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[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 10
🕑 Added 2025-01-20 23:43:11 +0000 UTCThey say beauty demands sacrifice, but science requires far more. Progress is never achieved without loss, accidents, or casualties. Any scientist—and especially a magus—must accept that each experiment could end in catastrophe and prepare accordingly.
It all sounded logical, rational, and pragmatic, but none of it lifted Archibald’s mood as he trudged along Diagon Alley. Nor did it dull the persistent ache that no potion or spell could fully alleviate. If he hadn’t spent the past four days draining himself almost entirely for spiritual healing, he might have frozen or shattered something in fury with a mere glance—with an uncontrolled magical surge bypassing the need for mystic codes and incantations altogether.
Stopping before a shop window, Archibald caught sight of his reflection and took a few sips from a glass vial of rowan brew, the taste of which now made him nauseous. Thin, jagged scars ran across his forehead, right cheekbone, and chin, as though carved by a scalpel. Similar wounds, concealed beneath his clothes, stretched from his right shoulder nearly to his wrist. Bandaging was pointless; the injuries had been sealed with magic and potions after significant blood loss but showed no signs of proper healing.
And to think, it had all started with what should have been a simple, low-risk experiment.
Archibald had studied local alchemy—primarily focused on potions and elixirs—but only as a side endeavor, barely at the level of a school curriculum. His time was too limited to delve deeply. For his personal needs, his prior skills sufficed, adjusted for the local energy systems and environmental parameters. Metallurgical transformations he handled as he always had, and the mandrake potions he brewed for sale followed Clock Tower methodologies.
However, as an alchemist, he couldn’t ignore novel techniques. Dedicating a bit of time to mastering basic recipes from a newly purchased textbook was a reasonable investment, particularly since they required minimal energy. Adapting to perform final magical transformations using his circuits rather than a mystic code or external mana, as wizards did, had taken effort. Ultimately, he succeeded after revisiting advanced theory from senior-level textbooks.
The wizarding approach to potion-making diverged significantly from the methodologies employed by the Mage’s Association. Archibald was accustomed to working like a chemist or pharmacist—formulating active compounds, balancing solutions, minimizing side effects. Magical elements or spells could amplify effects, but the scientific foundation remained.
Here, however, potions were conceptual by design. Seemingly absurd and incompatible ingredients—often non-magical—were combined in precise proportions to embody elemental properties or abstract concepts. Directed magical intervention manifested these elements or concepts in the material world, creating the desired mystery. For example, a brew of clover, snake skin, and rabbit fur in rainwater, with proper technique, yielded a liquid infused with "luck." A person drinking it would temporarily increase their fortune by one or two ranks. Similarly, a potion combining wind-elemental ingredients might reduce an object’s weight by several orders of magnitude.
This approach required precise ingredient selection and meticulous execution, particularly when replicating the effects of an existing spell. Within the Association, similar techniques were used for creating mystic codes or conceptual weaponry. However, those mysteries were more often "sealed" in minerals or metals rather than "dissolved" in potions.
Naturally, Archibald had to experiment with merging these methodologies. His bare-bones "laboratory," now equipped with a burner, a small cauldron, glassware, and other tools from a potion-maker's starter kit, was well-stocked. He devised a recipe using Clock Tower methods, cross-checked it with local techniques, and triple-verified his calculations. The goal was a potion of magic resistance, crafted using enhanced ingredients to achieve a higher-rank mystery.
The initial steps went smoothly. Archibald prepared and processed the components, conducted the necessary technical procedures—heating, precipitation, and so on—and was ready for the final transformation. That’s when everything went wrong.
The transformation consumed a third of his energy reserve in an instant, as though feeding a bottomless pit. Realizing the looming disaster, Archibald reflexively pulled back from the cauldron, erecting an air barrier just as the concoction, now shifting in color and consistency, exploded. The shockwave hurled the burner aside, shattered glassware, and scattered tools across the room.
Though the barrier absorbed the blast, boiling liquid and glass shards still struck Archibald. The bronze cauldron, now half-melted, morphed and began moving by itself. It resembled a yellow-brown metallic flower with stubby legs or roots and a dozen long, flexible antennae. These tentacles lashed out, scratching walls, gouging the floor, and smashing surviving equipment. Several whipped toward Archibald, slashing his face and the arm he raised in defense.
The curse he flung back at the "monster" had no effect, not even making it flinch. Instead, it advanced slowly. With what little energy remained, Archibald manipulated the elemental forces. He transformed the blood and potion remnants into a red-and-blue mist, then condensed it around the creature’s "roots" into a solid mass of ice, anchoring it to the floor.
