantment. Upon hitting a target, it triggers a boiling blood curse in the victim's body. If the victim doesn't use a specific counter-spell, their own blood will boil them alive within an hour."
I am small, young, and weak. I need weapons that erase this gap. Mercy and a fair fight are the privileges of the powerful – I can't afford them for now. The choice was clear. I took the dagger with the crystal, slid it into the sheath, and hid it in my pocket.
Ranrok nodded approvingly.
"That will be all," I announced.
"Now just the shopping," I thought contentedly as we left the vault.
That was a bit of a longer chapter today, but I hope you enjoyed it! In the next part, we continue with the shopping and you can expect the first bit of action. The start at Hogwarts is inexorably approaching.
Did you notice the small change from the canon? In my story, Evan Rosier survived the attack, although in the books Moody killed him in a duel. So far, everything is going exactly according to plan...
If you liked today's part, I will be very grateful for every comment or feedback. It pleases me and motivates me to keep writing!
5. The Price of Knowledge
New
PatrikWriter
Getting some practice in, huh?
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Steelalbatross5000: I hate to break it to you, but age-wise, he falls right into Harry's year. That said, Harry's screen time is minimal. The protagonist is driven by his own ambitions, and frankly, he doesn't care about the war between Dumbledore and Voldemort.
With a money pouch whose weight rested pleasantly against my hip and a family ring firmly slid onto my middle finger, I immediately felt more secure. The first part of the plan had gone perfectly. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to head to Madam Malkin's for a new robe, but my thirst for knowledge triumphed, as expected. Even though I was only wearing plain Muggle clothes, I walked with my head held high—I feared no one.
With a brisk stride, I made my way toward Flourish and Blotts. The building, with its dark wood facade, looked majestic, though its frame was marked by time and countless spells. Above the entrance, a sign with elegant gold lettering swayed gently in the wind. I stopped by the display window. Behind the glass, stacks of volumes hovered and piled up, promising power and insight. However, my eyes skimmed over the classics, such as Jigger's Arsenic and Old Lace (Potions) or Scamander's Fantastic Beasts, only briefly. I was looking for something deeper than basic textbooks by Miranda Goshawk or Adalbert Waffling.
Among the popular titles on broom maintenance and humorous tales of dancing trolls, two works caught my eye, shining on the shelf like beacons: A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. These were the foundations upon which I could begin to build.
Even from the street, it was clear that the interior of the bookstore was literally overflowing—shelves reached all the way to the ceiling, and the dust of old parchment drifted in the narrow aisles. Now, all that remained was to hope that among the thousands of books, I would find what I craved most: deeper knowledge of Legilimency and Occlumency.
I needed to master Mind Magic as soon as possible. While I already had the basics of Legilimency down, I was hitting an invisible wall with Occlumency. I lacked a precise method. Should I build an impenetrable fortress in my mind? Should I focus on infinite emptiness and darkness, or rather imagine a wall of high mountains? That uncertainty burned within me. I knew that if I adopted the wrong habits, my mind would remain vulnerable. The thought of Snape or Dumbledore reading my memories like an open book was unbearable. I had to learn to lock away my secrets before one of them came for them.
When I pushed open the door, a bell chimed, and I was enveloped by the scent of old paper and dust. Precarious columns of books towered from floor to ceiling, seemingly held together by magic alone. In the silence, only the faint rustle of pages could be heard.
The bookstore was clearly divided into sections. My eyes scanned the signs above the shelves: from Potions and Herbology to Ancient Runes and Defensive Magic. Although each category had its own corner, I saw no section for Mind Magic anywhere.
Occasionally, I caught the shop assistant's eye, but no one came to address me. Was it because of my frayed orphan clothes, which made me look like I didn't have a Galleon in my pocket? Or was it a local custom to leave customers in peace? In Muggle Europe, someone would have approached me by now, asking if I needed advice. Here, however, they left me at the mercy of the endless shelves.
I had no choice; I had to go to him. I stepped toward the sales counter, inwardly pleased that Diagon Alley wasn't full of people yet. The clerk was absorbed in a book whose title I couldn't read. As soon as he heard my footsteps, he casually hid it under the counter and looked up.
It seemed it really was a local custom—to leave people alone. I saw no dislike or resentment in his face, and I felt no negative emotions from him. Just pure, cold indifference.
"Good day, can I help you with something?" he asked in a dry, almost detached voice.
"Yes, I'm looking for literature on Mind Magic," I replied matter-of-factly, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Specifically, I'm interested in Legilimency and Occlumency."
The clerk raised an eyebrow at me in surprise. He did it so sharply and theatrically that I had to inwardly suppress my amusement. Strange, I thought few people could manage that gesture, flashed through my mind.
"You won't find such literature here," the clerk replied with the same monotonous indifference as before. "Legilimency and Occlumency are disciplines that are forbidden to study without permission from the Ministry of Magic. If you're interested in Mind Magic, you'll find some snippets in Professor Flitwick's textbooks for Charms class. I have nothing more for you."
In a second, a thought flashed through my mind: What now? I needed at least a book on Occlumency. I had no choice but to take a risk and head to Knockturn Alley. Borgin and Burkes might have what I was looking for, even if it was a questionable neighborhood. But first, I had to get a robe. If I walked in there dressed as a Muggle, I might not make it out alive. Fortunately, Madam Malkin's shop was just around the corner.
