Mother was happy to have me home. She did not say it directly, of course. That was not her way. But the way she set out my favorite tea, how the sitting room had fresh-cut roses arranged by the hearth, and how she actually paused her inventory work for a full hour told me everything.
She had been disappointed when I chose to remain at Hogwarts over winter break. Not angry. Just... quietly hurt. She went to visit Felix alone while I stayed behind to train, to plan, to prepare. I told myself she would understand. Part of me knew she would. Still, I could see the soft relief in her eyes when she opened the door and saw me again.
My mother is not easily rattled. She is one of the most well-known potion mistresses in Britain. Her clients range from Ministry officials to private collectors with questionable hobbies. She plays the social scene like a seasoned duelist—graceful, poised, and always three steps ahead.
Her apothecary in Diagon Alley thrives, but that is only one branch of her influence. Her investments have restored dignity to the Rosier name. She never used power to control. She used precision. Patience. Planning.
That is why I sit with her now, in the heart of the drawing room, tea warm in our hands. The fire crackles gently nearby. My trunk is still unpacked upstairs, but she insisted we speak first. She said she wanted the truth, not the summary version I send by owl.
"So," she says, watching me from behind the rim of her porcelain cup, "tell me something the letters did not."
I smile, slow and careful. "I made real friends."
She tilts her head slightly, listening.
"Harry Potter and I are... close. So are Tracey Davis, Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, and a few others. We play music together, study together. They are the kind of people who... surprise you."
Her eyebrow lifts. "Surprise you? Or match you?"
"Both," I admit.
She hums, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "The Greengrass girl is intelligent. Controlled. The Davis family has always been underestimated. And Blaise..." Her lips twitch. "That boy is quiet for a reason."
I nod, then hesitate. My cup lingers near my mouth before I speak again.
"There is something else. I wanted to ask you something."
She looks at me fully now, the sharpness in her gaze softening only slightly.
"Can we have someone stay with us for part of the summer? Just for a few weeks."
She narrows her eyes, the gesture more curious than suspicious. "Who?"
"Harry."
The name hangs in the air for a beat longer than it should. I let her sit with it. Then I add, "He lives with his Muggle relatives. They hate magic. They hate him."
Something shifts in her expression. Her posture straightens, lips pressed into a line. It is not disbelief. It is fury, dressed in dignity.
"He is the Boy Who Lived," she says quietly. "And they treat him like filth?"
I nod once. "Worse than filth."
She stands slowly, walks to the window, and stares out at the Rosier garden in bloom. Her hands rest lightly on the sill. When she speaks again, her voice is calm, but cold.
"No child should suffer Muggles like that. Especially not him. If he needs a place, then this house will be it."
I set my cup down. "Thank you."
She turns and faces me. Her expression is unreadable, but her voice holds steel.
"But know this, Timothy. If you intend to protect that boy, truly protect him, then do not lie to me again. I know you are holding back. You have changed. There is more behind your eyes than clever spells and innocent music."
I say nothing.
She walks to me, sets a hand on my shoulder, and lowers her voice.
"I will not press. Not yet. But I am not blind. Be careful what you carry alone."
The silence between us stretches. Then she lifts her chin and says with a soft smile, "Now. Tell me what this band of yours plays. And do not say Muggle music without explaining the lyrics."
I laugh.
For now, that is enough.
<><><><><><><>
The summer night is quiet. The moonlight spills through the tall windows, bathing the room in pale silver. I sit cross-legged in bed, wand in hand, interface glowing softly before me.
[GP: 164]
It is time.
I have held off long enough, and my fingers itch with anticipation. Every pull is a weapon waiting to be discovered, a secret waiting to be unlocked.
"Let's begin," I whisper.
[Spend 30 GP for 10x Pull?]
[Yes.]
The familiar sound begins.
CLANK. CLACK. CLUNK.
One by one, the capsules roll out, each with that subtle magical hum. I open them with practiced hands.
Power: Buki Buki no Mi (Arms-Arms Fruit) (Rare) – One Piece
A grin touches my lips as the card glows. Weapon transformation. Limb into blade. Arm into cannon. This will be... very useful.
The rest, syringes, tools, and a cursed tooth charm, click neatly into my inventory. Each will find its use eventually.
[GP Remaining: 134]
[Spend 30 GP for 10x Pull?]
[Yes.]
CLANK. CLACK. CLUNK.
Character: Hina (Rare) – Hunter x Hunter
My eyes narrow. I know this one. Her Nen ability dispels curses and heals spiritual damage. A subtle but powerful ally… or at least, her essence is mine now.
The rest of the items filter in, lockpicks, gloves, and gadgets. Not bad.
[GP Remaining: 104]
[Spend 30 GP for 10x Pull?]
[Yes.]
CLANK. CLACK. CLUNK.
Power: Bakudō #1: Sai (Rare) – Bleach
A simple spell to bind the arms. Not flashy, but I see the value in control. Especially when combined with stealth.
The rest include acid traps, x-ray goggles, and food-based items that smell questionable. Still, into the vault they go.
[GP Remaining: 74]
[Spend 30 GP for 10x Pull?]
[Yes.]
CLANK. CLACK. CLUNK.
Power: Chart (Quirk) (Rare) – My Hero Academia
A holographic page that tracks location and health of those I care about. A map of safety. Or a net of surveillance. Either way, this one is personal.
I tuck away the wristbands, hoverboots, and a rather flashy grappling glove for future mischief.
[GP Remaining: 44]
[Spend 30 GP for 10x Pull?]
