Cultivator in Hogwarts

I modified it a little to make it a little easier to understand.

Give me power stones.

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Chapter 5 – A Cultivator Among Frogs

The Sorting had come to a close. The room, now roaring with excited chatter and echoing silverware, fell into a hushed reverence as Dumbledore rose to his feet. His long, moonlit beard glimmered under the enchanted ceiling, which still displayed a lazy swirl of stars..

Luke adjusted his sleeves with the poise of a visiting sect Elder.

Dumbledore opened his arms wide, as though welcoming a particularly unruly group of magical toddlers.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts!" he declared, eyes twinkling. "Before we begin our feast, just a few announcements. One reminder to you, the third-floor corridor is strictly off-limits—unless, of course, you fancy an excruciating death."

Luke raised an eyebrow.

"Direct and unnecessarily vivid," he muttered.

Neville whimpered beside him.

"And as always," Dumbledore continued, "the Forbidden Forest remains just that: forbidden. And now, allow me to introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor: Professor Quirinus Quirrell."

A round of polite applause followed as Quirrell stood, nervously twitching like a squirrel being hunted by an acromantula.

"And, our newest addition to the Hogwarts staff," Dumbledore gestured grandly toward the staff table, "Professor Elizabeth Heaven-Smith, who will be teaching Muggle Studies."

Luke choked on his own refined breath.

A full second passed before his brain could accept what his ears had just delivered. His mother—his mortal maternal protector, his life mentor, the only one who ever dared deny him dessert—was now… faculty?

He blinked several times.

Then turned, very slowly, to confirm she was indeed sitting among the professors. There she was, sipping pumpkin juice with unbothered grace, her hair in an elegant bun that screamed "I am both refined and capable of dismantling your entire worldview."

"…This young master… was not informed of this development," Luke whispered.

His voice cracked slightly with internal conflict, but he regained composure with a sniff. "Still, not surprising that the sect would recognize the latent talent of my progenitor. Truly, her dao is formidable."

Several nearby students had turned to stare. Some murmured at the sight of the poised muggle woman among the staff. A few whispered about her elegance and beauty. A great many Slytherins, however, looked at her with disdain.

"A Muggle?" one of them sneered. "At the head table? Surely we're not that desperate for instructors."

Another nodded with theatrical disgust. "Her robes aren't even enchanted. Honestly."

Luke's eye twitched.

He inhaled through his nose with the serenity of a master in the final stages of enlightenment, and smiled.

He would remember their faces. He would remember their voices. And when the time came, when his cultivation base was strong enough… he would unleash upon them a the hardest punishment he possessed knowledge of, a good spanking on the butt, in front of everyone.

A secret art that his mother applied to him when his actions went against her divine will.

But not yet.

He was still too weak.

BOOM!

Just as his anger began to simmer, the golden plates in front of them burst into existence, filled with steaming, colorful, occasionally twitching food.

"FOOD!" shouted one of the Weasley twins at the Gryffindor table.

Luke surveyed the dishes with a calm frown. Roasted meats. Steamed vegetables. Puddings. Stews. Things that wobbled suspiciously.

He delicately picked up a pudding and examined it like it owed him money.

"I miss the Peruvian cuisine," he declared with a sigh. "Their gastronomy do touched my soul. This is but shadow food."

A Slytherin two seats down turned with curiosity. "Peruvian cuisine?"

Luke nodded, face solemn. "Cuy chactado. Ají de gallina. Anticuchos… Such names alone are incantations."

Gasps echoed along the bench. Some were scandalized. Others were impressed.

"Is it… some kind of potion?" a second-year asked, half-hopeful.

"No," Luke answered. "It is culinary enlightenment. You wouldn't understand. Frogs at the bottom of a well cannot comprehend the vastness of the sky."

Half the Slytherin table felt personally attacked, but couldn't formulate a comeback good enough. They don't possess knowledge about that place and are too pridefull to continue the discussion.

Across the Great Hall, Harry Potter took a hesitant bite of mashed potato and looked around, wide-eyed.

"This is all magic food?" he asked Percy, who was sitting beside him.

"Of course," Percy replied, puffing out his chest like a nerdy peacock. "Prepared by house-elves with generations of magical culinary skill. Not a single muggle utensil used."

"Blimey," whispered Ron. "I'd sell my wand to eat like this every day."

Fred leaned across. "We'll remember that when Mum sends us turnip stew next week."