I wasted no time and walked inside. Ignoring the flying measuring tape and scissors working on a piece of fabric in the corner, I headed straight for the counter. A young woman sat there. Likely an assistant; Malkin should be older, I thought.
"I'd like a simple black hooded robe in my size, please," I requested.
She nodded silently. An enchanted tape measure took my measurements quickly, and moments later, I was holding the finished garment. The girl simply pointed curtly toward the mirrored fitting rooms.
I quickly pulled the robe over my clothes. Finally, I looked like a real wizard, but a problem appeared—the long fabric completely blocked access to my trouser pockets. That was where my only tool of defense was hidden.
Since the robe had loose sleeves, I slid the dagger sheath toward my left forearm. It wasn't ideal; the sheath "danced" a bit under the fabric and wasn't firmly attached, but if I held my arm at the right angle, the dagger stayed in place. It was a risky arrangement, but one wrong move and the blade would be in my palm.
"I'll have to buy a proper forearm mount," I thought as I discreetly adjusted my sleeve. The makeshift solution would have to suffice for now. I stepped out of the booth, placed the required amount of Galleons on the counter, and left the shop with a firm stride.
I headed toward where the main road narrowed into a dark, damp crevice between the buildings—the entrance to Knockturn Alley. I felt no radiance of dark magic or any metaphorical "evil" from it. It felt gloomy for a simple, physical reason—the houses were packed so tightly together that their roofs barely let any daylight reach the ground.
I walked straight ahead with my hood up, assuming Borgin and Burkes was located directly on this main street. On the way, I passed figures in frayed clothing, hurrying somewhere with their eyes downcast. Probably poor souls who simply live here, I thought. I knew the world wasn't black and white, and in these shadows, there likely lived people who had less luck in life.
Nevertheless, I remained vigilant, discreetly sizing up everyone. No one stopped me. Although twilight reigned in the alley, it was still day, and I didn't expect to run into hags, vampires, or other nocturnal creatures at this hour.
After a while, I stopped in front of a shop over which the proud sign Borgin and Burkes shone. This place was different; it didn't look poor or neglected like the surrounding buildings. On the contrary, the display window breathed dark prosperity. I was in the right place.
I stepped inside and was immediately hit by a heavy waft of magic. The scent of old parchment, ink, cold steel, and dust carried through the air. The interior was surprisingly spacious, but I saw no clerk or any other living soul anywhere. On the walls hung a diverse collection of weapons—from daggers and swords to crossbows and massive halberds. However, I assumed they served more as decoration. No runes were visible on their blades, nor did they radiate any special aura.
Indifferently, I walked past counters filled with strange objects. What use would I have for shriveled hands or necklaces? Jewelry here would likely be cursed and undoubtedly overpriced. My attention belonged to the library at the back of the shop. The books caught my interest immediately, and I stepped toward them without hesitation.
Still no one. At least I had time to look over the titles in peace. On the spines of the books, titles like Curses and Their Counter-Spells or A Guide to Survival in the Shadows shone, but books on Legilimency or Occlumency were missing. Understandable, given they are banned by the Ministry, I thought. My hand, however, stopped at a thick volume titled The Rules of War and the Basics of Combat Magic. It lacked an author's name and a price tag. It was likely just a copy, but if it was on a publicly accessible shelf, it shouldn't be that expensive.
"I'll have to ask the clerk about Legilimency and Occlumency," I sighed inwardly and turned away from the library.
"Few people these days look for something so... war-oriented," a quiet, oily voice spoke from somewhere in the shadows behind the counter. The clerk materialized there so silently it was as if he were part of the dust in the room. "Most young men seek quick curses, not the rules of war and combat magic, Mr. Rosier."
I froze for a moment. How did he know my name? I immediately realized, however, that he must have been watching me from the moment I crossed the threshold. With the family ring on my hand, it didn't take him long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He knew exactly who I was.
"Everyone has different interests," I replied curtly, fixing him with a gaze that indicated I was waiting for the introductions.
"Borgin. Mr. Borgin, at your service," he bowed so deeply that I felt he was mocking me. "The Rosier family was always known for its... refined taste for power. What would such an ambitious young man wish to find in my humble shop?"
"I need books on Mind Magic. Specifically on Legilimency and Occlumency," I announced without further ado.
"Ah, you have talent like your whole family. Surely you should have plenty of literature on this subject at your manor. The Rosiers are, after all, famous for their talent in this field," Borgin remarked, his eyes gleaming slyly. He was testing how much I would reveal.
"That's none of your business, Borgin. Do you have the books or not?" I snapped coldly.
He looked at me with interest for a moment. I felt the merchant in him battling with the curious man. He wondered why a young Rosier was looking for basics in Knockturn Alley instead of at home in the library. In the end, however, profit won.
"Of course I have," he hissed through his teeth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But you understand that such under-the-counter goods... goods that the Ministry so dislikes seeing in the hands of young wizards... are not cheap. Not cheap at all."
He didn't wait for my answer. He went behind the counter, and for a while, rustling and muffled thumps could be heard, as if he were searching for something in the deep depths of the storage room. After a moment, he returned and placed a book on the counter with feigned respect, featuring a long, straightforward title: The Power of the Mind: Obtain the Secrets of Enemies and Protect Your Own.
