HP: A Magical Journey

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The seaside breeze tickled Quinn’s nose as he looked at the blue North Sea that stretched to the horizon. He stood at a hill near the seaside, overlooking an unexplored part of the shore with beautiful white sand receiving the gentle white tides.

Quinn shifted his feet and unsettled the seaside pebbles near his feet. He raised his hand, palm down towards the ground, and said: “Up!”— A couple of dry, rounded stones rose up, gently smacking into his palm. He looked to the sea and raised his other hand, and in response, puddles of water rose up from the sea and floated at his feet-level in a straight line. He cocked his arm to the side and swung it like a whip launching the shallow pebble towards the first puddle— it skipped off the water pool, and then continued to skip along in the line, landing precisely where the puddles were.

He smirked and extended the line of puddles. He tossed the stone up high, and while it was in the air, he injected body magic through his body. The stone came back down, touched his palm, and with another whip-like swing, heaved it across the line of floating water puddles launching water out on every hit.

Quinn nodded his head with satisfaction at his effort. He stamped his foot, and a pebble shot up into his hand, ready to be hurled across(and above) the sea— but his senses picked up something, and he dropped the stone along with the water. He waved his hand in front of his face to ensure his disguise and then turned to see Lucius Malfoy struggling his way up the small hill.

“Updates?” asked Quinn.

Lucius Malfoy stepped to the top of the flat hill and respired heavily while trying to hide the fact that the climb had left him out of breath. The proud man stood straight and looked toward Quinn as if nothing was wrong, and Quinn waited in silence.

“No changes have been made to the plans,” said Lucius finally. “The attacks are to go down tomorrow—” he cleared his throat “—my own target will be attacked near the noon, at the Cerible Square, whereafter he will be taken into custody—”

“Until all attacks have been completed,” Quinn nodded. As the days had passed, Rivers Lock had distributed more and more parts of the plan to the teams, and one of the additions was that the target-victims were to be hidden until the end of the day or the last attack, whichever came first.

“Are you ready?” asked Lucius.

“Ready?” Quinn quirked a brow. “No, I’m not.”

“What. . . then—”

“Being ready means that you believe you’ve prepared for an event, which means that there’s nothing more to be done. I never believe that there’s always more to be done— to ensure the success of the plan to a greater degree, even if it’s only by a fraction. I have certainly met the minimum requirements to secure success— but as Helmuth van Moltke the Elder said: No plan ever survives contact with the enemy— and I’ve learned that I like my plans surviving even if by a thread.”

While the words were pretty, they held the concrete truth inside of them. He was a major disadvantage of being only one person and going against eleven groups of people who had planned out their offenses. And even with his preparations, most of it wasn’t his own— the research for nine out of eleven targets had been outsourced, one he had taken directly from Lucius, and the remaining one he had done on his own. Moreover, the influence of Rivers Lock had organized the plans in such a way that he had no way to get the exact details of the plans— and his counter-strategy was a gamble, even though backed by research. He didn’t even fully trust Lucius’ information and had to get into the double-spy’s head stealthily to confirm the genuinity of his words.

“What about me,” spoke Lucius. “I-I don’t want to get into trouble with the Dark Lord.”

“. . . Has the last meeting been done? Is the Dark Lord or Rivers Lock or anyone else going to address regarding tomorrow?” asked Quinn, looking over the setting sun at the horizon. The sea was stunningly blue, with the sky above painted in a tint of red, with streaks of white clouds that were half-shadowed by the light from the sun.

“Everything’s done, today we rest, and tomorrow we go for the job.”

“I see,” Quinn turned to Lucius and said, “then you’re going to be just fine.” He raised his arm and pointed his index finger between Lucius’ brows— it was just close enough that Lucius had to squint to zone-in on the finger. His squinting eyes blanked out with pupils dilating; the shoulders slumped, and the entire loosened.

“If there’s no memory of it, then there’s nothing to be worried about,” muttered Quinn as he stepped closer and let his fingertip touch Lucius’ forehead. “Don’t worry, I will return your memories when I think it is safe. Yes, you won’t be getting any more family visits for a while— but don’t worry, I will leave the comfort behind.”