The ice cracked almost immediately as the creature strained to break free, but the delay gave Archibald enough time to lower the barrier on the door, dash into the adjoining library, and grab one of his prepared "bombs" from the desk with his slashed hand. The blood-smeared aluminum chalice flew back into the laboratory, and Archibald slammed the door shut.
Quickly reactivating the barrier, he sealed whatever horror his failed experiment had unleashed inside.
Archibald took heavy breaths as he counted to twenty. He neither felt nor heard the explosion, but that was to be expected. Waiting another thirty seconds, with dizziness creeping in from blood loss, he attempted a spiritual healing technique. The results were lackluster—a slight reduction in pain, a few shallow cuts on his arm sealed, but the deeper wounds continued to bleed.
Struggling to unlock the door, he found the “homunculus” flattened and embedded into the wall, weakly twitching. The structural damage was too severe; most of its tendrils had been torn off, and the chaotic mystery animating the bronze husk clearly didn’t include a recovery mechanism. Barely able to stay on his feet, Archibald shut the laboratory door and stumbled toward the exit. He practically collapsed into the living room, startling Miss Stone, who had been blissfully unaware of the chaos happening mere feet away due to the barriers.
At that point, secrecy no longer mattered. Barking orders to his now-composed assistant, Archibald focused on staying conscious. The items in Miss Stone’s medical kit proved useless—painkillers, coagulants, and ordinary bandages failed to affect the wounds. He suspected the creature’s attack, amplified by his depleted magical energy and the mystery’s unknown properties, had reached the level of conceptual weaponry, rendering conventional remedies ineffective.
Following his instructions, Stone retrieved every potion stored in the library—mandrake tinctures, experimental brews, and off-the-shelf concoctions purchased for studying local formulas. At some point, MacDuggal arrived—Archibald was too preoccupied to recall when—and helped her administer various salves, potions, and compresses. Their combined efforts eventually staunched the bleeding. When the squib poured a third of a blood-replenishing potion down his throat, Archibald finally allowed himself to lose consciousness.
He woke the next day, roused by pain. For a full day, Archibald lay nearly immobile under Miss Stone’s watchful care, pouring every scrap of magic he could muster into healing while drifting in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion. On the second day, he managed to draw a simple magical circle for healing and energy restoration on the library floor and sat within it, which stabilized his condition. The deepest wounds stopped reopening, the shallower cuts began to close, and the dizziness from blood loss eased.
Amidst this grim situation, there was at least one positive note—his magic circuits were unscathed. If they had been damaged, recovery would have taken months, if not years. His gaze occasionally wandered to the tungsten energy reservoir perched nearby. It held enough concentrated power to heal him in minutes, but using it would delay his critical experiment by at least another month. Enduring the pain seemed the better option.
Three days later, his potion supply was nearly exhausted. He lacked the materials and equipment to brew more, and arranging another deal with Fletcher or MacDuggal’s contacts would take too long. Venturing to Diagon Alley became necessary—not only to restock but also to find more suitable remedies. For the first time, Archibald regretted the absence of a fireplace in their multi-story home for magical transport, even if its workings baffled him. Ultimately, he had to settle for a car ride under the watchful eye of one of MacDuggal’s men.
To MacDuggal’s credit, he didn’t exploit Archibald’s vulnerable state to renegotiate their contract or impose additional terms. Whether this restraint stemmed from compassion or calculated pragmatism—knowing that Archibald would recover and hold a grudge—it hardly mattered.
Upon arriving at the magical quarter, Archibald headed straight for the largest apothecary. Adults regarded him with detached indifference, while young wizards and witches James’s age openly stared or quickly averted their eyes. For them, such injuries clearly weren’t an everyday sight.
Hoping to distract himself from the pain, Archibald paused before a shop window to examine the marks on his face. Four days of healing had reduced the scars slightly, but left to his own devices, it would take a month to seal the wounds and another to erase the scarring entirely. He made a mental note to review his calculations and pinpoint the source of the mishap. If he could replicate a weapon with such devastating conceptual power, it could prove invaluable.
Turning away from the window, Archibald continued down the street, ignoring curious stares. Suddenly, he stopped, reconsidered, and entered a nearby shop—a bookstore. It might be worthwhile to look for an advanced guide on healing magic. Such a resource could point him toward potions and spells specifically for injuries caused by magical weaponry.