George added, "Yeah. Let's tell her you'd rather eat here than what she prepares."

Ron glanced over at Luke, who was now sipping pumpkin juice like it was ancient wine.

Harry turned to speak again—only to meet the piercing gaze of Severus Snape.

Their eyes locked.

Snape's own narrowed in slow-motion, like a dementor tasting someone's deepest insecurity.

Harry shivered. "What's his deal?"

"Snape?" George whispered. "He hates students. Especially us, from Gryffindor"

As the main course began to vanish and dessert appeared in a sparkle of magic, the ghosts started floating around again—causing minor chaos and at least one student to scream when a transparent monk flew through his pudding.

Nearly Headless Nick glided by the Slytherin table and gave Luke a polite nod.

Luke responded by putting down his fork, placing both palms together in a strange mudra, and whispering: "Retreat, Yin soul. You dare disturb this one's digestion?"

The ghost paused in mid-air, puzzled.

"What?"

Luke's eyes glowed with authority.

"Next time, I will not be so merciful. Many techniques have I mastered that target the soul realm."

The ghost vanished.

A nearby first-year whispered, "Did he just exorcise Sir Nicholas?"

"I think he cast a ghost banishing spell with his mind."

"Hahaha A first-year scared a ghost to run away."

McGonagall, from the staff table, sighed deeply into her goblet. Beside her, Professor Sprout chuckled and leaned in.

"He's a headache," McGonagall muttered.

Dumbledore, unfazed, raised a hand once more. The desserts vanished mid-chew for some.

"And now, let us rest. The feast has concluded, and your dormitories await."

The hall erupted in the screeching shuffle of benches and clinking shoes. The prefects of each house began rounding up their first-years.

Luke rose, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. "Well," he said, lifting his chin, "this young master shall now inspect the quarters of this sect."

One Slytherin muttered, "Hmp! So pretentious!"

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"First years, with me!" a tall, lanky Slytherin prefect called out, his voice carrying a bored superiority that could only come from years of having things handed to him on a silver platter.

Luke stood from the long table and dusted off his robes once more, even though not a speck of dirt dared settle on him. His aura repelled grime.

"Time to inspect the inner quarters of this ancient sect," he said aloud, straightening his posture and walking with the gait of a man who was absolutely convinced the entire school was a stage for his cultivation journey.

The other Slytherin first-years followed the prefect in a tidy procession, veering off from the Gryffindor group. Each house headed in different directions, down different staircases and twisting corridors.

Luke glanced over his shoulder one last time at the staff table. His mother was still seated, sipping her tea with the elegance of a celestial empress. Her eyes met his for a moment—calm, composed, and maybe just a bit amused.

He nodded solemnly. "The young master departs for the inner sanctum. Worry not, Mother."

She raised her cup ever so slightly in acknowledgment, with a little mischievous expresión.

As the students wound their way through the stone passages, the Slytherin prefect droned on.

"Our dormitory lies in the dungeons, beneath the lake. Don't get lost—Hogwarts has a nasty habit of… rearranging itself."

The students muttered to one another. Luke, however, kept silent, his steps light, his breathing even. He was conserving spiritual energy, or so he told himself.

Eventually, they arrived at a cold, damp stone corridor. At the far end stood a blank stretch of wall flanked by ornate green torches.

"Pureblood," the prefect said to the wall, and it melted away to reveal the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

Luke's eyebrow twitched. "Pureblood?" he repeated, tone neutral but filled with subtext. "Ah, I see. A sect that requires pedigree to grant access. Like a guard dog trained to sniff out heritage."

Some of the older students glanced at him, mildly annoyed.

Another first-year behind him whispered, "Is he… insulting the password?"

"I think he's insulting all of us," a girl muttered.

Luke stepped inside and surveyed the Slytherin common room with practiced indifference. Greenish light filtered through the underwater windows. The furniture was expensive, leather and oak, with snake motifs carved in every corner.

"Decent aesthetics," Luke said. "Though the feng shui could use minor adjustments. The spiritual flow is being blocked by that statue."

He pointed to a large marble bust in the corner.

A group of Slytherins turned to stare at him like he'd just suggested turning their ancestral home into a café.

"Who even is this guy?" one of them muttered.

Luke ignored them all, floating toward a sofa and sitting down with the weightless poise of a sect leader evaluating disciples.