The author was missing again. Was it intentional? Perhaps the writer feared for his life, or the book was compiled from the secret notes of several mages. According to the title, however, it was exactly what I was looking for—a practical combination of Legilimency and Occlumency without unnecessary talk. I showed no emotion.
"Impressive," I remarked coolly, though plans were already swirling in my head. "How much for this... anonymous piece and that book on the rules of war over there on the shelf?"
"Two hundred Galleons, and The Rules of War as a gift for you," he set the price clearly. I knew he had a habit of overvaluing goods and had no problem haggling.
"That's excessive; it's a visible copy, Borgin. Fifty Galleons," I firmly proposed a new price.
"A copy it may be, but it is illegal merchandise, Mr. Rosier. Many books in this field no longer exist outside of the Ministry's hands. One hundred and fifty Galleons will be a good price."
"We both know that price is overshot. One hundred Galleons and The Rules of War as a gift," I declared uncompromisingly. "Furthermore, I will need other items you can help me with. In the future, I will certainly come across interesting artifacts to which you could have priority access."
I didn't back down. It was true—Hogwarts was full of forgotten and lost items that no one missed. He sized me up for a moment. In his eyes, I could see him calculating the pros and cons, but a hundred Galleons in cash and the promise of future business with the Rosier family were too great a temptation.
"Agreed. How else can I help you?" he nodded. He immediately wanted to make more. A true businessman.
I considered for a moment. I needed to resolve the issue of the dagger dancing in my sleeve and a way to carry my property without drawing attention. Once I got my bearings with the basic literature, I could move on to darker pieces, but for now, I needed equipment.
"I need a magical forearm mount for my dagger. Something that will hold it in place but allow instant access. And along with that, a bag for items—lightweight, with an Extension Charm," I replied.
"A magical bag... I have two types in stock. The capacity is the same for both," Borgin began, lowering his voice. "The cheaper one costs twenty Galleons. The more expensive one, for fifty, has integrated protective charms bound to your magical signature. An excellent choice for... let's say, not entirely legal goods. It can be opened by force, but it would take hours even for the best curse-breakers. Aurors would spend days on it."
Borgin then leaned closer and held out his hand in expectation.
"As for the mount, I must see your sheath and dagger. Magical grips must be calibrated according to the material for the enchantment of the fasteners to work correctly."
Without hesitation, I pulled the sheath from my sleeve and placed it on the counter. I knew that if Borgin tried anything, it would ruin his reputation with every significant family in the country. And he couldn't afford that.
"Ah, dragonhide... may I?" he asked, indicating with a glance whether he could draw the blade itself. I simply nodded. If he got hurt, it would be his fault. However, I was sure that even if an accident occurred, he knew the counter-curse for Boiling Blood.
"A magnificent piece," he breathed appreciatively as he pulled the dagger out. "Sharpness, indestructibility, self-cleaning. Absorbing surrounding magic and transferring it into the crystal so that the Boiling Blood curse never loses its strength. This piece comes from the times of the bloody wars... it looks older than Hogwarts itself."
"Ten thousand Galleons," he proposed suddenly with a greedy glint in his eyes. I immediately shook my head. Galleons didn't interest me, and this dagger was a family heirloom whose value couldn't be quantified in money.
"The forearm mount, Borgin," I cooled him down immediately. "Don't suggest prices unless I'm offering you something. Or have you decided to insult me?" I asked in a tone that sent a chill.
I felt a sudden wave of concern and a slight hint of fear from him. I probably sounded harsher than I intended. However, my own squeaky child's voice still unnerved me—the mismatch between how I thought and how I sounded was frustrating.
"Forgive me, Mr. Rosier, I got carried away by this... magnificent piece," Borgin apologized theatrically and carefully put the dagger back into its sheath. "I have something here that will be ideal for you. Dragonhide forearm mounts with an enchantment for absolute lightness. Whatever you fasten in them will lose its weight. Your dagger will be practically weightless in your sleeve, ensuring perfect and lightning-fast movement. The price is fifteen Galleons. Unfortunately, I don't currently have any in stock that add invisibility to the lightness."
I nodded briefly. I didn't need perfection; I needed functionality.
"I'll take the book on Mind Magic along with The Rules of War, the bag bound to a magical signature, and the mount," I summarized the deal.
Borgin smiled oilily and began placing the items on the counter. "Excellent choice, Mr. Rosier. Will you be needing anything else?"
"Do you have second-hand wands?" I risked it.
Borgin froze for a moment. I felt a wave of pure surprise from him. After a moment, however, his expression changed—understanding sparkled in his eyes. Suddenly, everything made sense to him.
"I wondered why someone of your lineage was buying books on the mind arts from me, when the Rosier family owned one of the best libraries in the world... and for centuries belonged to the top tier in Legilimency. But I understand now. You grew up in the Muggle world, didn't you?" he asked with a waft of false sympathy.
"It is strictly illegal to sell second-hand wands, and it is one of the few things I agree with," Borgin continued seriously. "If the Aurors caught someone dealing in them, they would face twenty years to life in Azkaban. The Ministry has a special department that monitors every wand distribution in England. They perform regular random checks."
This time, I froze. He had unmasked me dangerously quickly. All I had left was to keep the conversation going and gather as much information as possible. I pulled back my hood and revealed my child's face.