[Yes.]
CLANK. CLACK. CLUNK.
Power: Phantom Slash (Spirit Weapon) (Rare) – Bleach
I hold the card up. My fingers feel colder just by touching it. A slash that cuts even what cannot be touched. The spiritual. The unseen. My kind of weapon.
The rest of the pulls hum quietly as they settle into my growing inventory. Shuriken. Lightning vials. Rocket shoes. All interesting, all stored.
[GP Remaining: 14]
I sit back, letting the interface fade. Five rare cards richer. My deck now holds more than raw power. It holds answers.
These are not prizes.
They are pieces of my rebellion.
And when the time comes, I will wield them with purpose.
<><><><><><><>
I absorbed the new powers and character cards, everything except the Devil Fruit. The drawbacks of losing access to water are not worth the cost. Not yet.
As the last power settles beneath my skin, I lift my wand and summon a clone.
He steps out from the shadows without a word, already waiting for instruction.
"Stay here and train," I say, brushing past him. "I have something I've put off long enough."
I approach the rustic cabinet tucked in the corner of my study. Weathered wood, iron hinges, enchantments humming faintly beneath the surface.
The Vanishing Cabinet.
I step inside, close the door behind me, and open it again.
Silence greets me.
But not the silence of home.
I step into the Undercroft.
The walls curve in that familiar way, stone pressing inward, lit by the cold blue of ancient magic. The same eerie stillness as in Hogwarts Legacy—a space forgotten, a sanctuary buried deep.
I smile faintly. This was one of my best investments. The cabinet came from Borgin and Burkes, of course. But the repairs? That took time. I fixed its pair in the Room of Requirement last year, once I was sure Quirrell was dealt with. With the threat gone, I finally had the freedom to explore every inch of Hogwarts.
And now… it pays off.
I walk to the center of the chamber, where Ravenclaw's Diadem rests atop a stone pedestal. Elegant. Timeless. Cursed.
I do not hesitate.
I raise my hands and activate Hina's power. Magic floods my fingers, soft and blinding. It's not nen, but it pulses with the same purity. A cleansing force.
I press both hands onto the diadem.
The object trembles.
Then screams.
A wraith of shadow writhes upward from the cursed metal, shrieking as it twists into the air. The dark presence unravels like smoke under sunlight—burning, howling, gone.
Silence returns.
I pick up the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw. It no longer whispers. It no longer weighs heavy with a soul.
It is just… brilliant.
I place it gently on my head.
Knowledge hums through my mind—cold, clear, precise. Centuries of wisdom, sharpened.
And for the first time in a long while, a real smile breaks across my face.
"One down."
<><><><><><><>
The sky above Privet Drive was a dull, cloudless gray, the kind that pressed down on your chest like a weight. I sat on the edge of my bed, arms draped over my knees, watching the second hand crawl across Dudley's broken wall clock. Another summer day, just like all the others. Boring. Tense. Heavy.
Until I heard the knock.
It was polite. Three quick raps. Too controlled to be a neighbor. Too confident to be someone selling windows.
I moved to the window and peeked out.
Timothy Rosier stood on the front step.
He looked... different. Not in a strange way, just lighter. Happier. His robes were swapped for black jeans and a casual jacket. His dark hair was windblown, and his wand was casually tucked behind his ear like it belonged there. He looked like he had just stepped out of a band poster. And he was smirking.
I rushed down the stairs just as Aunt Petunia cracked open the door.
"Hello," Timothy said pleasantly. "I'm here to collect Harry."
Her eyes narrowed like she had smelled something foul.
"You are one of those—" she began.
Timothy raised a hand, palm open. A small flicker of flame appeared at his fingertips. It danced like a candle at first, then flared just enough to make her yelp and jump back, slamming the door open wider.
"Wandless magic," Timothy said with a grin, letting the flame vanish. "Best not to raise your voice around wizards. It can cause… reactions."
Vernon stormed into the hallway, his face already purple. "You can't just—"
Timothy turned and fixed him with a calm look, the same look Snape gave when he was about to deduct fifty points. "I can. And I will. Your nephew is leaving."
I stepped forward, feeling a little braver just by standing next to him.
Petunia sputtered. "But he has no right—"
"No magic allowed for underage wizards," Timothy said, eyes glinting. "But see, I'm not using a wand. Not technically. Legal gray area. Ask the Ministry."
He turned to me and grinned wider. "Ready to get out of this charming little prison cell?"
"More than ready," I muttered.
I grabbed my trunk and Hedwig's cage and followed him out, not daring to look back.
We stepped outside and the air felt different. Lighter. Like something had finally let go of my chest.
Timothy looked up at the sky, then glanced sideways at me.
"You look like you've been locked in a cupboard again."
"Close," I said.
"Let me guess. They tried feeding you through a letterbox this time?"
I laughed before I could help myself. "Almost. Dudley's been on a new diet."
"Poor bloke," Timothy said, pretending to look sad. "Tragic when someone loses weight and their personality too."
I shook my head, smiling. "You're in a weirdly good mood."
He shrugged, and for a second, something flickered behind his eyes. Satisfaction? Relief? I couldn't tell.
"Nothing wrong with enjoying life," he said. "Come on. We've got plans."
"How are we getting there?"
"Oh," he said with a wink, "Ever heard of the Knight Bus?"
As we walked down the street, I glanced back once at Number Four. The curtains twitched. The front door was closed. Silent. Still.
I faced forward again.
Somehow, everything felt better.
Even if I didn't know why.