He crossed one leg over the other and tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Strange… the qi here feels stagnant. I shall need to establish a spiritual formation to redirect it."

The prefect, clearly done with him, approached.

"You. Heaven-Smith, was it?"

Luke turned slowly. "Young Master Heaven-Smith, if you please."

"…Sure. Whatever. Professor Snape wants to see you. Now."

Luke arched an eyebrow. "The Head of the inner sect? Already seeking audience with this humble cultivator? How flattering."

No one laughed. Slytherins weren't known for laughing unless someone was getting hexed.

Luke stood, adjusted his robes again, and followed the prefect out.

The journey through the dungeon corridors was long and meandering. Luke clicked his tongue a few times.

"No magical lifts? No self-adjusting stairs? Not even a spirit beast to ride? This is primitive," he mumbled.

The prefect didn't respond. He clearly had no time or patience left to deal with whatever this guy was.

Eventually, they reached a winding staircase that led up and up, until they stood before an ominous wooden door with a brass knocker shaped like a serpent biting its own tail.

Luke knocked with the courtesy of a visiting sect emissary.

"Enter," came the low voice of Severus Snape.

Luke stepped in.

Snape was standing near Dumbledore's desk, his arms crossed like a man who'd just read twelve bad essays and stubbed his toe.

Dumbledore, seated behind the massive desk of polished oak, looked up and smiled.

"Young master," he said cheerfully.

Luke's heart glowed just a little at the respectful title.

He gave a slow, sweeping bow. "Honored Sect Leader."

Snape let out a quiet sigh of frustration and closed his eyes for two seconds longer than normal.

"Please, have a seat," Dumbledore offered.

Luke sat. Not too fast, not too slow. Exactly at the speed of a man who wanted everyone in the room to know he had excellent lumbar posture.

"I've brought you here," Dumbledore began, "to inform you of something important. Due to your… unique status, you will not be staying in the Slytherin dormitories."

Luke's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Your mother, Professor Heaven-Smith, will be provided separate quarters within the castle," Dumbledore continued, "and you will be staying with her."

Luke didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply bowed again, deeper this time.

"This young master is humbled by your generosity," he said.

Snape's jaw tightened slightly.

Below is the Dumbledore–Snape exchange reordered and expanded exactly to your scheme. All points appear in sequence; Luke's ultimate role is revealed only at the very end.

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Professor Snape paced before the hearth, robes whispered against the stone floor. "Headmaster, I must know—why does Luke receive such preferential treatment? A special dormitory, his mother permitted in the castle. You're undermining my authority in Slytherin… You've even gone to the Ministry's doorsteps for this. What's the reason?"

Dumbledore's fingers trembled as he steepled them, a faint smile dancing on his lips. "Oh, Severus… there is a peculiar enjoyment to be found in playing along with a bright child's whims."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Spare me your riddles. I refer to that… accommodation, not his title. You've invaded Slytherin's domain, broken house tradition, and set a Muggle teaching post. You've forced the Ministry to bend. This is no game!"

Dumbledore's jovial expression flickered. He hesitated, glancing at the parchment-strewn desk. Finally, he drew forward a thick bundle of Luke's writings. "Perhaps you should see for yourself."

Snape grabbed the papers and began to read. His stern features slackened; he trembled for a heartbeat.

"Did you… verify any of this?" Snape asked hoarsely, looking up.

Dumbledore settled back. "There was no need, these truths have been known to the Ancient Ones for decades."

Snape's pale lip curled. "Then why has none of this been made public?"

"Because," Dumbledore replied softly, "revealing it would shatter our community. Wizards are creatures of habit—insulated in tradition. If ordinary witches and wizards learned that, panic would engulf us. Only the Elders, those few enlightened, grasp the full picture. Hence the Statute of Secrecy and the Ministry's chief role: to hide our weaknesses."

Snape's breathing quickened. "So the Ministry is…"

"… a facade, controlled by hidden Elders." Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed. The Minister is a visible head; the real council dwells in shadows."

Snape's voice dropped to a whisper: "And Voldemort… did he know?"

Dumbledore's gaze darkened. "No. His mind was too narrow, consumed by mortality's escape and dominion. Such obsession blinds one to grander truths."

Snape frowned. "So why are you telling me this?"

"Because of your potential. In decades, You would have uncovered these secrets yourself," Dumbledore said.

Snape drew in a breath. "Then how did Luke learn all this at eleven?"