"Why is that?" I asked with genuine curiosity.
"Because only thanks to wands are we at the top," Borgin replied, his voice sounding almost like a warning. "The International Confederation of Wizards and every nation in the world together guard this rule. If goblins, hags, or other creatures got hold of wands, it would mean disaster for our world. We would lose our dominance. You'll learn more about it at Hogwarts; they don't forget history of magic there."
"Thank you for the information. What would it cost for you to keep the information about my person to yourself?" I asked directly.
In my head, I quickly weighed whether I had to permanently silence him, but I immediately dismissed it. He was a grown, experienced wizard in his own shop; he undoubtedly had experience with such attempts, and in this young body, especially without a wand, I was at a huge disadvantage. If I were discovered, I would likely end up in the care of my aunt immediately, but I trusted no one I didn't know. Life in the orphanage suited me better for now—there, I was the one in control.
I saw Borgin greedily weighing the value of this information and thinking about what to ask for it. When he reached a conclusion, his face tightened into an oily mask again.
"Your identity is safe with me, Mr. Rosier," he replied with a quiet smile that held not a shred of sincerity. "I believe that in the future, we will close more magnificent deals together. Let's consider it an investment in our... future cooperation."
I understood. He had calculated that he would profit more from my existence and ambitions if we were allies. "Thank you, Borgin. I appreciate it," I replied curtly.
I laid out the agreed-upon Galleons on the counter. The sound of gold hitting wood was almost deafening in the silence of the shop. The new dragonhide mount fit my forearm perfectly; it took only a few movements, and the sheath with the dagger was in place, firm yet almost weightless. I put both books into the magical bag, which sucked them in as if they weighed nothing.
I was ready. I pulled my hood deep over my face and felt satisfaction from the sheath, which now sat firmly and stably on my forearm. With a short nod of farewell, I stepped toward the door. Borgin didn't forget to bow oilily, but his gaze burned unpleasantly on my back until I stepped onto the street and the shop door creaked shut behind me.
I had only walked a few meters from Borgin's when I heard a desperate child's cry. I knew I should ignore it. It was highly suspicious for something like that to echo in broad daylight so close to Diagon Alley. But despite logic, I couldn't help myself. If an adult were pleading for help, I would have walked on without hesitation, but this was a child's voice... and I, like a fool, let myself be guided by feelings.
I quickly headed toward the sound into one of the dark side alleys. The pleas for help grew louder and more urgent until I finally heard muffled crying as well. It was just around the corner.
I burst in there, the dagger on my forearm ready, but in that moment, my blood ran cold. It immediately dawned on me that I had taken the bait. It was a dead-end alley. At the end of it was no crying child—only a small wooden box from which that heartbreaking cry and child's weeping mechanically emanated.
Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind. The attacker tried to catch me in a "sleeper hold" and choke me, but it was only an incompetent, desperate attempt. He didn't have his arm properly locked across his biceps; his grip was weak and evidenced a complete lack of experience.
I said nothing. I immediately drove my right elbow sharply backward, right under his ribs. I hit the liver with surgical precision. The assailant folded like a piece of origami in an instant. He fell onto the dirty pavement, curled into a fetal position, and a strangled, painful wail escaped his throat.
His body had failed him, and he writhed there in the dust, uncontrollably gasping for air, sobs full of agony escaping through clenched teeth. I had plenty of time to look him over properly. In the dead-end alley, the sound of his suffering reflected unpleasantly off the damp walls. He was just a wretch in a tattered robe, emaciated from hunger. I didn't have the nerves for his wailing and needed to search him in peace, so I simply kicked him in the temple. Finally, he stopped twitching and sobbing. The last thing I needed was for his crying to attract more of his kind.
I searched him, but besides a few copper coins and an old key, he had nothing. Not even a wand... likely a Squib, since he tried to attack me physically. Anger boiled within me. I was angry at him, but mostly at myself. I had fallen for it like a total amateur. If I didn't know how to defend myself, I likely would have ended up very badly in this dark alley. Who knows if anyone would ever hear of me again? A missing orphan troubles no one.
What to do with him? He had no problem attacking a child. He couldn't have mistaken me for a goblin; I didn't have wide enough shoulders for that. He saw me as easy prey. An old proverb echoed in my head: "He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword." He didn't deserve to walk out of this alley alive. But at the same time, I felt I wasn't ready to kill. Not now, when I didn't even have whiskers yet.
With a swift, fluid motion, I drew the dagger from my forearm. The blade gleamed menacingly in the dimness of the alley. I decided to give him a chance at life—a slim one, but a chance nonetheless. It was more than he deserved for attacking a child.
Coldly, I inspected his left ankle and found the Achilles tendon. One precise cut, and his mobility was over. He would have to crawl to safety, and the pain from the wound would undoubtedly wake him from unconsciousness before it was too late. The Boiling Blood curse on my blade would ensure that every move he made was pure agony. If he didn't get help within an hour, he would die in terrible torment. I didn't care. The world was one assailant poorer.
I picked up the box that had so foolishly lured me from the ground without emotion and threw it into the magical bag. It would become my trophy and a reminder of my own mistake.
With a fast, confident step, I left the dead-end alley. When I returned to the main thoroughfare of Knockturn Alley, I didn't look back once. My mind was already elsewhere, focused on the next steps. I needed to finish my shopping in Diagon Alley and return to the home. I must start learning. Time is the only resource I couldn't buy, even from Borgin, and after today's experience, I knew that every minute without knowledge was a minute when I was vulnerable.
