Of Magic and Lavish (HP SI)

Highlands, Hogsmeade 

31-08-1969

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—————

Perteus Graymort​

Outside the train, we huddled off to the side of the platform while the older students marched down a different path. The Scottish chill bit into us, the highlands carrying a thin breeze that whistled with the promise of sneezes and runny noses.

The kids stood quietly, their breaths forming misty puffs under the station's dim luminescence.

I was calmer too, the trepidation canceling out the high excitement I had carried moments before. Hogwarts was near—the phantom tendrils of its magic already weaving into our hearts, into our identities.

It was the same touch I had felt in the wandmaker's shop, though this was far more illusory and less treacherous. Or so I believed. I took a breath, encouraging my shroud to emit some waves of warmth through rotational opposition.

The boon obliged, and the children within the range of its gentle emittance seemed to relax, if only a fraction. None of them I knew, my compartment mates having been separated from me while we disembarked.

I did not lament though, as such was an expected possibility…one I manufactured. The pair were not destined for my house—this was something I felt deep—thus any greater friendship with them would be useless.

"How long are we meant to wait here?" One of the kids asked, the lilt of the voice suggesting it was a boy—a high-born. 

I withdrew my focus from the ambience's bewilderment and redirected it to my peers.

"Quiet off, Davis," a girl said, her voice laced with the same refinement as the boy's. "You've barely been here a day and you're alre—"

She did not finish. Interrupted.

"Righ', righ'! Sorry I'm late, everyone! Got a bit tied up dealin' with some… uh, surprise visitors. Nothin' ter worry 'bout!" A voice, deep and rumbling, sounded from my right side. We all startled at its echo, the reverberation of it just too frightening to be normal.

Out the shadowy tree-path, a giant emerged, holding a lantern in hand. Hagrid, I surmised, though that realisation did not rid me of the fright that the gentle halfling had instilled in my childish heart.

He moved slow, each step sending faint tremors through the ground. The light in his hand barely touched his face, so our view of him was a shadowy silhouette with wild, frazzled hair and a hand as big as our torsos.

The man was intimidating, and that intimidation did not fade even as he entered into the station's dull radiance, and a big wide smile was revealed to be on his face.

"Firs' years, eh? I see yeh're all here already." He brought a hand to his bushy beard and withdrew a dry twig. "Right then, best be off ter the boats!"

We did not move, and that inaction dimmed the man's smile a bit. Luckily, one of the kids elected to speak then, if a bit hesitantly. "Er, are you…are you the giant the upper years were talking about on the train?"

Hagrid chuckled, and somehow that display dwindled my fright. "Giant? Me? Nah, jus' a bit taller than most, that's all. You'll see proper giants in yer classes later—an' lemme tell yeh, they make me look small! Now, c'mon, we've got a lake ter cross, and a sortin' ter get ter!"

I did not make the first move this time around.

The faux giant guided us through the dimly lit path, and to the lakeside a fair bit away. The movement rid us of the shivers, and the well made roads hindered disorganisation. I saw a few of the kids chatting and pointing before remembering that a magical village existed a bit away from the station.

This must be familiar to them.

When we came by the lake, we found a fleet of boats waiting for us in the eerily calm loch. Looking around I saw no sign of Hogwarts, and I wondered if this would be yet another journey.

Truth be told, the previous trip had tired me, and I feared that further boredom would encourage drowse to creep into my awareness.

Drowse was my enemy, and it so loved to make a mockery of my will…

"There yeh go—one boat per four students. Don't worry, they're sturdy! Never lost a student yet… least not fer long."

Wait, what?! 

Hagrid ushered us into the boats, the enchanted things barely wavering under our weight and movement. I shared it with two boys and a girl with skin like bronze and eyes that shared a striking resemblance to mine. That soured my mood somewhat, I was truly hoping my eyes would be unique—that would have saved me much time in devising a new feature to add to my lineage.

We exchanged introductions, and I learned that all three were pure-bloods, with one of the two boys being the heir to the House of Greengrass. The girl was a Zabini, the would-be mother of Blaise in another reality. I could see why she would be successful in her ventures; she was well-bred, and had a promise of great beauty in her future.