“Ah, a regular!” came a cheerful greeting from behind the counter. Robert, Cornelius’s assistant, barely looked eighteen. Squinting at Archibald, he added in surprise, “James, did you get into a fight with a werewolf in an alley?”
“An experiment went slightly off course.”
“Happens,” Robert replied philosophically, shrugging. The fact that a wizard he knew was injured didn’t seem to faze him much. “The boss is busy right now, but he’ll be here soon. Take a look around while you wait. Maybe something will catch your eye.”
“Thanks, I will,” Archibald replied with a faint nod. He wandered over to the shelves, knowing it would be impossible to find anything without assistance. For now, he aimlessly scanned the spines of various books, hoping something might stand out.
“Is that the mark of an enchanted blade?” came a pensive yet curious voice. “It seems the noble traditions of dueling aren’t entirely forgotten in Albion.”
“What?” Archibald turned sharply, meeting the unfocused gaze of pale gray eyes that seemed to look through him rather than at him.
Standing nearby was a girl around James’s age, with long, tangled blond hair. She wore an utterly bizarre ensemble: a gray-blue robe embroidered haphazardly with red and black runes, a Victorian-style shirt and waistcoat, worn modern jeans, and frivolous beach sandals. A wand was carelessly tucked into her belt.
The sheer eclecticism of her appearance left Archibald momentarily speechless.
"These wounds," the girl said bluntly, jabbing a finger uncomfortably close to his face, "were definitely inflicted by enchanted steel. But where else could a wizard receive such marks in this day and age, if not in an honorable duel?"
"First of all, it wasn’t steel. It was bronze—"
"A ritual dagger cursed for sacrificial magic in the hands of a dark wizard?!" she interrupted, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned in closer. Her gaze locked onto James’s face, and he found himself cornered against a bookshelf, nowhere left to retreat.
"Actually—"
"Actually, nonsense like that doesn’t exist!" came another voice, cutting through the air with authority. Of course, it belonged to another child.
Both turned to face the newcomer—a slightly older witch, perhaps by a year or two. Unlike the first, she was dressed conventionally, wearing a black school robe over a blouse and house tie—despite it being summer holidays. Her most striking feature was the unruly mass of chestnut hair that gave her an air of chaos, contrasting with her otherwise serious demeanor. Her wand was secured in a holster on her hip, in line with school guidelines, and her no-nonsense tone suggested a penchant for asserting her version of the truth.
"Dark wizards don’t exist?" the blonde wondered aloud, her gaze drifting elsewhere as if lost in thought.
"Cursed daggers and the injuries they supposedly cause don’t exist," the newcomer declared, frowning at her with disapproval.
"Then what are these, if not marks from enchanted steel?" the younger witch challenged, her finger once again darting toward James’s chin. He was too bewildered by her audacity and wild assumptions to immediately respond.
"Just regular cuts—likely from glass or claws. Nothing that can’t be fixed," the older witch said confidently, drawing her wand with a practiced motion and pointing it at James’s face.
If Archibald had been in better shape, he might have reacted preemptively, perhaps putting distance between himself and these children—but somehow he only had the time to think of half a dozen local spells that could swiftly decapitate him. But boxed in by the bookshelves and flanked by two impulsive girls, he lacked the strength or space to act. His instincts told him that this one wouldn’t actually attack him, not in a crowded shop with witnesses everywhere. She seemed more likely to issue a formal duel challenge, complete with adherence to school rules and her professors’ guidelines.
"Episkey," she intoned, sending a faint white mist toward his face. It achieved nothing. Archibald felt the weak healing spell fizzle out. He had already mended minor injuries days ago with potions and his own efforts, and the conceptual nature of his current wounds rendered such a weak spell ineffective.
Frowning, the girl waved her wand again. "Therapea. Nereum Vulnerare…"
"It won’t work," Archibald said in unison with the blonde, both speaking the words at the same time. They exchanged glances, and the magus gestured for the younger witch to continue first, as a gentleman would—even if she was, in his opinion, thoroughly eccentric.
"Those spells are for regular injuries and illnesses," she explained, her tone patient but detached. "Didn’t they teach you in school that antidotes differ for mundane and magical poisons? Why would wounds be any different? Burns from hot oil and from Gubraithian fire are not the same, and they require different spells to treat. To me they look like wounds made by a very powerful magic. You’d need something like Vulnera Sanentur or similarly powerful magic to heal them. I haven’t learnt those spells, and I doubt you have either."