We continue our shopping spree in Diagon Alley. My protagonist got quite lucky—not only did he land a perfect hit on the liver, but because the attacker was so emaciated, there was no layer of fat or muscle to cushion the blow.
What do you think of the action at the end? I originally planned a shorter chapter, but in the end, I decided on a more detailed description so you could truly soak up the atmosphere.
If you enjoyed this part, I'd be grateful for every like and comment. Your feedback is what keeps me incredibly motivated to keep creating!
With a money pouch whose weight rested pleasantly against my hip and a family ring firmly slid onto my middle finger, I immediately felt more secure. The first part of the plan had gone perfectly. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to head to Madam Malkin's for a new robe, but my thirst for knowledge triumphed, as expected. Even though I was only wearing plain Muggle clothes, I walked with my head held high—I feared no one.
With a brisk stride, I made my way toward Flourish and Blotts. The building, with its dark wood facade, looked majestic, though its frame was marked by time and countless spells. Above the entrance, a sign with elegant gold lettering swayed gently in the wind. I stopped by the display window. Behind the glass, stacks of volumes hovered and piled up, promising power and insight. However, my eyes skimmed over the classics, such as Jigger's Arsenic and Old Lace (Potions) or Scamander's Fantastic Beasts, only briefly. I was looking for something deeper than basic textbooks by Miranda Goshawk or Adalbert Waffling.
Among the popular titles on broom maintenance and humorous tales of dancing trolls, two works caught my eye, shining on the shelf like beacons: A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. These were the foundations upon which I could begin to build.
Even from the street, it was clear that the interior of the bookstore was literally overflowing—shelves reached all the way to the ceiling, and the dust of old parchment drifted in the narrow aisles. Now, all that remained was to hope that among the thousands of books, I would find what I craved most: deeper knowledge of Legilimency and Occlumency.
I needed to master Mind Magic as soon as possible. While I already had the basics of Legilimency down, I was hitting an invisible wall with Occlumency. I lacked a precise method. Should I build an impenetrable fortress in my mind? Should I focus on infinite emptiness and darkness, or rather imagine a wall of high mountains? That uncertainty burned within me. I knew that if I adopted the wrong habits, my mind would remain vulnerable. The thought of Snape or Dumbledore reading my memories like an open book was unbearable. I had to learn to lock away my secrets before one of them came for them.
When I pushed open the door, a bell chimed, and I was enveloped by the scent of old paper and dust. Precarious columns of books towered from floor to ceiling, seemingly held together by magic alone. In the silence, only the faint rustle of pages could be heard.
The bookstore was clearly divided into sections. My eyes scanned the signs above the shelves: from Potions and Herbology to Ancient Runes and Defensive Magic. Although each category had its own corner, I saw no section for Mind Magic anywhere.
Occasionally, I caught the shop assistant's eye, but no one came to address me. Was it because of my frayed orphan clothes, which made me look like I didn't have a Galleon in my pocket? Or was it a local custom to leave customers in peace? In Muggle Europe, someone would have approached me by now, asking if I needed advice. Here, however, they left me at the mercy of the endless shelves.
I had no choice; I had to go to him. I stepped toward the sales counter, inwardly pleased that Diagon Alley wasn't full of people yet. The clerk was absorbed in a book whose title I couldn't read. As soon as he heard my footsteps, he casually hid it under the counter and looked up.
It seemed it really was a local custom—to leave people alone. I saw no dislike or resentment in his face, and I felt no negative emotions from him. Just pure, cold indifference.
"Good day, can I help you with something?" he asked in a dry, almost detached voice.
"Yes, I'm looking for literature on Mind Magic," I replied matter-of-factly, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Specifically, I'm interested in Legilimency and Occlumency."
The clerk raised an eyebrow at me in surprise. He did it so sharply and theatrically that I had to inwardly suppress my amusement. Strange, I thought few people could manage that gesture, flashed through my mind.
"You won't find such literature here," the clerk replied with the same monotonous indifference as before. "Legilimency and Occlumency are disciplines that are forbidden to study without permission from the Ministry of Magic. If you're interested in Mind Magic, you'll find some snippets in Professor Flitwick's textbooks for Charms class. I have nothing more for you."
In a second, a thought flashed through my mind: What now? I needed at least a book on Occlumency. I had no choice but to take a risk and head to Knockturn Alley. Borgin and Burkes might have what I was looking for, even if it was a questionable neighborhood. But first, I had to get a robe. If I walked in there dressed as a Muggle, I might not make it out alive. Fortunately, Madam Malkin's shop was just around the corner.
I wasted no time and walked inside. Ignoring the flying measuring tape and scissors working on a piece of fabric in the corner, I headed straight for the counter. A young woman sat there. Likely an assistant; Malkin should be older, I thought.
"I'd like a simple black hooded robe in my size, please," I requested.
She nodded silently. An enchanted tape measure took my measurements quickly, and moments later, I was holding the finished garment. The girl simply pointed curtly toward the mirrored fitting rooms.
I quickly pulled the robe over my clothes. Finally, I looked like a real wizard, but a problem appeared—the long fabric completely blocked access to my trouser pockets. That was where my only tool of defense was hidden.