Dumbledore leaned forward, voice solemn. "Because muggles question everything—studies, experiments, relentless inquiry. Wizards accept what we inherit. That's why we keep our young in a bubble to indoctrinate them. Did it ever seem strange to you that the magical world provides financial aid to those too poor to study? Because no one should be excluded from our education. Luke's mind, although young, arrived unsealed—already trained by Muggle curiosity. He's an anomaly."

Snape's eyes glinted with alarm. "He's dangerous."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore conceded, "but also essential. You must know… muggle technology and arms have grown at an exponential rate since The Global Wizarding War. Soon, they may possess the power to lay us bare. When that day arrives, only one who understands both worlds can choose our fate."

Dumbledore's face fell. "Our choice will be servitude or destruction. No muggle government can tolerate a power they cannot control."

Snape's hand went to the dripping alchemy cabinet.

Dumbledore sighed. "Gellert Grindelwald foresaw this. He sought control—an act born of desperation. Our duel on November 2, 1945, was shaped by the horrors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki just months earlier. I still tremble recalling the blinding flash and the sheer force of those bombs."

Snape shivered. "He knew the secret."

Dumbledore nodded. "He glimpsed the danger; I saw his fear. You know the rest of our history."

Snape's posture stiffened. "What role do you intend for Luke?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No predefined role. His mind is too perceptive for orchestration. He's already woven a magic of thought—sharpened memory into a weapon, organized information like a battle plan."

Snape frowned. "Explain."

Dumbledore's tone grew firm. "He has cultivated such focus that he augmented his own mind. Not just memorization, but a framework to process—and foresee—patterns. Many spend lifetimes to reach that clarity; he did so unconsciously. I must, however, marvel at his daring, using magic in such a way in this brain… A miracle is the fact that he's not in San Mungo."

Snape exhaled slowly. "And you removed him from Slytherin because…?"

"Because," Dumbledore said quietly, "Slytherin's pressure-cooker of ambition could twist his ideals. I feared he'd abandon balance for extremes."

Snape nodded grudgingly. "I see the danger… but why such leniency?"

Dumbledore's gaze drifted to the window. "Since the bombs in Japan, Muggle arms have grown deadlier—nuclear chains, then cybernetics, then… who knows? Our power alone cannot indefinitely protect us. Only someone fluent in both realms can chart a responsible path forward."

Snape's jaw clenched. "What kind of path?"

Dumbledore's voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with destiny: "That choice—whether the magical world should continue hidden or reveal itself, whether we face them or serve them—will ultimately be made by Luke TianLong Heaven‑Smith."

Silence reigned as Snape absorbed the weight of those words, understanding at last the burden placed upon the kid.

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(You can skip this if you want)

Title: On the Stagnation of Magical Energy in the Modern World: A Cultivator's Perspective

Introduction

Though magic still flows and spells are cast daily, the wizarding world has reached a curious plateau. From this little cultivator's point of view, this stagnation is not due to decay, but to balance—and imbalance—in how magical energy is shared.

The Problem

In the past, few witches and wizards existed. Plagues, persecution, and lack of formal training meant high mortality but also greater access to ambient magical energy for those who survived. Magic was stronger in individuals because fewer people used it.

Today, the magical population is thriving. With schools worldwide and a mostly peaceful society, more witches and wizards are tapping into the same constant stream of magical energy. This finite, renewable resource regenerates steadily—but must now be divided among many. As a result, individual magical growth is limited, and truly powerful wizards are rare.

Why is magic not exclusive to humans, but an external energy?

Because of magical creatures. These are completely different from humans, and virtually none have a direct relationship with them. Therefore, magic is an external energy that transforms the body, human or otherwise, so that it can be used.Consequences

Magical creatures suffer. These beings draw from the same energy pool. Their decline is not solely due to concealment, but to diminished magical presence. In fact, Muggles—despite advanced technology—rarely detect magical creatures anymore, not because of secrecy, but because the creatures are no longer "visible" without strong ambient magic to sustain their form, even thought they were able to do so in the past.

This also explains the lack of modern magical breakthroughs. Ancient artifacts and spells were created in eras of greater energetic abundance. Today, there simply isn't enough ambient magic per individual to fuel such innovation.

Conclusion

The issue is not a loss of magic, but an overextended system. If magical society continues without understanding the nature of ambient energy, it may remain forever stagnant.