"I’ve never even heard of such magic," Archibald admitted, though the revelation intrigued him. The existence of such advanced spells was reason enough to prioritize purchasing a detailed healing guide.
"I think you’re just making things up," the older witch muttered, lowering her wand but still scrutinizing him. "By the way, I don’t recognize you. Did we meet at school?"
"Luna Lovegood," the blonde replied serenely, "I’m starting at Hogwarts this year."
"Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, second year," the older girl introduced herself.
Both turned their eyes to the magus. Resigned, Archibald shrugged and offered his own introduction, hoping to end the exchange quickly. "James Murphy. Muggle-born. Starting school next year. As for this—" he gestured to his face—"I attempted to brew a potion from a textbook but made a mistake in the recipe after infusing it with magical energy. The cauldron practically exploded, and its magically saturated fragments caused these wounds. They’re not purely physical, which is why ordinary medicine and low-grade potions don’t work."
"Pity. My version was much more interesting," Luna sighed wistfully. "But if you’re not planning to keep them as striking scars, the standard school charms won’t help. These days, they don’t teach us anything useful like that. You’ll need to see a healer or visit an apothecary. Tincture of ribwort, star anise elixir—those treat magical wounds and curses. They won’t work instantly, but they should help. Still, I think you should keep them. They make you look very dashing, James."
"All injuries should be treated immediately," Hermione interrupted firmly, her tone leaving no room for debate. "And by professionals, not back-alley healers or with home remedies."
"Are you Muggle-born, Miss Granger?" Archibald asked, his tone overly polite.
"Yes, and I’m not ashamed of it," she replied briskly, clearly defensive, as though bracing for the usual prejudice. "Why?"
"It’s just amusing to hear someone criticize back-alley healers and home remedies in a store with ‘A Thousand and One Healing Remedies from May Dandelions’ on the shelves and in the middle of Diagon-Alley. And another thing, Miss Granger—did no one teach you how to handle your wand?"
"Of course they did! We spent an entire year learning—on Charms, Transfiguration, practically every lesson! And I read all the textbooks cover-to-cover before term started."
"And in all that, no one taught you that pointing your wand at a stranger’s face without warning is not only incredibly rude but also potentially dangerous?" Archibald asked with biting sarcasm. "Dangerous for you, primarily. Under different circumstances, I would’ve been well within my rights to retaliate."
"Excuse me?" Hermione bristled, stepping back as though expecting a physical strike or an attempt to snap her wand.
"The Dueling Code of Magical Britain, 1723, Section Three, 'Reasons for a Duel That Require No Explanation and Are Obvious to Any Wizard.' I don’t recall the exact clause, but it’s definitely in the first dozen," Lovegood said thoughtfully. Then she pulled out her mystic code from her belt and held it up, pointing it at Granger’s face. "You do this, and voila, it’s a duel challenge. Those were the days—so much romance. Gone now."
"But... I only wanted to help," Granger stammered, clearly thrown off by their reactions.
"Or," Archibald cut in dryly, "you could have turned my head to stone, burned me, frozen me, blinded me, erased my memory, or enslaved me to your will..." He rattled off a list of combat spells from the local textbooks. "And a hundred other possibilities. I had no way of knowing what you intended to cast. And even if I did, there’s no guarantee you’d use the spell you announced."
He barely held back from voicing his disdain for naive first-generation wizards. It took every ounce of restraint not to lash out, especially since the very sight of Granger stirred an unpleasant reminder of how others might see him in this strange new world. The bitterness lingered, but he swallowed it down.
"Oh, it seems someone else has taken an interest in today’s news," Lovegood remarked, her wand still casually aimed at a corner of the shop. There, a wizard was engrossed in a newspaper with lurid headlines like "Elderly Werewolf Infects Goat in Wells" or "Ministry Cover-Up: Brain-Eaters in Muggle Subways." She turned back to them, smiling. "It was nice talking to you."
"Thank you for the advice," Archibald said, managing to sound polite despite the headache this encounter was giving him. Dealing with Lovegood was proving to be a challenge he hadn’t anticipated.
"It was nothing. Take care, and don’t let the nargles get you."
"The what?" he asked, but she was already leaving. He turned to Granger, who looked equally baffled.
"No idea," she admitted. Then, with a sheepish expression, she stowed her wand in its holster and apologized, "I’m sorry. I... I honestly didn’t think about how that might have looked. And I didn’t know about the code, either. I’ll try not to do it again. I’m really sorry."