Since the robe had loose sleeves, I slid the dagger sheath toward my left forearm. It wasn't ideal; the sheath "danced" a bit under the fabric and wasn't firmly attached, but if I held my arm at the right angle, the dagger stayed in place. It was a risky arrangement, but one wrong move and the blade would be in my palm.
"I'll have to buy a proper forearm mount," I thought as I discreetly adjusted my sleeve. The makeshift solution would have to suffice for now. I stepped out of the booth, placed the required amount of Galleons on the counter, and left the shop with a firm stride.
I headed toward where the main road narrowed into a dark, damp crevice between the buildings—the entrance to Knockturn Alley. I felt no radiance of dark magic or any metaphorical "evil" from it. It felt gloomy for a simple, physical reason—the houses were packed so tightly together that their roofs barely let any daylight reach the ground.
I walked straight ahead with my hood up, assuming Borgin and Burkes was located directly on this main street. On the way, I passed figures in frayed clothing, hurrying somewhere with their eyes downcast. Probably poor souls who simply live here, I thought. I knew the world wasn't black and white, and in these shadows, there likely lived people who had less luck in life.
Nevertheless, I remained vigilant, discreetly sizing up everyone. No one stopped me. Although twilight reigned in the alley, it was still day, and I didn't expect to run into hags, vampires, or other nocturnal creatures at this hour.
After a while, I stopped in front of a shop over which the proud sign Borgin and Burkes shone. This place was different; it didn't look poor or neglected like the surrounding buildings. On the contrary, the display window breathed dark prosperity. I was in the right place.
I stepped inside and was immediately hit by a heavy waft of magic. The scent of old parchment, ink, cold steel, and dust carried through the air. The interior was surprisingly spacious, but I saw no clerk or any other living soul anywhere. On the walls hung a diverse collection of weapons—from daggers and swords to crossbows and massive halberds. However, I assumed they served more as decoration. No runes were visible on their blades, nor did they radiate any special aura.
Indifferently, I walked past counters filled with strange objects. What use would I have for shriveled hands or necklaces? Jewelry here would likely be cursed and undoubtedly overpriced. My attention belonged to the library at the back of the shop. The books caught my interest immediately, and I stepped toward them without hesitation.
Still no one. At least I had time to look over the titles in peace. On the spines of the books, titles like Curses and Their Counter-Spells or A Guide to Survival in the Shadows shone, but books on Legilimency or Occlumency were missing. Understandable, given they are banned by the Ministry, I thought. My hand, however, stopped at a thick volume titled The Rules of War and the Basics of Combat Magic. It lacked an author's name and a price tag. It was likely just a copy, but if it was on a publicly accessible shelf, it shouldn't be that expensive.
"I'll have to ask the clerk about Legilimency and Occlumency," I sighed inwardly and turned away from the library.
"Few people these days look for something so... war-oriented," a quiet, oily voice spoke from somewhere in the shadows behind the counter. The clerk materialized there so silently it was as if he were part of the dust in the room. "Most young men seek quick curses, not the rules of war and combat magic, Mr. Rosier."
I froze for a moment. How did he know my name? I immediately realized, however, that he must have been watching me from the moment I crossed the threshold. With the family ring on my hand, it didn't take him long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He knew exactly who I was.
"Everyone has different interests," I replied curtly, fixing him with a gaze that indicated I was waiting for the introductions.
"Borgin. Mr. Borgin, at your service," he bowed so deeply that I felt he was mocking me. "The Rosier family was always known for its... refined taste for power. What would such an ambitious young man wish to find in my humble shop?"
"I need books on Mind Magic. Specifically on Legilimency and Occlumency," I announced without further ado.
"Ah, you have talent like your whole family. Surely you should have plenty of literature on this subject at your manor. The Rosiers are, after all, famous for their talent in this field," Borgin remarked, his eyes gleaming slyly. He was testing how much I would reveal.
"That's none of your business, Borgin. Do you have the books or not?" I snapped coldly.
He looked at me with interest for a moment. I felt the merchant in him battling with the curious man. He wondered why a young Rosier was looking for basics in Knockturn Alley instead of at home in the library. In the end, however, profit won.
"Of course I have," he hissed through his teeth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But you understand that such under-the-counter goods... goods that the Ministry so dislikes seeing in the hands of young wizards... are not cheap. Not cheap at all."
He didn't wait for my answer. He went behind the counter, and for a while, rustling and muffled thumps could be heard, as if he were searching for something in the deep depths of the storage room. After a moment, he returned and placed a book on the counter with feigned respect, featuring a long, straightforward title: The Power of the Mind: Obtain the Secrets of Enemies and Protect Your Own.
The author was missing again. Was it intentional? Perhaps the writer feared for his life, or the book was compiled from the secret notes of several mages. According to the title, however, it was exactly what I was looking for—a practical combination of Legilimency and Occlumency without unnecessary talk. I showed no emotion.
"Impressive," I remarked coolly, though plans were already swirling in my head. "How much for this... anonymous piece and that book on the rules of war over there on the shelf?"
"Two hundred Galleons, and The Rules of War as a gift for you," he set the price clearly. I knew he had a habit of overvaluing goods and had no problem haggling.
"That's excessive; it's a visible copy, Borgin. Fifty Galleons," I firmly proposed a new price.
