Harry Potter : Bloodraven

The sky stretched wide and clear, tinted with the soft orange glow of late afternoon. Sunlight spilled across a cluttered city skyline where hundreds of old buildings leaned into narrow streets. Painted signs hung from crooked balconies.

Bright cloth banners fluttered overhead, strung haphazardly between shops and wires, while countless power lines crisscrossed above like a tangled spider's web.

Below it all, the streets were alive.

There were no cars in sight, but the roads were far from empty. Motorbikes darted through the crowd like restless insects, their engines sputtering and coughing as they passed. Bicycles wobbled between bodies, bells ringing in warning, while the occasional rickshaw creaked forward, its driver shouting hoarsely to clear a path.

There were no real lanes—just a swirling mass of movement, where every vehicle squeezed through whatever space it could find. Handlebars scraped past elbows, mirrors knocked shoulders, but somehow, it all kept moving.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke, dust, and something frying in oil. From every stall came a hiss or sizzle, a voice calling out prices, the clink of change passed across chipped counters. People filled the street in steady waves—men with briefcases, women carrying cloth bags, barefoot children weaving through legs, old men leaning on canes.

The sidewalks were too narrow to be useful, so most walked along the edge of the road itself, slipping past scooters and side mirrors with the casual ease of those who had done it a thousand times before.

And in the middle of this packed, noisy world moved someone who very clearly did not belong.

He looked young and tall, his pale skin standing out starkly among the sun-darkened crowd. His black hair was slightly tousled but clean, and his clothes—though neat—seemed oddly out of place. He wore a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled just above the elbows, and brown trousers that had been cuffed at the ankles. On his feet were scuffed leather boots, well-worn and dusty, as if they had walked a long way.

He looked like a traveler, or perhaps a tourist, but he wasn't carrying a camera or a guidebook. Instead, he walked with calm steps, pausing now and then to glance at a stall or watch a street performer, as if he were searching for something—but not in any hurry to find it.

It was the middle of summer, or what locals here called the monsoon season. Between June and August, the days were hot and heavy with moisture, and July in particular brought rain so fierce that the roads often flooded.

But today the sky held back, leaving the streets dry and the air thick. The heat pressed down on everything like a heavy blanket. Locals wiped their foreheads and fanned themselves. Tourists were rare on days like this.

Yet the young man walked through it all without the slightest sign of discomfort. His shirt didn't cling with sweat, his hair wasn't damp, and not a single drop rolled down his brow. He looked completely at ease, as though the heat didn't exist—or as if it simply chose not to touch him.

No one paid him much attention, though a few stall owners glanced his way with mild interest when he stopped to look at their wares. A group of kids nearly ran into him in their hurry to cross the street, but he sidestepped them easily and offered them a quiet smile and a polite nod as they disappeared into the crowd.

That smile never quite left his face, and he gave it freely to the people he passed, as though he were simply enjoying the quiet rhythm of the street despite all its noise and heat.

He came to a slow stop by a quiet stall tucked between a fruit vendor and a man selling handicrafts. There was nothing particularly special about it. Like many others along the road, it was shaded by a piece of tattered cloth strung between two bamboo poles, and its table was cluttered with hand-carved curios, most of them chipped or dusty, yet full of that local charm.

His eyes passed across the items without any real interest, until one piece caught his attention.

It was nestled among the necklaces—something that looked like a stone pendant, though it was clearly metal. Rough and weathered, its surface bore the dull, reddish tinge of old iron, as if it had been buried for decades. Yet, beneath the rust and grime, faint veins of deep blue shimmered subtly when the light hit it just right—an odd, unnatural glow that didn't belong to any ordinary metal.

His eyes narrowed for the briefest second. He stepped forward, and was just about to speak to the old man behind the stall... then he froze.

The warmth slipped from his smile, his brow tightened, and his gaze sharpened.

But it passed as quickly as it came. The tension melted away. He offered the vendor a polite nod, calm as ever, and slowly turned his head.

"I didn't expect you so soon, Mage Caesar... or is this just a sightseeing visit?"

The voice was calm and familiar, full of quiet wisdom.

Maverick turned—and there she was, standing as if she had always been there. A bald woman in a simple light brown robe, hands folded gently before her, eyes unreadable yet kind.

To appear beside him without a whisper of warning meant only one thing: her concealment ability was on a level very few could match.

"You hide your sanctuary too well, Sorcerer Supreme," Maverick said with a faint smile. "Honestly, I was just about to head back... but here you are."

He offered her a respectful nod. She smiled back and tilted her head in a silent gesture for him to follow.

Maverick took one last look at the pendant and decided he'd return for it later. Then he turned and fell into step behind her.

"Will... Lord Merlin cause you any trouble?" Maverick asked after a pause, thinking back to their last encounter.

The Sorcerer Supreme let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused by the sudden question. "To be honest, I have no idea."

Then, with a sideways glance, she added, "Also... if you're trying to be formal or respectful, you may address him as Supreme Mage."

They moved together, weaving through the crowded streets in casual conversation, and after about half an hour, they came to a stop in front of a weathered door set into the front of an aging, unremarkable building. The wooden frame was scuffed at the corners, and the faded red paint on the door was peeling in strips, revealing the bare wood beneath.

"One of our sanctuaries." The Sorcerer Supreme gave the door a gentle push before turning to him. "In other words... a safe house." She stepped inside and once again beckoned him to follow.

Inside, the building was simple—both in appearance and in what Maverick could sense. No wards, no enchantments. Just a quiet, ordinary place.

