Of Magic and Lavish (HP SI)

England, Platform 9¾ [Magical]

31-08-1969​

Perteus Graymort​:

The train whistled with my entrance into the platform, the portal's surface rippling like a mildly disturbed still lake. It was an illusion, I knew, though the blindness of the magic to my shroud did linger my interest at the inconsequential enchant-work coaxed into platform 9¾.

Illusions, the discipline of falsity, imitation, and, most important of all, ignorance—such a foul aspect that.

I took a breath and stepped to the side, my shrunken trunk in hand, ensuring I did not hinder the other youths entering this hidden station.

They trickled in, young and old. A fair bit of them pushing with them the trolleys seen in the pictures. Some had those odd owls on them, the bizarre creatures locked in their cages. I had no such thing, and I suspected the reason for that was the maintenance of normality—thus mine own mails would be delivered by man and hand.

It was a bit of foresight I had not expected from the magical society, certainly not after they had entrusted the secret of not only their world to kids, but a way to access it too.

Or maybe I was just an exception, maybe my knowledge of Rowling's work did blind me from the reality of the circumstances and the countermeasures employed.

I thought back to the week, searching for any oddities in behaviour I might have suffered. A lack of enthusiasm, perhaps, or the absence of anxiety one ought to feel when entrusted with maintaining a secret of something so wondrous and worthy of boast.

A sigh escaped my lips as I let my shroud dissolve into the ambiance, heightening my awareness. My focus was on the young—those who would be my year mates—the eldritch sense cataloging the differences between the muggle-born and magical.

The mind, the body, the heart.

What of the flow of their magic? Unfortunately, such thorough scans were beyond me, and my own attempts at abnormal identification was highly inefficient and prone to deluded conclusions.

Still, I tried, and my efforts yielded no substantial results. It was rather hard to identify something you had no knowledge of. And even if a few of the magical young did carry on them the eldritch feel of magic, the linger of them were too varied to credit them to tamper.

I withdrew my regard, not particularly that bothered by mental tampering—if that was what truly happened. If I was indeed mind raped, then it would be deserved as my inability to defend against it suggested it was a fated occurrence.

An unsavory perspective, I knew, yet it placed the blame squarely on the true culprit behind my suffering: life.

…yet I was also one for hypocrisy that bordered on bipolar.

Instinctively, I took a step to the side, avoiding being bumped into by a rather lanky boy. He awkwardly came to a stop, turned, and offered me a rather sheepish and apologetic look.

Young, that was my first thought of the kid, even as I offered an understanding nod in return. He had that symmetrical look that all magicals boasted, though his visage promised no great handsomeness to grow into. A long face, wide dull blue eyes, and big round ears.

And that hairline…I could see the prophecy about it.

"Mind your step, Frank, or you'll tarnish your esteem before the term's even begun." An eloquent, high voice echoed further behind me, its tone full of chiding and faux disappointment.

I turned, easily, and beheld a woman who was just entering her greying years. She was tall, a fair bit more than the boy named Frank, and she had sharp but delicate features, with eyes that were a rich amber and ears just as loud.

"Ah, sorry, mother," the boy said as he straightened himself. "I'm just a bit eager, that's all." Despite the childish tone, there was a hint of discipline in his speech.

I felt the woman frown a bit. "Don't apologise to me," she almost sighed. "I swear you're just as gauche as your father."

My lips quivered a fraction, the generic remark was just amusing enough. The nigh-elderly woman turned to me, her face stern…and a tad bit severe. "Do pardon this child of mine, he's been ever eager for Hogwarts since the letters came in."

I shook my head, fully aware that my presentation was removed from childish. "It is of no bother," I admitted. "I'm honestly quite relieved that someone else shares in my eager."

A true statement.

A bit of surprise—nearing shock—flashed upon the woman's face before she reined it in. "Is that so," she hummed, and there was amusement in there. "Perhaps you and my Frank might end up being house mates, Mr…?"

"Graymort. Perteus Graymort." I did not offer a hand to shake, careful not to appear too presumptuous.

She furrowed her brows, probably wondering about the origin of my name. "Graymort, huh? I must admit my ignorance of such a house." The woman admitted, seemingly uncaring of the fidgeting displayed by her progeny just beside her.

I had long decided to dispense with the secrecy and falsities.

"It would be a surprise if you did," I said. "From what I've been told, I'm what you might call a muggle-born, one without magical parentage."

Another flash of surprise, one mirrored by the lanky boy. "B…but you act like that pompous Luci—"

"Frank!" The woman interrupted her child, a bit of something else in her tone this time around. Still, she did turn to me with the same curiosity her child harboured, though hers had a lingering interest on my clothes so impeccable. "Do forgive my child's crassness, though he does present a fair point. It's quite rare for one of your kind to be so…tempered and proper."

A probing question, and one so unveiled. That distinction too…it agitated me.

Then again, this had been a rather odd conversation from the start. I did not mind it much, and once more decided on honesty. "I thought it necessary to be courteous and open minded about this side of the world." I was quite familiar with touring and the etiquette associated with it.

It mainly boiled down to one thing: respect the culture.

Honestly, I believe the magical world had not done enough to address cultural differences and social perspectives. Rather than this awkward dichotomy regarding how to treat Muggles—be it isolation, subservience, or accommodation—there should be a fourth path: reformation.

Propaganda was such a useful tool.