"A copy it may be, but it is illegal merchandise, Mr. Rosier. Many books in this field no longer exist outside of the Ministry's hands. One hundred and fifty Galleons will be a good price."
"We both know that price is overshot. One hundred Galleons and The Rules of War as a gift," I declared uncompromisingly. "Furthermore, I will need other items you can help me with. In the future, I will certainly come across interesting artifacts to which you could have priority access."
I didn't back down. It was true—Hogwarts was full of forgotten and lost items that no one missed. He sized me up for a moment. In his eyes, I could see him calculating the pros and cons, but a hundred Galleons in cash and the promise of future business with the Rosier family were too great a temptation.
"Agreed. How else can I help you?" he nodded. He immediately wanted to make more. A true businessman.
I considered for a moment. I needed to resolve the issue of the dagger dancing in my sleeve and a way to carry my property without drawing attention. Once I got my bearings with the basic literature, I could move on to darker pieces, but for now, I needed equipment.
"I need a magical forearm mount for my dagger. Something that will hold it in place but allow instant access. And along with that, a bag for items—lightweight, with an Extension Charm," I replied.
"A magical bag... I have two types in stock. The capacity is the same for both," Borgin began, lowering his voice. "The cheaper one costs twenty Galleons. The more expensive one, for fifty, has integrated protective charms bound to your magical signature. An excellent choice for... let's say, not entirely legal goods. It can be opened by force, but it would take hours even for the best curse-breakers. Aurors would spend days on it."
Borgin then leaned closer and held out his hand in expectation.
"As for the mount, I must see your sheath and dagger. Magical grips must be calibrated according to the material for the enchantment of the fasteners to work correctly."
Without hesitation, I pulled the sheath from my sleeve and placed it on the counter. I knew that if Borgin tried anything, it would ruin his reputation with every significant family in the country. And he couldn't afford that.
"Ah, dragonhide... may I?" he asked, indicating with a glance whether he could draw the blade itself. I simply nodded. If he got hurt, it would be his fault. However, I was sure that even if an accident occurred, he knew the counter-curse for Boiling Blood.
"A magnificent piece," he breathed appreciatively as he pulled the dagger out. "Sharpness, indestructibility, self-cleaning. Absorbing surrounding magic and transferring it into the crystal so that the Boiling Blood curse never loses its strength. This piece comes from the times of the bloody wars... it looks older than Hogwarts itself."
"Ten thousand Galleons," he proposed suddenly with a greedy glint in his eyes. I immediately shook my head. Galleons didn't interest me, and this dagger was a family heirloom whose value couldn't be quantified in money.
"The forearm mount, Borgin," I cooled him down immediately. "Don't suggest prices unless I'm offering you something. Or have you decided to insult me?" I asked in a tone that sent a chill.
I felt a sudden wave of concern and a slight hint of fear from him. I probably sounded harsher than I intended. However, my own squeaky child's voice still unnerved me—the mismatch between how I thought and how I sounded was frustrating.
"Forgive me, Mr. Rosier, I got carried away by this... magnificent piece," Borgin apologized theatrically and carefully put the dagger back into its sheath. "I have something here that will be ideal for you. Dragonhide forearm mounts with an enchantment for absolute lightness. Whatever you fasten in them will lose its weight. Your dagger will be practically weightless in your sleeve, ensuring perfect and lightning-fast movement. The price is fifteen Galleons. Unfortunately, I don't currently have any in stock that add invisibility to the lightness."
I nodded briefly. I didn't need perfection; I needed functionality.
"I'll take the book on Mind Magic along with The Rules of War, the bag bound to a magical signature, and the mount," I summarized the deal.
Borgin smiled oilily and began placing the items on the counter. "Excellent choice, Mr. Rosier. Will you be needing anything else?"
"Do you have second-hand wands?" I risked it.
Borgin froze for a moment. I felt a wave of pure surprise from him. After a moment, however, his expression changed—understanding sparkled in his eyes. Suddenly, everything made sense to him.
"I wondered why someone of your lineage was buying books on the mind arts from me, when the Rosier family owned one of the best libraries in the world... and for centuries belonged to the top tier in Legilimency. But I understand now. You grew up in the Muggle world, didn't you?" he asked with a waft of false sympathy.
"It is strictly illegal to sell second-hand wands, and it is one of the few things I agree with," Borgin continued seriously. "If the Aurors caught someone dealing in them, they would face twenty years to life in Azkaban. The Ministry has a special department that monitors every wand distribution in England. They perform regular random checks."
This time, I froze. He had unmasked me dangerously quickly. All I had left was to keep the conversation going and gather as much information as possible. I pulled back my hood and revealed my child's face.
"Why is that?" I asked with genuine curiosity.
"Because only thanks to wands are we at the top," Borgin replied, his voice sounding almost like a warning. "The International Confederation of Wizards and every nation in the world together guard this rule. If goblins, hags, or other creatures got hold of wands, it would mean disaster for our world. We would lose our dominance. You'll learn more about it at Hogwarts; they don't forget history of magic there."
"Thank you for the information. What would it cost for you to keep the information about my person to yourself?" I asked directly.