Unfortunately, their reception was not genuinely warm—it was more belittling and dismissive, if anything. I was not concerned, of course; these were kids, and kids were such moldable things.

The boats began to glide forward, smooth and deliberate. Hagrid sat at the front, his massive frame turned toward us all.

I kept my gaze on the water's surface, noting—and dismissing—the absence of the stormy sky's reflection. Meanwhile, the other kids were marveling, murmuring, and pointing at sites far too mundane to fascinate.

The lake revealed no creatures of myth or legend. It revealed no ordinary creatures either, even as my presence extended outward. Perhaps it was naive of me to expect majesty and horror in every corner of this society.

A minute passed.

And then, I felt something.

"Keep yer eyes open now! First sight o' Hogwarts—always somethin' yeh'll remember," Hagrid told.

My shroud brushed against a faint presence, the sensation barely perceptible. I had encountered this feeling before at the station, and during our journey here in different intervals. 

The Veil of Secrecy—at least that was what I had dubbed it.

The unnatural divide that separated the magical from the mundane.

I looked ahead, away from the dark waters, and saw a massive castle-like structure perched on the edge of a hill. 

The castle loomed grandly over the lake, an enormous medieval structure of weathered stone with countless turrets, towers, and battlements reaching toward the sky. Its tall, narrow windows glimmered with warm lights, and its many staircases and bridges seemed to twist and interconnect in impossible ways. It was vast too, and majestic, and fantastical. More so than its adapted version…

Hogwarts.

…yet, my breath did not hitch, nor did overwhelming awe seize my heart as the tales of fans had promised. That was not to say the sight of the castle was not magnificent—it certainly inspired wonder in my peers—but I was an old soul, shaped by many travels.

Yet even with that, I marvelled at the atmosphere that surrounded the castle. It was…theatrical, and certainly gave more weight to the school's external presentation.

A smile came by my face, relief washing over me. I was here, and the touch of dream had yet to taint this existence…and perhaps, it never would.

——

McGonagall was not beautiful.

This was a realization that should not have been surprising or disappointing. Her descriptions in the text never hinted at appeal, nor did the actress in the pictures embody such. Yet, I had foolishly hoped that this ancient time, this true self, might have been kinder to her image. Unfortunately, such was not the case. 

Age had already claimed her, with strands of white threading through her hair and fine wrinkles etched upon her face. She carried a sternness about her, that grandmotherly severity that left no room for disobedience or mischief. It was Matron Caldwell all over again, and I hoped my dread did not quite show on my face.

The woman spared us all an evaluative glance, before nodding and beckoning us to follow after her into the bewitched castle. We did so in a proper manner, my childishness bleeding past my adult identity to mirror my peers.

McGonagall began that introductory lecture once read in those fictions now turned reality.

"Welcome to Hogwarts…" she had said, her voice perfectly tailored for teaching and other such acts of guidance. I tuned out most of her words, and instead permitted the interior of the school to steal my attention.

Much like many interiors I had experienced in this moonlit world, the inside of this castle was much larger than its external observations would have suggested. The walls were wider, ceilings higher, and reality less robust for some inexplicable reason.

My shroud was spread, and I caressed whatever was in reach and with a twisted presence. Enchanted lanterns with candles that lit with no heat emitted inspired bright illumination, and windows of high durability and dustless clarity allowed the flashes of the storm into the castle.

The walls were also enforced, regulated, and tailored to counter the weathers and seasons whenever they turned vicious. The magic was subtle, but still compounded to maximise the identity of shelter.

I was immediately convinced that the finesse of the enchantments ran deep, as I could already feel a conversation between the castle and my desire already in session. The stories scribbled by fans came into memory, that quote about the castle accommodating all within its walls. 

Was it true, I wondered. Yet I did not put significant thought to it.

I was taken with the castle—not the aesthetics but the eldritch art applied upon it. It was…fantastical what sorcery could achieve when divorced from its more pedestrian utilisations.

Granted, flashy displays of the arcane were fair and dazzling, but it was more in the finer and quieter aspects where magic truly shone. 

Severus—the man-child now still a brat—said it best. Mastered to an acceptable level, alchemy was capable of creating the most esoteric of things.