"I’m glad you’ve realized that," Archibald replied evenly. Reluctantly, he added, "Apology accepted. But you should pay more attention not just to wands but to the traditions and etiquette tied to them. Thoughtless behavior like that is precisely why people view those like... us as crude savages from the streets."
"Oh, right, you’re also..." Granger began, trailing off as her gaze took in his "Muggle" clothes. Then, as if realizing the obvious, she quickly corrected herself. "I see. I’ll try. And... thanks again. Sorry."
"Goodbye, Miss Granger," he said coolly. "I suppose I’ll see you at school someday." With that, he nodded curtly, stepped around her, and headed toward the counter. But before he could make it far, he felt a tug on his arm.
"Wait!"
Archibald stopped, stunned. It took him a moment to process how she had managed to halt him so easily. Then it hit him—Granger was older by a couple of years, taller, and physically stronger. James’s current body, weakened by years of malnutrition, illness, and regular abuse in the orphanage, wasn’t up to the task of resisting. Damn it all, he thought bitterly. Why couldn’t Murphy have been fifteen at the time of the soul merge?
"What now?" he demanded gruffly, though she seemed unfazed by his tone.
"Explain what you meant earlier. 'Didn’t know if I was casting the spell I said.' What does that even mean? How could I possibly say one spell and cast another? I admit I acted thoughtlessly... and that I misunderstood the nature of magical injuries. But accusing me of being able to turn you to stone with a healing spell? That’s absurd. And frankly, insulting."
"They didn’t teach you this in school?" Archibald asked, irritation creeping into his voice. He didn’t bother trying to pull his arm away; he doubted he’d succeed without reinforcement. "And you never came across it in those 'all the textbooks on wands' you claim to have read? It’s fundamental magical theory."
"Well... maybe not 'all,'" she admitted, looking down awkwardly. "More like 'all the books for the first three years,' plus the recommended reading list. But it was never mentioned. We were taught that spells work exactly as they’re spoken. You can’t just switch the words around or something—it won’t work."
"You can, and it’s not particularly hard, even for a student," Archibald said flatly.
"But how?" she pressed, clearly unsatisfied. "None of the books even hinted at that."
"It’s—" He sighed, realizing this conversation wouldn’t end without an argument or some form of demonstration. And he couldn’t afford to sour his reputation before even starting at the school, especially among first-generation wizards. He considered them potential allies, more open to new ideas than the entrenched aristocracy. Still, building connections with both factions was crucial to his long-term plans. For now, though, he could at least test Granger’s aptitude. Annoying as she was, her curiosity and willingness to learn set her apart from the many talentless magi he’d encountered over the years. "I could show you," he said finally, "but you’d owe me a favor."
"Deal!" she exclaimed, releasing his arm and nodding enthusiastically. Her wild, bushy hair bounced as she moved. Archibald suppressed a groan. First-generation wizards... not a clue about the dangers of promising favors without understanding the terms. If this had been a geas or an oath instead of a verbal agreement, she’d be in serious trouble. Unaware of his thoughts, she continued, "But not here! I know a better place for practicing magic. Come on, don’t lag behind!"
She tugged him along before he could object. He never did get around to buying that advanced healing textbook.
"I’m already regretting this," he muttered.
Granger led him to a building on Diagon Alley he’d always passed without a second glance. The sign read Harngott’s Testing Grounds, which meant nothing to him. In the small foyer, Granger handed a goblin behind the counter several coins, saying, "Half an hour for two." She then ushered him into the main hall.
The space was a curious mix of a gymnasium, a dance studio, and a modern office. The high-ceiling room was divided into sections by nearly transparent magical barriers. Some partitions were empty; others held children between ten and fifteen years old, practicing spells alone or in small groups.
"Outside of school and protected areas, underage magic is banned until seventeen," Granger said, reciting the law as though it were sacred doctrine. "So, what are students supposed to do during summer holidays? How do they prepare for the next year or keep their skills sharp? Especially those in Muggle homes without magical space? Their options are visiting friends in wizarding communities, practicing on Diagon Alley—if they’re careful—or waiting until their seventh year. Some clever goblin must have realized this and set up this hall. Rumor has it they’re raking in galleons every summer."
"Clever," Archibald remarked, acknowledging the unknown entrepreneur behind this establishment. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one puzzled by the ban on underage magic outside of warded areas. How was anyone supposed to learn if a quarter of the year was effectively wasted? The solution wasn’t perfect—considering the noise, crowds, and regular expenses—but it was certainly better than nothing.