Then again, the magical world was far too isolated and stagnant for such a course—the fools should have seized control of the mundane world's autonomy ages ago and made a world absent of intense secrecy and hollow pride.

Not that this lack of foresight failed to provide me with ample opportunity and a straightforward path to dominance.

Was I being too dark in my line of thought? I didn't think so. Having lived as both a mundane and now as a magical, I knew all too well how unfavourably the other side would respond to the undeniable superiority magicals possessed. With impulsiveness, fear, and an uncanny obsession with maintaining control—thus subjugation.

The Longbottoms—I had managed to uncover their identities—did leave promptly after the arrival of the man I suspected to be Neville's father's father. He came bearing his son's supplies, the trunk shrunk down to the size of a ring box. With a touch of theatrics, he had undone the charm, granting me my first glimpse of foreign wandless magic.

It had been…insightful, though I must admit much ignorance on the workings of enchantments—including the derivatives of the discipline. From my observations, I could somewhat equate the art to that of coding, at least, in a fashion…

…but that was beside the point.

The elder Longbottom had been able to enhance the shrinking spell-work of the trunk, without disturbing the entire matrix—this was the name I dubbed the confusing magical structure native to magical items—through means I did not know.

And that was the intriguing part.

I knew that the charm he used was simple enough to not require intense focus or a steady supply of desire. Yet it did not have lingering effects, thus the man had consciously been keeping the charm alive with not that much strain on his part.

That hinted at exceptional mastery in spellcraft, familiarity with the charm, or an impressive level of output efficiency—something I alone could claim. It left me pondering the extent of magical power one could acquire and the feats that monsters like Tom and Albus, true heirs to magic, might be capable of invoking.

I did not quiver in fear.

However, my curiosity could wait, and my frustration even more so. If this week—a blur thing that it was—had taught me anything about the mystic, it was that I knew absolutely nothing about this potent power dubbed magic.

That irked me. It irked me a fair bit.

My expectations were brutally shattered by the knowledge I had gleaned from the books. The shroud, my cherished art, did not align proper with the wizarding world's system of magic. My nearly ancient cultivation of it had not granted me the innate ability to perform wandless magic, nor did it integrate smoothly with the feat of unassisted magic—at least, not when it came to the singular spell I was able to invoke.

It was…a souring revelation. And I not been a calmer soul and used to the cruelties of life, I would have pursued the foolish venture to invent my own system of magic, one that would have a great connection with my shroud.

A most admirable dream.

Yet, its foolishness lay in the fact that I did not know the proper mechanics behind my shroud's creation, save for the fact that my desire and tenacity had made it real.

The modern mysteries were a work of minds greater than mine, and I dared not delude myself into thinking that the development of a new magic system would be a simple affair.

'Perhaps if it was only a matter of vanity.' Such was my wonder…a lament. Those of my circumstances tended to be loved and coddled by their second chances, the world ever so eager to make true their theories and desires.

I enjoyed no such comforts. And I decided that was for the best. The heavens know how much my depravity would swell if sense and individualism took leave of this reality.

"Boarding in 15 minutes!"

The announcement came, its echo a contradictory sort of reverberation. I sighed to it, deciding to ignore the growing oddities, and chose instead to focus my attention to the platform now filled with students and parents chatting about the place.

I scanned the crowd, searching for any notable individuals. I spotted a few, the most striking being the Malfoys—those unmistakable white-blond manes must have been a hallmark of their bloodline, given their consistency. Then there were the Blacks—primarily the three sisters, their identity betrayed by the youngest among them. Lastly, and perhaps most speculatively, the Weasleys—or so I had dubbed the family of redheads.

Unsurprisingly, aside from tween Narcissa, the others seemed to be seniors, though only Arthur seemed to be starting his final year.

I walked forward toward the train, coming to a careful stop just a few steps from its body. My reflection stared back at me, ghostly eyes and dark, eerie hair lending me a somewhat emo appearance. My features were… fair, the prettiness accentuated by my youthful age and pale complexion.

Looking down, I noted the style of dress that stern crone had chosen for me. It was both appealing and comfortable—no doubt she'd dipped into her reserves to afford it. I wore a whitish-gray shirt under a fitted black blazer that clung neatly to my frame. A pair of belted, long gray pants covered my legs, complemented by polished black shoes.

Everything was kept in immaculate condition by my shroud, the smooth lines and sharp edges of the outfit maintaining their perfection without fault.

It was no wonder I kept being misidentified. Of course, that wasn't to say it wasn't intentional on my part. Prestige was my goal, and I was determined to achieve it, even if it was the last thing I did.

The train whistled again, pulling me from my thoughts. I reached into my pocket and retrieved my train ticket just as a voice called out:

"First years boarding!"

============

The Saint: Perteus is… a bit extreme. At times. Just know that he isn't devoid of heart or sympathy—in fact, he's nowhere near as bad as he presents himself. Now, I'm hinting at a lot of things—magic-wise. The MC will have his observations and hypotheses, never take them as factual until proven so.

I made a few changes to the boarding process, ages, and to some characters—mainly Narcissa's hair. I'm also trying to patch the clown owl-messaging system. Sending messages via owl in the mundane world will raise some questions.

Now remember, if you find any inconsistencies, errors, or just have some creative suggestions, do share. I'm not opposed to altering previous chapters if the ideas are interesting enough. And if you do find yourself craving additional chapters, I have four advanced chapters on my Pa-treon under the same name.

Anyway, bye!