Three days had passed since Aurelius had wrapped up his little ritual—one that had felt more like an elaborate dance with fate than anything else. He'd chosen the day carefully, making sure it coincided with a ship he could hop onto, just in case things got a bit too... fiery. Well, that precaution turned out to be a stroke of genius. The moment he recited the prophecy, something clicked in his brain, as if an internal alarm screamed, "Run!" So, naturally, he bolted from the Norwegian Archipelago faster than a Niffler chasing gold.
He'd figured it was only a matter of time before someone—probably the Ministry of Magic's overly enthusiastic Aurors—came knocking. He'd pegged them to show up two days after his departure, tops. What he didn't anticipate, however, was being hunted across the globe like some dark wizard on the run. Sure, he might have stirred the cauldron a bit, caused a ripple or two, but the conspiracies brewing against him? He didn't think he deserved that kind of melodrama. Honestly, it wasn't his fault that everyone else was so easily spooked by a little prophecy, was it?
"These are problems for future Aurelius to handle," he muttered to himself, as he lay sprawled on the floor of his temporary hideout, too exhausted to care about dignity. His grand exit had taken more out of him than he'd anticipated, and now, with night falling, all he could do was wait for Bramble. The faithful house-elf had scampered off to set up some convoluted plan Aurelius had cooked up before the trip—a plan that, in hindsight, seemed as useful as a chocolate teapot.
Despite all the fuss and bother, Aurelius couldn't help the giddy excitement bubbling inside him. Sure, he'd complained non-stop since the ritual, but deep down, he was practically glowing with pride. What he'd gained was monumental. His already impressive talents for divination and prophecy had skyrocketed to near-omniscient levels. Okay, maybe not omniscient, but close enough that he felt justified in boasting. The future was now something he could see, shape, and—more importantly—manipulate to his advantage.
He knew he was a transmigrator, aware of the fact that he was living inside a well-known novel. But whether it was this world or the one he had left behind; Aurelius didn't really care. He had memories of Jack's life—his dreams, his struggles—as well as Aurelius's own insecurities and aspirations. It was a strange duality, like being two people at once, but not quite. He couldn't even remember the novel's title or any of its plot points; nearly all entertainment-related details had slipped through his fingers like sand. Had he really been so eager to leave behind the simple joys of life?
Yet, by sacrificing almost everything about Jack's world, Aurelius had gained something far more valuable: access to fate itself. Not as some passive observer, but as a player in the game, a competitor with a considerable head start. If life were a long-term investment, Aurelius would be the guy holding all the blue-chip stocks. The butterfly effect? No longer his concern. He was so thrilled, in fact, that he could probably smile even while someone was cursing him out in a dozen different languages.
His musings were interrupted by the familiar voice of his house-elf, "Master Aurelius, you've returned?" Bramble's eyes widened in concern as he took in the sight before him. "But... why is Master Aurelius on the floor?"
Aurelius, arms still outstretched and face-down on the cold stone, managed a grin. "Bramble... care to join me down here on the floor? It's quite... grounding."
The house-elf's eyes twinkled with confusion, but there was no missing the fond exasperation in his voice. "No, Master Aurelius. But Bramble will prepare dinner for Master Aurelius. Master must be hungry."
"Famished, actually. I could eat a Hippogriff," Aurelius exaggerated, but his stomach's rumble suggested it wasn't entirely a joke. Bramble, visibly brightened by the chance to fuss over him, busied himself with dinner preparations.
Just when Aurelius thought the day was ending on a high note, Bramble suddenly whispered, his voice quivering, "Bramble feared for Master Aurelius when the Weaver prophecy became known. This old, useless house-elf could only wish for Master's safety, over and over…" H.. how? He was beaming just now.
Aurelius's heart gave a pang. "Bramble, you are anything but useless. You're one of the most important beings in my life. Never say such things." He managed to sit up, giving Bramble a reassuring look. "And as you can see, I'm perfectly fine."
Bramble sniffled, clearly trying to pull himself together, and Aurelius grimaced internally, knowing he was about to upset the poor elf all over again. "There's one more thing, Bramble. We need to change our plans. Cancel the negotiations for the land in Diagon Alley."
Bramble's face fell, and Aurelius winced as he continued, "For now, we need to keep a low profile. I'm afraid the world's a bit too interested in us at the moment."
The house-elf's shoulders slumped. Aurelius could almost feel the disappointment radiating off of him. "I'm sorry, Bramble," he added softly.
Originally, he had planned to open a divination parlor in Diagon Alley, capitalizing on his newfound prophetic talents. It was going to be spectacular; people would be lining up for miles just to get a glimpse of the future from the famous Aurelius. But now? With the whole world buzzing about the Weaver of Strings, it was as if he'd painted a target on his back, complete with the words 'Catch me if you can.' The last thing he needed was the Ministry breathing down his neck, demanding explanations he wasn't ready to give. Now, unfortunately, poor old Bramble's hard work in preparing for the takeover of the closing shop has been in vain. It's understandable how Bramble must be feeling.