"Yeah, without this place, I’d have gone mad with boredom a week after returning to London," Granger admitted. "But that’s not the point. Get your wand out, and let’s head to that corner. You can show me what you meant."
"I’d love to, Miss Granger, but there’s a problem. I don’t have a wand yet. I won’t turn eleven until autumn."
"Then how were you brewing potions?" she asked, incredulous. "Without a wand and proper magic, it’s just poisonous mush made from inedible ingredients. I’ve checked."
"I used the unstable bursts of 'accidental' magic while they were still active."
"James..." Granger was so taken aback that she seemed to lose her train of thought. Then, finally, she exclaimed, "You’re insane!"
"It worked well enough until now," he retorted, brushing her concern aside. "And the mistake wasn’t in the process—it was in the recipe."
"Fine..." She took a deep breath, clearly holding back a lecture on rules and recklessness. "That’s not important right now. What’s more interesting is what we’re going to do instead."
"I thought I’d borrow your wand. But if one of your friends or classmates is around, we could ask to borrow theirs."
"Not that I have many..." She trailed off, looking around the room with a hint of panic. Finally, her eyes settled on someone, and after a brief hesitation, she pointed toward one of the barriered sections. "Let’s go over there."
As they walked, Archibald observed the other students. None of them were doing anything too advanced or dangerous—levitation, telekinesis, light spells, minor mental magic, simple transfigurations, and conjurations. What struck him, though, was the ease and speed with which the more skilled kids produced one mystic effect after another. Many of the spells were trivial and hardly worth the energy expended, but the mystic codes they wielded undeniably redefined the principles and limitations of magic.
"Seamus Finnigan. Dean Thomas," Granger greeted the two boys in a tone that was almost comically formal. One was a pale, freckled boy wearing robes in the same colors as hers, while the other was dark-skinned and dressed in Muggle sportswear.
"Hermione Granger," replied the robed boy, lowering his wand. "Hi. Who’s your friend?"
"Well, uh... it’s kind of complicated..." she began awkwardly.
"James Murphy," Archibald interjected smoothly, sensing her hesitation and her general difficulty with social interactions. "I suppose I’ll be attending Hogwarts with you in the future. Miss Granger and I had a bit of a disagreement about magical theory, and she’s persuaded me to demonstrate my perspective in practice. However, I don’t yet have a wand of my own. That’s why we... well, I’d like to ask one of you for a small favor. I’d be happy to repay the courtesy or assist you in the future if needed." He finished formally. Despite their youth, asking to borrow a mystic code—especially one’s personal wand—was no small matter, even for a temporary demonstration. The act bordered on insolence in certain circles, but it was necessary, and he maintained his composure.
The boys exchanged glances, then the robed one asked cautiously, "Let me get this straight—you’re saying you argued with Granger, you’re absolutely certain you’re right, and she’s wrong?"
"Exactly," Archibald replied tersely, annoyed by the redundant question.
"And you need a wand to prove it to her?"
"Yes, yes, only for that. I promise to return it intact as soon as we’re finished."
"And you’re younger than us, seeing as you don’t even have your own wand yet?"
"I’m ten, if that matters at all," he snapped, his patience wearing thin.
"Take mine," they both said simultaneously, eagerly holding out their wands.
Archibald glanced at Granger, whose face turned bright red, but refrained from commenting. Now was not the time to gloat. Instead, he selected the longer wand, which appeared to be made of willow, nodded politely, and stepped into the barriered training area. "Give me a few minutes to get accustomed to it."
"By the way, I’m Seamus, and that’s Dean," the robed boy clarified. Granger was too flustered to make proper introductions, likely a result of her nerves—or perhaps ignorance of proper etiquette, which wouldn’t be surprising for a first-generation witch.
"Pleasure to meet you. You already know my name."
Adjusting his grip on the wand, Archibald tried to recall the sensation of the test wands at Francois’s workshop and prepared to work within this unfamiliar school of magic, minimizing the use of his own depleted reserves. He swung the wand once, then twice, assessing the flow of energy to his magic circuits. The wand seemed attuned to two or three elements, one of which was water—convenient. Finally, with a smooth motion, he gathered ambient mana, opened the circuits, and cast a basic wind spell. Satisfied after a few more tests of varying strength, he turned to the observing students and said, "I’m ready. Miss Granger, for the sake of fairness, choose a simple first-year spell—something easy to learn."