Brewing glory, affection, or even subjugating fate and denying existence its indifference.

Those were the disciplines I wished to dabble in, that part of magic I truly considered fantastical. 

And these walls contained them. The train had, too, in its way, but here they were more…potent. Not in any obvious or palpable sense, but more like the sensation of life itself—a fleeting moment of ethereal abundance, except here, it was everlasting…

Ah, magical manipulation, how beautiful a thing it was.

…there was also something else to the sorcery cast here, a different kind of flair and reverberation.

It was…

I did not know, not truly. But I felt it, even if I could not resonate.

We passed by some portraits, and some of the muggle kids awed and pointed at them. I awed too, deeply curious and fascinated by this magical art so prolific.

It was not my first time seeing living images; some of the adults at the platform had carried newspapers with animated photographs. Even some of the books I had seen in the bookstore featured portraits of their authors. Yet, those earlier encounters had been different—the movements were limited, mechanical, and devoid of true awareness.

These art pieces were aware. They pointed and waved and spoke. 

Artificial intelligence, perhaps? I doubted the creation of such would be difficult if a wizard was inspired and capable enough.

Maybe.

These artistic manifestations were already incredible pseudos. Then again, I might be mistaking glitter for gold…

"Don't dally," the professor's harsh words echoed, snapping me and a few others out of our lingering. "You'll have plenty of time to gawk tomorrow."

Some of the posh kids snickered, but a sharp glare from the woman quickly silenced their mockery. Hastening back, I found myself near the youngest of the Black girls: Narcissa.

"This must be your first time seeing a portrait." It was not much a question but a statement, one said with no small amount of belittlement. "I suppose the muggle world doesn't host such things."

I might have laughed if I were not feeling so… considerate. Kids were always amusing when they tried to act like adults—I was sure I was just as funny when I did the same.

"They do, actually," I replied, and it was somewhat true…to an extent. One could argue that the television was akin to these portraits—moving pictures and all. "Though they aren't quite the mirror of these magical versions."

The girl looked a bit surprised, so I indulged her disbelief. It was clear she had little to no knowledge of the world beyond this one—a trait that seemed common among most magicals.

"The absence of magic doesn't mean the absence of creativity." I was not going to get into the philosophy of identity and the predictability of man with a child…at least not now.

She scrunched her face in thought, though I knew my wisdom was beyond her infant comprehension.

I smiled, "it means that all people are creative."

She frowned, "why didn't you just say so?"

"I did."

McGonagall said something immediately after that, cutting our conversation short. I was trying to establish an identity among my year mates, and Narcissa seemed like someone who would inevitably lead a group or two.

If I enforced the image of superiority in her mind, it would inevitably bleed over to her friends. And if hostilities fail to emerge, I might find myself a leader of a faction, or just my year mates altogether.

This was the reason behind my pretentious speech and mannerisms.

"I'll be heading to the halls to check on matters regarding the Sorting Ceremony. Use this time to prepare yourselves," McGonagall instructed before turning and leaving, her robes fluttering a little.

I wondered if there was a small course on flair and foreboding for the professors, these people were too theatrical.

As soon as the woman vanished, chatter about the Sorting Ceremony filled the clustered room. None of them truly knew of the method, and just like in the books, many had wild speculations.

"Aren't you worried?" Narcissa reignited our conversation. Despite her attempt to mask her nerves with childish confidence, I could see the anxiety flickering in her expression.

"No."

Her surprised look returned, "what if you get sorted into the wrong house?"

I doubted that was possible. The Sorting Hat was not so unreasonable. It placed those with no strong preferences into houses it deemed suitable and honored the wishes of those who had a clear desire.

At least that was my understanding of it.

"I won't be."

Then again, I might be wrong.

…I was still yet uneducated about the basics, never mind the nuances of wizardry. Yes, I knew that I sometimes expressed firm belief in my conjectures and performances, but knowledge accumulation did tend to humble hubris. I supposed that was why my wand was sufficiently flexible.

The edges of my lips dipped into a slight frown, however I did not have time to ponder on my feelings and thoughts.

"Come along now," the professor was back. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to begin."