The Puppeteer (HP Fanfic)

The morning of my eleventh birthday dawns with the sterile precision of a new chess game. The sunrise, filtered through the ornate stained glass of the Selwyn estate, casts a kaleidoscope of colors across the ancient stone floors—a fleeting moment of beauty in a world dominated by the cold calculation of power and legacy.

At the breakfast table, a roll of parchment lies beside my plate, its presence an unspoken testament to the significance of the day. The green wax seal, embossed with the emblem of Hogwarts, is a beacon that heralds the start of my true education. This is no mere invitation; it is a summons to a place that will become an integral part of my grand design.

Cassandra Selwyn, my mother, places the letter before me with a grace that belies the formidable intellect behind her frost-pale eyes. There is no maternal warmth in her gaze, no hint of the pride that might swell in the hearts of less stoic parents. Instead, there is a quiet assessment, a silent expectation that weighs upon me as tangibly as the heavy mantle of the Selwyn name.

Benedict Selwyn, my father, does not immediately acknowledge the letter. He continues his morning routine with a meticulous precision that borders on the ritualistic, his attention focused on the crisp pages of The Daily Prophet. Only after a prolonged silence, punctuated by the clink of silverware against fine china, does he deign to cast a glance at the envelope, as if it were but a minor detail in the grand tapestry of our family's legacy.

"You will represent the Selwyn name accordingly," he intones, his voice a low thrum that resonates with the unspoken authority of a man accustomed to command.

There is no room for doubt or dissent. The matter is settled, as it always has been in the Selwyn dynasty. I am to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, not as a mere student, but as the embodiment of an ancient and powerful lineage.

I break the seal with a deliberate motion, unfurling the parchment; I do not need to read the words. The green wax seal, bearing the emblem of Hogwarts, is a symbol that speaks volumes. This is the beginning of a new phase in my life, a pivotal point from which my influence will grow and spread like tendrils of an unstoppable vine.

Hogwarts will be my next battleground, a place where I will hone my skills and lay the groundwork for my future conquests. The hallowed halls of the ancient castle will become a chessboard upon which I will strategically place each piece for the ultimate game of power and control.

But before I step foot into the castle, there is a necessary prelude to this venture—Diagon Alley. This bustling hub of the magical world is where I will procure the tools of my trade, where I will begin to weave the threads of my influence among the shopkeepers and fellow wizards who frequent its storied passageways.

The air buzzes with energy as I step into Diagon Alley. This is not my first foray into the magical marketplace. My mother has escorted me here on previous occasions—to peruse rare potions ingredients, to be fitted by exclusive tailors who serve only the most distinguished clientele.

But today's visit holds a different significance. Today marks the commencement of my independence within the wizarding world. I am here not only to procure the necessary accoutrements for my inaugural year at Hogwarts but also to establish connections that will serve my grand ambitions.

For Hogwarts, I will don the custom-fit robes of navy adorned with silver trim, a subtle nod to the Selwyn legacy that is both elegant and authoritative. At Ollivanders, I will claim the wand destined for my hand: Ebony, 12¾ inches, dragon heartstring, rigid—a wand that embodies power and precision, an extension of my will. Flourish and Blotts will provide me with more than the requisite textbooks; I will acquire advanced volumes on magical theory, for knowledge is the sharpest blade in any arsenal. And in the Apothecary and Cauldron Shop, I will select ingredients of the highest quality, surpassing the needs of the average first-year.

By the time the sun reaches its zenith, my tasks will be complete. Yet, the true purpose of my presence in Diagon Alley has yet to unfold. I am patient. I am strategic. I am Damian Selwyn, and I am prepared to wait for the opportune moment to make the connections that will propel me into the future I am destined to shape.

I step into the quiet shade of a side alley, withdrawing my pocket watch from its place within my coat. The hands of the watch align with perfect precision, marking the passage of time with an almost poetic finality.

It is time.

With a fluid motion, I extend my arm, silently summoning my trusted house-elf. A soft, almost imperceptible pop resounds through the narrow confines of the alleyway, heralding the arrival of my faithful servant.

"Erwin," I intone, my voice a controlled symphony of confidence and command.

The elf bows deeply before me, his large, curious eyes reflecting an unspoken loyalty forged through years of service to the Selwyn line. "Master Damian calls?" he inquires, his voice a high-pitched whisper against the ambient noise of Diagon Alley's bustling activity.

"Professor McGonagall will soon arrive with the new Muggleborn students," I explain, my tone as calm and composed as the serene surface of a still pond. "I task you with a mission of discretion. Observe these children as they step into our world for the first time. Locate the one known as Hermione Granger. Do not reveal yourself. Your presence must remain unnoticed, a shadow within the crowd. The moment she appears, return to me with all haste."

Erwin nods in understanding, his features set in a mask of determination. With another muted pop, he disappears, leaving me alone once more in the dimly lit alley.

I take a moment to adjust the cuffs of my shirt, ensuring that every detail of my attire is in impeccable order. I then step back into the thrumming lifeblood of the alley, mingling with the throngs of witches and wizards as if I were merely another face in the crowd.

Now, I wait.

Patience is a virtue that I have mastered over the years, a critical component of the grand tapestry I am destined to weave. The players are moving into position, each one an integral part of the intricate game that is about to unfold.

And when the moment is ripe, when the board is set and the pieces are in their perfect alignment, I will make my move.

It does not take long. An hour passes before I feel the telltale pop of magic at my side. Erwin, my faithful house-elf, has returned from his task. His eyes gleam with success, reflecting the satisfaction of a job well done.