"This one’s the simplest," she replied eagerly, clearly relishing the chance to display her knowledge. She rummaged through her robes, pulled out a pencil, and placed it on the ground. With a practiced flourish of her wand, she clearly enunciated, "Wingardium Leviosa."
The pencil rose four feet into the air and hovered. After a few moments, she waved her wand again, saying, "Finite," and caught the pencil as it fell. Placing it back on the ground, she repeated the motion and incantation slowly and deliberately, then demonstrated it a third time.
"There, that’s from the very first practical Charms lesson," she concluded.
"Understood," Archibald said, studying the pencil. He mimed the motion silently a few times, visualizing the desired effect. Then, with precise control over the gathered mana, he cast, "Wingardium Leviosa." The pencil rose, though slightly lower than Granger’s attempt. He followed up with, "Finite," and the pencil dropped to the ground.
The other students nodded approvingly, while Granger looked skeptical and dissatisfied. Ignoring her, Archibald prepared for the next phase. He raised the wand again, repeating the spell several times with increasing fluidity, each iteration tweaking the incantation: "Wingardium Leviosa. Finite. Wingardium Leviosa. Finite. Levgardium Winossa. Garvandiom Vilossa. Guildenstern-from-Mariposa. Grandmaster’s-eating-Samosa." pauses between the spells became longer, it was necessary to keep in mind an extremely clear image of the effect and at the same time control the movement of the mystical code so as not to collect too much or too little mana, but each time the pencil obediently flew up.
After the third attempt, the magus had already gotten used to the spell, although it was still very difficult to keep its effects consistent. He’d still get confused from time to time while trying to come up with gibberish that sounded similar to the original aria but the process smoothed out with every subsequent try.
“Stupefy. Petrificus. Lumos,” the pencil still obediently flew up higher and higher with each modified incantation, only now he had to take even longer pauses for concentration - the mentioned spells evoked in him completely different associations, from which he had to fence himself off and hold on to the image of levitation. “Finite. Something like that. Thank you for the favor.”
Kayneth extended the mystic code toward Seamus, who stared at it in astonishment, before nearly shoving it into the boy’s hand. Then his gaze shifted to Granger, who stood frozen in what appeared to be a mix of disbelief and indecision. She seemed torn between applauding such skill with a wand and tearing her hair out in frustration because she couldn’t grasp what had just happened.
Cautiously, Hermione drew her wand, taking care not to point it at anyone. She gestured toward a pencil, cleared her throat, and intoned, “Wingardium Leviosa.” She waited for the pencil to float upward, then ended the spell. Taking a deep breath, she repeated the motion with a deliberate flourish, saying, “Nivgardium Veliosa. Ni-v-gar-dium Ve-li-osa!”
Nothing happened.
She tried half a dozen more times, her frustration growing, before turning to James with suspicion. “Why can you do it, but I can’t? You didn’t just rearrange syllables or remove letters—you replaced entire words. Our professor specifically told us we have to pronounce spells precisely, without hesitation. If we mess up the emphasis, the feather won’t float to the ceiling; it’ll either burn or sink into the ground.” She looked to her classmates for support, and they nodded in agreement, confirming that this was, indeed, what they’d been taught in class.
“He was correct, and I am not mistaken either,” the magus replied with a shrug.
“But you can’t just change the letters in spells!” she protested.
“You can. But not always,” Kayneth replied, pausing as he considered a simpler way to explain. Realizing the peculiarities of magical Britain’s traditions, he clarified, “Did any of you attend regular school before Hogwarts?”
“All of us,” Thomas answered. “Seamus and I are half-bloods, and Granger’s Muggle-born, so we lived mostly without magic until we turned eleven.”
“Perfect. Then you all should know what geometry is, and the value of Pi,” Kayneth continued, adopting the tone of a lecturer. He waited for their nods. “In early school lessons, Pi is often simplified to three with the teacher’s permission—it doesn’t affect basic calculations much. Similarly, in physics, gravitational acceleration is rounded to ten rather than nine-point-eight. The same principle applies in chemistry and other subjects: what you’re taught in fifth grade won’t work in tenth without adjustments. Magic operates in much the same way. Basic spells allow for substitutions. But in school, especially in the early years, such alterations aren’t necessary.”
“Then why do we need the incantations at all? And why do mistakes prevent spells from working?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued. She was grappling with the idea that her professors might not have been entirely truthful—or at least, hadn’t told her the whole story.