The interior resembled a mid-fifties noble Japanese house. Dark-stained wooden floors stretched beneath sliding paper doors, their rice-paper panels yellowed and patched in places. Tatami mats covered parts of the floor, and low ceilings gave the space a close, almost meditative feel. Wooden beams crossed overhead, and a faint scent of aged incense hung in the air, mingling with something earthy—like old cedar.

No one else seemed to be inside. At least, not that Maverick could sense with his passive Magical-Sense.

The Sorcerer Supreme led him down a short corridor and into a small, sparse room. A low wooden table stood at the center, with two neatly placed futons on either side. The moment they stepped in, the sliding door behind them glided shut on its own with a soft click.

"If you prefer a proper chair," she said, gesturing to one of the futons as she walked to the other, "feel free to conjure one."

"I don't mind." Maverick lowered himself onto the cushion, settling onto his legs. He wasn't used to sitting this way, but it wasn't particularly uncomfortable.

She smiled and settled opposite him in the same posture. "Tea? I dare say I have some of the finest leaves in the world."

Without any wand or motion, a pair of ceramic cups materialized in front of them, each already filled with steaming water. A third bowl appeared as well, this one filled with finely crushed tea leaves that gave off a rich, earthy scent.

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"Thank you." Maverick gave a small nod. His throat was feeling a bit dry anyway, and refusing would only come across as impolite.

The Sorcerer Supreme moved with quiet ease as she prepared the tea. "So," she said, gently sliding a cup toward him, "am I right to assume you've come seeking to learn sorcery?"

There was no point in dancing around the truth. Maverick accepted the cup with both hands and gave a polite nod.

"If possible. Unless… there are restrictions."

"Restrictions?" She tilted her head slightly, that calm smile never leaving her face. "Whatever makes you say that?"

He hesitated for a moment. "I mean… I don't know if people like me... mages... are even allowed to learn sorcery. Or if we're even capable of it."

She chuckled, a quiet, amused sound. "Your imagination… is refreshing," she said thoughtfully. "Even Ambrosius didn't ask me that at first."

"I was just guessing," Maverick admitted. "I've never heard of anyone who practises both magic and sorcery, that's all."

"Of course you haven't," she said, setting her cup down. "Our worlds are both secretive, especially us who follow the Mystic Arts. Not even your so-called Speakers know about us. Well… perhaps three of them, but that's all."

Maverick raised a brow. "Albus Dumbledore wouldn't happen to be one of them, would he?"

"Albus? Yes. I met him not long ago. A fascinating young man." She gave a small nod. "But none of them learned our magic. It wasn't that they couldn't. They simply never asked."

Maverick held back a twitch of his brow at the word young. Well... to her, that old man might indeed seem young, he thought to himself. Then he asked, "So no witch or wizard has ever studied sorcery?"

"I did not say that." She smiled and tilted her head with amusement. "Only that the ones the world knows haven't. Ambrosius, for example, is a Master of the Mystic Arts, like me. So are his students."

"Students?" Maverick echoed, intrigued.

"Ah… that part, he will explain himself, if he wishes. But yes—witches and wizards can learn the Mystic Arts. However, as you rightly guessed, there are... complications for innate magicals like yourself."

"Innate magicals?" This was another unfamiliar term.

She chuckled again and sipped her tea. "Tell me, young mage. What is magic, at its core? The most fundamental truth of it?"

He frowned in thought. "It's… the power to alter reality?"

"True," she said with a nod. "But what is that power? What makes it capable of such a thing?"

He was quiet for a moment. This felt like sitting in a lecture during his university days, and he didn't mind at all. "Magical energy?"

Her smile widened. "Exactly. Magical energy. One of the universal rules—even the scientists with their limited understanding of reality have stumbled upon it."

She raised a hand, and orange sparks danced across her fingertips, swirling into a glowing sphere that hovered in the air.

"Energy can neither be created nor destroyed—only transformed. Magic is no exception. In essence, it is simply energy. But there are many kinds of magic, or rather, magical energy."

She gave the sphere a light nudge, and it drifted upwards, splitting into four smaller orbs that hovered midair. One of them pulsed and formed glowing letters in the air:

Eldritch Magic.

"This is one category. By drawing energy from other dimensions, one can cast spells. Unlike you, we Masters of the Mystic Arts do not have magic coursing through our bodies or souls. We must borrow it... reach beyond this reality. But that doesn't mean just anyone can do it. That, however, is a lesson for another time."

She gestured to the next, and the second orb shimmered, its surface rippling before forming glowing words:

Chaos Magic.

"As the name suggests, this type of magic is unstable. Wild. Dangerous. But still—energy. And therefore, usable."

Then the third orb glowed softly, revealing the words:

Personal / Internal Magic.

"This is the category your kind belongs to. Witches, wizards, and others like you. Those born with magic flowing through their very being."

Finally, the last orb shifted and read:

Divine Magic.

"This one is similar to internal magic," she said. "But with key differences, which you may learn about in time."

The names swayed gently in the air, their glow bathing the room in a warm, shifting light. Then, one by one, they flickered out and vanished without a sound.

"For now, what matters is this: magic, as you first said, is the art of altering material reality. All magic—regardless of its source—is energy. And every spell, whether cast by a wand, a rune, or a gesture of the Mystic Arts, is simply an instruction. A directive to shape that energy according to one's will."

Maverick listened, quietly captivated. For the first time in a long while, he felt like a student again.

"I have... so many questions, Sorcerer Supreme."

She let out an amused laugh, the sound clear in the quiet room, entertained by the hunger in his eyes. "I can see that," she said. "Ask, young mage. I have all the... time, in the world."

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