There would be time for grand schemes later. For now, Aurelius would have to be content with lying low, though the prospect of outmaneuvering the entire wizarding world did bring a small, mischievous smile to his face. And if the dinner Bramble was preparing was as good as it smelled, maybe lying low wouldn't be so bad after all.
---
Mr. Sallow Slughorn, a man who took immense pride in his unflappable nature—a quality that had served him well throughout his tenure as the Chief Editor of the *Daily Prophet*—found his legendary composure beginning to unravel. It started subtly, almost innocuously, with the arrival of a letter one spring morning. But this was no ordinary correspondence. Penned in a flowing, elegant script that was both unknown and unsettlingly familiar, the letter unfolded itself before him, as if guided by an unseen hand, and began to recite its contents in a voice that was both authoritative and disturbingly intimate. The message it delivered was nothing short of astonishing, for it detailed the events of his day with an accuracy that bordered on the supernatural.
Slughorn sat frozen in his chair, his mind reeling from the eerie precision of the predictions. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the letter combusted in a flash of fire, leaving behind only a faint whiff of sulfur and a small pile of ashes. The sight of it—so final, so absolute—sent a shiver down his spine. This was no ordinary prank, no jest by a mischievous colleague or a rival editor. The magic involved was powerful, intricate, and far from cheap—a kind of magic that few could wield with such finesse.
The next morning, another letter arrived. And then another, and another, each one predicting the events of his day with unnerving precision before self-immolating in a blaze of fiery ash. Slughorn's initial unease quickly blossomed into full-blown alarm. By the time the third letter had arrived, he knew he could no longer dismiss these events as mere coincidence or trickery. Something far more sinister was at play.
Desperate for answers, Slughorn called upon his cousin Horace's connections within the Ministry of Magic, summoning the Aurors in the hope that they could put an end to this strange and unsettling phenomenon. The Aurors arrived swiftly, armed with all manner of charms and counterspells, and began their investigation. They employed every tool at their disposal—covert surveillance, powerful concealment charms, and even a portkey kept at the ready, should an escape be necessary. Yet despite their best efforts, the letters persisted, appearing each morning with the same unnerving regularity.
But there was something even more unsettling about the letters—they ceased to arrive whenever the Aurors were present, as if the sender were toying with them, mocking their every move. And then, as soon as the Aurors withdrew, citing a lack of resources and manpower, the letters resumed, their relentless assault as strong as ever.
For three long months, the cycle continued, each day more harrowing than the last. Slughorn found himself trapped in a state of constant anxiety, the foreknowledge of his every move becoming a torment in and of itself. He tried to piece together the identity of the sender, combing through his memories and his contacts for any clue, any hint of who might possess such power. But the answer eluded him, hidden behind a veil of mystery as thick as the fog that blanketed the streets of Diagon Alley.
And then, gradually, a strange realization began to dawn on him—the sender, mysterious and enigmatic as they were, harbored no malice toward him. The letters were not threats, but rather observations, delivered with an almost detached curiosity. Could this be some kind of test? A form of communication? Or was it simply the work of a mind as unfathomable as it was powerful?
Then, one fateful morning, another letter arrived, just as he had come to expect. But this time, the voice that spoke from the page was different—softer, more familiar. It instructed him to prepare for a visitor, someone who would arrive shortly. "Welcome them," the voice whispered, just before the flames consumed the letter, leaving nothing but a faint curl of smoke.
Moments later, a knock echoed through the quiet of his office, startling Slughorn out of his reverie. His heart pounded in his chest as his secretary entered, her expression a mix of puzzlement and concern.
"Sir, there's someone here to see you," she said hesitantly. "They didn't give a name, but they said… they said, 'He will know who I am.'"
A cold shiver ran down Slughorn's spine. The visitor had arrived, just as the letter had foretold. But who could it be? And what could they possibly want from him?
---
Sallow Slughorn's heart missed a beat as the door creaked open. He had anticipated someone tall, cloaked, and daunting—a figure befitting the enigmatic letters that had preoccupied his thoughts for days. Yet, there before him stood a small boy, scarcely older than five, his head barely reaching Sallow's waist. The boy wore dark, simple robes, his face was one of innocence, yet it bore a disconcerting serenity. His gaze held a sharpness that seemed misplaced in one so young. He has a bald head with faint markings on his forehead that are not clearly visible.
Sallow's initial reaction was one of disbelief. Could this child indeed be the author of those cryptic missives? He had envisioned a shadowy entity, not a child who appeared more suited to playtime than to the devising of elaborate plots. However, the intensity in the boy's eyes narrated a different tale—one that made Sallow's spine tingle.
"Mr. Slughorn," began the boy, his high-pitched voice remarkably steady, "I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me."
Sallow hesitated, attempting to conceal the growing unease within him. "You're the one who has been sending me letters?" he inquired, still coming to terms with the situation.
The boy nodded, his demeanor serene. "Yes, I am Aurelius, Aurelius Voyantil. I've eagerly anticipated our meeting."