In my head, I quickly weighed whether I had to permanently silence him, but I immediately dismissed it. He was a grown, experienced wizard in his own shop; he undoubtedly had experience with such attempts, and in this young body, especially without a wand, I was at a huge disadvantage. If I were discovered, I would likely end up in the care of my aunt immediately, but I trusted no one I didn't know. Life in the orphanage suited me better for now—there, I was the one in control.
I saw Borgin greedily weighing the value of this information and thinking about what to ask for it. When he reached a conclusion, his face tightened into an oily mask again.
"Your identity is safe with me, Mr. Rosier," he replied with a quiet smile that held not a shred of sincerity. "I believe that in the future, we will close more magnificent deals together. Let's consider it an investment in our... future cooperation."
I understood. He had calculated that he would profit more from my existence and ambitions if we were allies. "Thank you, Borgin. I appreciate it," I replied curtly.
I laid out the agreed-upon Galleons on the counter. The sound of gold hitting wood was almost deafening in the silence of the shop. The new dragonhide mount fit my forearm perfectly; it took only a few movements, and the sheath with the dagger was in place, firm yet almost weightless. I put both books into the magical bag, which sucked them in as if they weighed nothing.
I was ready. I pulled my hood deep over my face and felt satisfaction from the sheath, which now sat firmly and stably on my forearm. With a short nod of farewell, I stepped toward the door. Borgin didn't forget to bow oilily, but his gaze burned unpleasantly on my back until I stepped onto the street and the shop door creaked shut behind me.
I had only walked a few meters from Borgin's when I heard a desperate child's cry. I knew I should ignore it. It was highly suspicious for something like that to echo in broad daylight so close to Diagon Alley. But despite logic, I couldn't help myself. If an adult were pleading for help, I would have walked on without hesitation, but this was a child's voice... and I, like a fool, let myself be guided by feelings.
I quickly headed toward the sound into one of the dark side alleys. The pleas for help grew louder and more urgent until I finally heard muffled crying as well. It was just around the corner.
I burst in there, the dagger on my forearm ready, but in that moment, my blood ran cold. It immediately dawned on me that I had taken the bait. It was a dead-end alley. At the end of it was no crying child—only a small wooden box from which that heartbreaking cry and child's weeping mechanically emanated.
Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind. The attacker tried to catch me in a "sleeper hold" and choke me, but it was only an incompetent, desperate attempt. He didn't have his arm properly locked across his biceps; his grip was weak and evidenced a complete lack of experience.
I said nothing. I immediately drove my right elbow sharply backward, right under his ribs. I hit the liver with surgical precision. The assailant folded like a piece of origami in an instant. He fell onto the dirty pavement, curled into a fetal position, and a strangled, painful wail escaped his throat.
His body had failed him, and he writhed there in the dust, uncontrollably gasping for air, sobs full of agony escaping through clenched teeth. I had plenty of time to look him over properly. In the dead-end alley, the sound of his suffering reflected unpleasantly off the damp walls. He was just a wretch in a tattered robe, emaciated from hunger. I didn't have the nerves for his wailing and needed to search him in peace, so I simply kicked him in the temple. Finally, he stopped twitching and sobbing. The last thing I needed was for his crying to attract more of his kind.
I searched him, but besides a few copper coins and an old key, he had nothing. Not even a wand... likely a Squib, since he tried to attack me physically. Anger boiled within me. I was angry at him, but mostly at myself. I had fallen for it like a total amateur. If I didn't know how to defend myself, I likely would have ended up very badly in this dark alley. Who knows if anyone would ever hear of me again? A missing orphan troubles no one.
What to do with him? He had no problem attacking a child. He couldn't have mistaken me for a goblin; I didn't have wide enough shoulders for that. He saw me as easy prey. An old proverb echoed in my head: "He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword." He didn't deserve to walk out of this alley alive. But at the same time, I felt I wasn't ready to kill. Not now, when I didn't even have whiskers yet.
With a swift, fluid motion, I drew the dagger from my forearm. The blade gleamed menacingly in the dimness of the alley. I decided to give him a chance at life—a slim one, but a chance nonetheless. It was more than he deserved for attacking a child.
Coldly, I inspected his left ankle and found the Achilles tendon. One precise cut, and his mobility was over. He would have to crawl to safety, and the pain from the wound would undoubtedly wake him from unconsciousness before it was too late. The Boiling Blood curse on my blade would ensure that every move he made was pure agony. If he didn't get help within an hour, he would die in terrible torment. I didn't care. The world was one assailant poorer.
I picked up the box that had so foolishly lured me from the ground without emotion and threw it into the magical bag. It would become my trophy and a reminder of my own mistake.
With a fast, confident step, I left the dead-end alley. When I returned to the main thoroughfare of Knockturn Alley, I didn't look back once. My mind was already elsewhere, focused on the next steps. I needed to finish my shopping in Diagon Alley and return to the home. I must start learning. Time is the only resource I couldn't buy, even from Borgin, and after today's experience, I knew that every minute without knowledge was a minute when I was vulnerable.
We continue our shopping spree in Diagon Alley. My protagonist got quite lucky—not only did he land a perfect hit on the liver, but because the attacker was so emaciated, there was no layer of fat or muscle to cushion the blow.
What do you think of the action at the end? I originally planned a shorter chapter, but in the end, I decided on a more detailed description so you could truly soak up the atmosphere.
If you enjoyed this part, I'd be grateful for every like and comment. Your feedback is what keeps me incredibly motivated to keep creating!