“They fail because the caster can’t vividly imagine the desired outcome. If they can’t even remember a handful of simple syllables, how can they manage to conjure the required effect?” Kayneth replied with disdain. The very existence of such inept students was, to him, a tragedy—a glaring flaw in a system where practical magic textbooks for beginners offered the barest minimum of theory and focused heavily on repetitive drills to establish a foundational repertoire of spells. “Incantations are necessary because learning requires repetition. You learn, and you memorize. You memorize, and you develop skill. Do you know what a conditioned reflex is?”
“Yes,” Hermione answered. “The bell, Pavlov’s dog, food at the sound of the signal…”
“Exactly. Basic spells function in much the same way,” Kayneth said, picking up the pencil and holding it as if it were a wand. He gestured with it and explained, “A wizard is given a task—for example, cutting an apple. The wizard makes the appropriate motion, listens to their teacher, or reads the description of the effect in a book, then vividly imagines what the spell should accomplish. They recite the provided formula, and the spell takes effect.” He demonstrated the simple slicing motion from a book’s cutting spell. “They do this again, and again, and again—tens of times, then hundreds, and thousands. Eventually, the action becomes instinctual: motion, word, effect. And when faced with a werewolf ambush in a dark alley, the wizard, even while terrified, will manage to raise their wand, shout the spell, and let their subconscious bridge the gap to produce the desired result.” He flicked the pencil sharply, as though decapitating an unseen foe.
“You performed the levitation spell faster and more confidently than I did because you’ve practiced it repeatedly,” he said, addressing Hermione. “I imagine you two could also manage it with less effort than I could,” he added, nodding toward Thomas and Seamus. “For you, the memorized words automatically trigger the mental image, while I have to consciously hold the image in my mind.”
Kaynett shifted into full lecture mode, elaborating on the foundational theory behind the use of the local mystic code. His interest lay in understanding the underlying principles of magical systems rather than rote mastery of individual mysteries. He relied heavily on advanced textbooks and reference materials intended for older students or those preparing for wizarding colleges—sources that were rare to find.
“A wizard gestures, shouts ‘Protego!’ and conjures a shield in the fraction of a second before an enemy spell hits. They’re not consciously thinking about the mechanics; for them, the connection between the word, the motion, and the effect is already ingrained. They trust that ‘Protego’ equals shield. The incantation isn’t meant for the teacher or the universe—it’s for the caster themselves. That’s why most common spells are in Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic, or Old English—dead languages. You won’t accidentally say these words while ordering lunch and unintentionally petrify your waiter. The incantation is merely a command, a mental trigger, no more than that. If you master the ability to vividly and quickly imagine the magical effect, you can perform it without the standard incantation or even substitute it with another phrase. But doing so takes more time and effort—something you can’t afford in a duel or combat.
“And that, Miss Granger, is why pointing your wand at someone and casually saying ‘Episkey’ could earn you a swift ‘Stupefy,’ a ‘Relashio,’ or a knife to the gut in retaliation. And even the courts might not side with you.”
“I get it, I get it!” Granger interrupted him, waving a hand impatiently. “I already apologized. I’m more curious—how do you know all of this? You’re a Muggle-born like me, not someone who’s been poring over grimoires in some manor since birth.”
“From the day I learned about magic and set foot on this street, I’ve been reading,” Archibald replied evenly. “Books—lots of them, all kinds, constantly. For months now. I’ve talked to shopkeepers and store owners. Even one young miss—a future Auror—she was the first to tell me about magic and gave me a few tips afterward. I wanted to know everything about the magical world, now that I had this gift. Didn’t you do the same?”
“Of course!” Granger seemed almost offended by the suggestion that she might have done anything less.
“Not really,” Thomas admitted.
“Only the interesting bits,” Finnegan shrugged.
“Well, I guess I fit into the general statistics,” Archibald remarked, smirking slightly. Then he added, “And it seems our time here is up. That goblin heading this way looks like he’s coming for us. It was nice meeting you all, but I need to get going before all the apothecaries close.”
“Wait!” This time, Granger didn’t grab his arm but called after him instead. “What about the favor?”
“I’ve got a year before school, and I need to start preparing now,” Archibald said, turning slightly to address her. That she even remembered the promised favor earned her some credit in his eyes. Among magi, such obligations were remembered for years and often called in at the most inconvenient moments—with interest. “I’d like to know more about how things work at school and what I should expect. Textbooks are one thing, but each teacher has their own approach and their own priorities about what’s important and what’s not. That kind of information would be very useful. You’re reachable through magical post, right? Excellent. Then until next time. Expect an owl, or however it’s said here.”