"The girl Granger has arrived, Master," Erwin reports, his voice a soft, sibilant whisper that barely disrupts the ambient sounds of Diagon Alley. "With the professor in the black tartan robes."

Perfect. The information is precisely what I need to set my plan in motion. I give Erwin a curt nod, acknowledging his diligence and the accuracy of his report.

Turning on my heel, I make my way toward Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore that is a rite of passage for every Hogwarts student. The timing must be impeccable; the introduction between Hermione Granger and myself cannot be forced or seem premeditated. It must appear as a mere coincidence, an arbitrary encounter among the myriad of magical shoppers bustling through the alley.

I find Hermione Granger outside Flourish and Blotts. She stands slightly apart from the other Muggleborns, her eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the enchanting spectacle of Diagon Alley. Her gaze flits from one marvel to another, absorbing every detail with an insatiable curiosity that I find both amusing and promising.

Her hands are clasped behind her back, a gesture that seems almost self-conscious, as if she's trying to maintain a semblance of the Muggle world she's accustomed to while navigating this new, magical landscape. She surveys the bustling crowd, the vibrant shop windows, and the occasional flicker of a wand creating something out of nothing.

She is hungry for knowledge, her mind a sponge ready to soak up the mysteries of our world. And hunger, as I well know, is so very easy to feed.

I do not approach her immediately. That would be too forward, too eager. Instead, I select a book from the shelf of Flourish and Blotts, one that I know will pique her interest—an advanced text titled "Magical Hierarchies and Their Social Impact." It is a volume that delves into the intricacies of wizarding society, a subject that would not typically interest a first-year student, but I am certain that Hermione is far from typical.

With the book in hand, I wait. I let my fingers trace the embossed lettering on the spine, my expression one of casual interest. I am the picture of a young wizard simply passing the time, and yet, everything about this moment is calculated.

As anticipated, her voice reaches me, tinged with the faintest note of incredulity. "You're interested in magical sociology?"

I turn toward her, the movement slow and deliberate, as if I'm just becoming aware of her presence. Her eyes meet mine, bright with intelligence and already brimming with the promise of countless questions. She is intrigued, and rightfully so, for she has stumbled upon a mystery that she cannot resist—me.

"It would be foolish not to be," I reply smoothly, my voice carrying the quiet confidence of one who has always been destined for greatness. Hermione's eyes meet mine, her expression one of surprise mingled with curiosity. She is not used to encountering someone her own age who shares her thirst for knowledge—especially not in such an unexpected setting.

"Most first-years wouldn't look at something like that," she observes, gesturing towards the book in my hands. Her tone carries a hint of challenge, as if she is testing the waters of my intellect. "You must have studied wizarding culture before?"

I allow myself a slight, knowing smile. "My family believes that knowledge is the truest form of power," I explain, my fingers tracing the embossed lettering on the cover of "Magical Hierarchies and Their Social Impact." "The magical world is built upon centuries of established hierarchies. Ignoring that would be akin to willful ignorance."

Hermione's lips part slightly in surprise, her gaze flickering from my face to the book and back again. She is intrigued, her mind racing with questions and assumptions that are being rapidly reevaluated. Muggleborns like her are often led to believe that knowledge is the great equalizer, but I can see her beginning to understand that in our world, it is merely the starting point.

The game is afoot.

"You're Muggleborn," I say, not as a question but as a statement of fact. Her posture stiffens ever so slightly, a reflexive display of defensiveness that she quickly masks with a proud lift of her chin.

"I am," she confirms, her voice steady and clear. "But I've read everything I could find about the wizarding world. I won't be left behind."

I give her an encouraging nod, my expression softening to convey sincerity. "Then you're already ahead of the curve," I acknowledge. "But remember—some lessons aren't found in books. The wisdom you seek can only be gleaned from the right people." I let the implication linger.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but not in suspicion—in thought. She will remember this conversation. And that is all I need. Because Hermione Granger does not yet realize the value of her own mind. But soon, she will learn to offer it to me willingly, drawn by the promise of shared knowledge and the allure of understanding the intricate tapestry of our world.

She will seek me out, looking for guidance, for answers to the questions that her books cannot satisfy. And I will be there, ready to shape her intellect into an asset that will one day serve my grand design. Hermione Granger is no mere piece on the chessboard; she is a queen in the making, and I will ensure that her power is harnessed to advance my vision for the future of the wizarding world.

I leave before she does, ensuring that my departure lingers in her mind. She will ponder the encounter, dissecting my words and intentions, questioning why I approached her amidst the bustling crowd of Diagon Alley.

When Hermione Granger steps onto the Hogwarts Express, she will search for me among the sea of faces, driven by a curiosity that I have carefully cultivated. My early exit from our conversation is a strategic move, designed to leave her with a sense of intrigue and a desire to learn more about the enigmatic boy who stands apart from the rest.

She will find me—seated in one of the compartments, surrounded by an aura of quiet authority. At the sight of her, I will offer a slight nod of recognition, a silent invitation for her to join me. Hermione, with her insatiable quest for knowledge, will accept without hesitation.

The game has begun. The first thread has been pulled, setting into motion a series of moves that will inexorably lead her to me. Hermione Granger, with her brilliant mind and boundless potential, will become one of my most valuable players—a queen on the chessboard of my grand design.

I will mentor her, guiding her through the intricacies of magical society, offering her insights that extend beyond the pages of her textbooks. I will watch with quiet satisfaction as her intellect flourishes under my tutelage, as she begins to see the world through the lens of power and influence that I have shaped for her.

The first move is made. The first piece is in play. And as the Hogwarts Express carries us toward our destiny, I am confident that the puppet will dance—precisely as I have planned.