There were two types of Obliviations: one type was to completely erase the memory, expunge it completely without leaving any trace of it— but then there was the other kind, it would cut the connection of the memories to the larger net, leaving them inaccessible, turning them into forgotten memories. Quinn had learned both types of Obliviations from Alan’s texts— he had wiped Dolion’s memories completely, which was the first type of Obliviation— while what he was doing with Lucius was simply snipping the strings to the memories that could be retied later. As for ‘leaving comfort behind,’ — he was going to work around the emotions and leave the sentiments Lucius felt during his short reunions with his family. Not only would it make Lucius’s Obliviation proceed much more smoothly, but it also wouldn’t risk his work tomorrow. As for the risk, Quinn knew how Legilimens operated. He knew how Legilimens scoured through memories, and he knew if not explicitly looking for it, no Legilimens would look for Obliviated memories. And someone like Voldemort, who brute-forced most of the time, would never look, especially when his target willingly submitted for most of the time.

Quinn removed his head, and Lucius dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Lucius’ body rose up into the air, straight as a plank. Quinn put his hand on his shoulder, and without an eruption of noise, the beachside was left void of human life.

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“You called for me, my Lord,” said Rivers Lock, standing just outside the room’s threshold by the door. He looked at the brightly lit room with a shred of surprise— whenever he had met with the Dark Lord, he had done it in a dimly lit room with a couple of candles or a fire burning in a fireplace. Having a room adequately lit, even a little bit overlit, was a surprise if nothing else.

“Come in.”

Rivers stepped in and observed the Dark Lord sitting behind a table with a book in his hand, flipping through the pages as he leaned into his chair leisurely. And there it was again, once again a surprise. River knew that the Dark Lord was a learned man— no one becomes a magical juggernaut without studying— but in the years he had been near the Dark Lord, he had never seen him with a book in hand.

“Sit down.”

Rivers complied and sat down. When Voldemort didn’t look up from his book, Rivers took the chance to observe the room; it was different from the last time he had been there. The empty room had been filled with bookshelves with tomes in every row; a grand table, and a throne-like chair behind it. There were velvet curtains over the windows, and there were some interesting things on the walls— an animated world map, a tapestry giving out an intimidating feel, a seemingly normal circle mirror, and a pelt of some beast hanging on the wall.

“Is everything prepared?”

Rivers turned to Voldemort and replied, “The teams have been prepared and instructed. I have sat down with all the leaders, listened to their plans, and suggested some improvements— it’s up to them if they wish to implement my suggestions. All in all, the teams are ready to perform tomorrow.” He had listened to their plans, and even though he would’ve done things differently, done things better— but making plans wasn’t part of his duty. Though, the plans were decent enough for them to succeed. “By tomorrow night, the Ministry would know what has happened to them, and by the following morning, the people of this country will realize who they’re facing,” he said.

Voldemort hummed and continued to read the ancient tome with frayed page edges. “Who do you think has the highest chance of failing?”

“Nott,” said Rivers without skipping a beat; he didn’t even need to think about an answer.

“Why?”

“Too brash, too hot-headed. The Southern Lord is too self-confident in himself, the people he has chosen for his team, and his plan. I have sat with everyone on various stages, and I had to directly question the man on specific parts of his plans to make him see the egregious faults in them,” Rivers said nonchalantly, but his eyes were deader than usual. “He doesn’t know the importance of feedback; I had to force it down his throat to make his plan. . . acceptable.”

“What if he fails?”

“I. . . have a man in his team. . . a competent man, in case things go awry. He will deviate from Nott’s plan and do what seems fit for the situation.”

“And what if the situation is too public? Your plan requires secrecy.”

“If it seems that the plan is going south, I’ve prepared a backup team just in case.”

“To go to such great lengths, you must really not trust Nott.”

“Success is the only desired result,” said Rivers. Trust Nott? If there was a person in the world he trusted, it would never be Nott. If not for the orders and Nott’s standing in the Death Eater circles, he would’ve not even let the man sniff the air around this operation.

Voldemort hummed again. He closed his book and let go of it for the book to float into an empty slot in the bookshelf. For the first time, he looked up at Rivers, and there was a sense of critical observation in the red eyes. “What do you think will happen if tomorrow succeeds,” he asked.

“Chaos. Aurors will be blamed, Ministry will receive pressure, and a great unrest will spread. We can assert control in the situation.”

“Yes, we can. . . but I do not want to assert control, Lock,” said Voldemort, in a tone that, even though it seemed flat, was nothing but. “I wish to rule,” the voice was full of self-confidence, something much different than Nott’s— it was an insult to even compare. “For that reason, this is just the start— the days of hiding are coming to an end.”

“What do you mean, my Lord?”

“It’s time to take over.”

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Quinn West – MC – Busy day ahead.

Lucius Malfoy – Double-Cross – Found himself waking up in a private booth at a private club— thinks he’s getting old to fall asleep in the evening.

Voldemort – Dark Lord – I wish to dominate.

Rivers Lock – Strategist – Sure. . . whatever you say.

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