Sallow motioned for Aurelius to come in, escorting him to the chairs near the fireplace. As they took their seats, Sallow's eyes darted towards the door, anticipating the arrival of someone else—a parent, a guardian, anyone to make sense of this strange meeting. Yet, they were alone, and the boy was unnervingly comfortable, as though such meetings were routine for him.
"You've certainly captured my interest," Sallow started, managing a smile. "However, I must admit, I did not expect someone of your youth."
Aurelius cocked his head, a subtle smile touching his lips. "Such prejudice, Mr. Slughorn, is unwise given your profession. You are well aware of my capabilities."
The boy's statement sent a shiver down Sallow's spine. He had encountered ambitious wizards before, but the disconcerting maturity in a child's voice was something else entirely. A flicker of greed ignited in Sallow's heart as he pondered the boy's potential—a seer who could foretell the future with the ease of a meal. Indeed, there seemed little that those eyes could not perceive.
"What do you want, Aurelius?" Sallow inquired, maintaining a carefully neutral tone. "Why have you gone to such lengths to meet with me?"
"I aspire to be a journalist," Aurelius stated plainly. "At the Daily Prophet."
Sallow, taken aback by the directness of the ambition, blinked. "A journalist? That's a remarkably candid goal for someone of your power and... youth."
"The news I intend to write is not ordinary," Aurelius elaborated, his eyes narrowing. "As you might have already discerned."
A shiver of disquiet ran through Sallow, memories of dread-filled days awaiting unwanted letters surfacing. Yet, this could be advantageous for him. He could leverage the young boy's ambitions, and in turn, be leveraged—a mutual benefit.
"You speak of a perilous journey," Sallow remarked with caution. "One fraught with grave implications. What makes you believe you are prepared for such an undertaking? Ministry is doing everything they can to track you down."
Aurelius's demeanor stayed composed. "Because I have already witnessed much. I am convinced that not even Dumbledore could harm me if I so choose."
Sallow acknowledged this silently. The power he saw in the boy, the opportunity to advance his own schemes, was clear. But there lingered an underlying dread—the fear of the chaos that might ensue should the boy's plots veer off course.
"What do you require from me?" Sallow inquired, striving to maintain a steady voice.
"Your connections and concealment," Aurelius responded. "As you are aware, I, the Weaver of Strings, am under close surveillance. I need your assistance with that."
It was indeed true. He was the prophesied Weaver of Strings. A mix of greed and fear surged within Sallow. This was no mere child; the dangers were substantial. However, the prospect of what Aurelius proposed was irresistibly alluring.
Yet, Sallow was not naive. He understood that a pact with someone like Aurelius necessitated safeguards. "If I am to aid you," Sallow articulated cautiously, "we must ensure mutual protection. An Unbreakable Vow."
Aurelius gave a nod, seemingly anticipating this condition. "Agreed. We shall both commit to a bond that guarantees neither will suffer harm nor be exploited against the other."
Summoning his secretary, Sallow watched her enter with a puzzled gaze upon seeing the young boy but remained silent. With her bearing witness, Sallow and Aurelius lifted their wands, the atmosphere charged with the solemnity of their impending oath.
"I vow," Sallow declared, his voice betraying a tremor, "to refrain from any actions that may harm Aurelius, or harbor ill will towards him and his kin."
Around their hands, the magic spiraled, affirming their solemn pledge.
"And I vow," Aurelius declared in a disturbingly calm tone, "to refrain from any actions that might harm Sallow Slughorn or act with malice towards him or his family."
Sallow continued, the weight of the magical bond palpable. "I vow to support Aurelius in his journalistic career at the Daily Prophet, to honor his requests that do not harm me or my family, and to keep his secrets undisclosed."
Aurelius's eyes shone as he made his final vow. "And I vow to assist with Sallow Slughorn's requests to the best of my ability, provided they do not harm me or my people."
The last thread of magic tightened, finalizing the Unbreakable Vow. He had just allied himself with a youth who talked of reshaping the world as if it were mere child's play—a youth who could be more perilous than he seemed.
Aurelius rose, offering a small, courteous nod. "Thank you, Mr. Slughorn. I anticipate our forthcoming cooperation." It appeared that all was proceeding as he had anticipated.
After the young man exited, Sallow reclined in his chair, his mind swirling with mixed feelings. The avarice that had prompted the vow clashed with the dread of his recent action. He had linked his destiny to an enigmatic youth with lofty aspirations—time alone would reveal whether this choice would bring dominion or downfall. Maybe he will be the missing component to achieve his dream?
As time passed, Sallow's secretary approached him warily, her gaze laden with silent worry. "Sir... are you sure about this?"
Sallow's response was delayed. His eyes stayed fixed on the door Aurelius had just passed through, his mind racing.
Eventually, Sallow faced his secretary, his tone soft yet determined. "I am certain," he affirmed. "I intend to seize this opportunity to its fullest extent."
The secretary acknowledged this, though her apprehension remained. Although she does not understand what had happened here, she as a loyal graduate of Hufflepuff will not do anything that might bring harm to Daily Prophet and Mr. Sallow.