The Apex Chat
The private channel for the world's "Finest Minds" was in absolute chaos. Messages appeared so fast the chat log was practically a blur:
[Horace Slughorn]: Unbelievable! Simply unbelievable! I just uploaded my modification for the 'Draught of Living Death'—the one that reduces brewing time by 12%—and priced it at 500 Credits.
[Horace Slughorn]: Three people bought it in the first minute! FIRST MINUTE! That's 15 Galleons for a PDF I wrote twenty years ago and haven't looked at since!
[Severus Snape]: You are selling your intellectual property to the masses, Horace? How... common.
[Horace Slughorn]: Oh, come off it, Severus! I see your name on the 'Trending' list. "Seven Uses of Asphodel in Defensive Potions"? Price: 1000 Credits?
[Horace Slughorn]: That's THIRTY GALLEONS per purchase! Don't lecture me about being common!
[Severus Snape]: ...Quality demands a premium. If dunderheads wish to part with their gold to stop exploding their cauldrons, I will not stop them.
[Severus Snape]: Besides, my work is actually useful, unlike your collection of parlor tricks.
[Horace Slughorn]: Parlor tricks?! You absolute—
[Nicolas Flamel]: Gentlemen, please. Though I admit, it is fascinating to watch.
[Nicolas Flamel]: The Architect has gamified education. I see students posting "Notes on Transfiguration Theory" for 2 Credits. "Study Guide for NEWT-Level Charms" for 5 Credits. They are creating a micro-economy of tutoring, peer-to-peer learning.
[Albus Dumbledore]: It is... concerning, yet hopeful.
[Albus Dumbledore]: Wealth has always dictated access to knowledge. Pureblood families have private libraries accumulated over centuries. They have tutors, grimoires, family spells. Others do not. The inequality perpetuates itself generation after generation.
[Albus Dumbledore]: But this? If a student from a poor family invents a brilliant spell or develops a clever technique, they can sell it. They can earn their way to better resources, better education. The system levels the playing field based on merit, not inheritance.
[Albus Dumbledore]: Though I worry about what else might be sold...
[Gellert Grindelwald]: Or it allows the rich to buy power faster than ever before. Knowledge becomes just another commodity for those with overflowing vaults.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: But I admit... the chaos is delightful. The old families are going to be furious.
[Newt Scamander]: I... I just put up a guide on "Proper Care for Bowtruckles." Feeding schedules, habitat requirements, behavioral notes. I made it free. Is that allowed?
[Newt Scamander]: I mean, it seems wrong to charge for information that could prevent creature suffering...
[Architect]: It is encouraged.
Everyone stopped typing. The "Admin" tag next to his name seemed to glow brighter.
[Architect]: The Credit System is a tool. Use it to fund your research, or give your knowledge away to spread influence and help others. The choice is yours. Both serve the greater purpose.
[Architect]: But be warned. The System validates the function of a spell, not the morality. Dark Arts are now a commodity. Curses can be bought and sold as easily as household charms.
[Architect]: Choose wisely what you upload. You are responsible for how it's used.
Another pause. Shorter this time.
[Severus Snape]: As if they weren't before.
[Severus Snape]: At least now there's a paper trail. The System must log every purchase. Before, Dark Arts knowledge was passed in whispers and unmarked books. Now you as admin, must be able to trace every transaction.
[Severus Snape]: I call that progress.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: Well, well. Snape makes an excellent point. Knowledge was never neutral. Making it visible doesn't change its nature—just who has access.
[Horace Slughorn]: Good heavens, are you two agreeing on something?
[Severus Snape]: Don't read too much into it, Horace.
[Albus Dumbledore]: The Architect is right to warn us. With great power comes great responsibility. What we choose to share will shape the next generation.
[Nicolas Flamel]: Then let us share wisely.
[Nicolas Flamel]: I believe I shall upload my treatise on elemental theory. Free of charge. Six hundred years of research, freely given.
[Horace Slughorn]: Nicolas, that's worth a FORTUNE—
[Nicolas Flamel]: What use is a fortune to a man who can create gold? Knowledge shared is knowledge multiplied. That has always been the true alchemy.
[Architect]: Well said.
And with that, the Admin vanished from the chat.
But the conversation continued long into the night.
The weeks that followed were a blur of quiet progress—the kind of peaceful productivity that felt almost suspicious after months of crisis management and midnight negotiations.
With the banking crisis resolved and the Memory Metal paper published to considerable acclaim in Transfiguration Today, Alister finally had time to breathe. He spent his days in the workshop, not frantically inventing to save the world, but refining. Perfecting the small details that separated functional magic from elegant magic.
He received the first royalty check from Potter Innovations two weeks later.
The notification appeared in his vision with a pleasant chime:
[Gringotts Transfer Received][Sender: Potter Innovations (Licensing Division)][Amount: 12,450 Galleons][Note: Initial licensing fees from broomstick manufacturers (Nimbus Racing Brooms, Comet Trading Company) and Department of Magical Law Enforcement armor procurement contract.]
"Twelve thousand," Alister murmured, staring at the number floating in golden script. It was more money than most wizarding families made in a decade. And this was just the first month.
But the biggest event of the summer wasn't the money.
It arrived on a Tuesday morning in late July, carried not by a majestic eagle owl, but by a thoroughly ordinary tawny barn owl that looked like it had flown through a rainstorm, crashed into a tree, and then decided to finish the delivery anyway out of sheer stubbornness.
It dropped a heavy envelope made of yellowish parchment directly onto Astra's plate of toast with strawberry jam.
The owl hooted once, smugly, then flew directly into the window before finding the actual opening and departing in a flurry of wet feathers.
Astra froze mid-bite, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. She stared at the envelope.
The address was written in emerald green ink, precise and formal:
Ms. A. PotterThe Second BedroomPotter ManorHighgate, London
Her hands trembled as she set down her toast and reached for it.
She looked at Alister, her grey eyes wide with a mixture of wild excitement and sudden, paralyzing fear.
"It's here," she whispered, and her voice cracked slightly.
Alister smiled from across the breakfast table, leaning back in his chair with deliberate casualness. "Well? Are you going to open it, or do we need to put it in a stasis field and run diagnostic charms first?"
She shot him a look that promised retribution, then ripped the wax seal open with shaking fingers.
The parchment unfolded, crisp and official:
Dear Ms. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.
Yours sincerely,Minerva McGonagallDeputy Headmistress
Astra let out a squeal that was loud enough to disturb the dust in the attic three floors above and possibly alert Muggles in the next street over. She jumped up, abandoning her toast to a tragic fate, and tackled Alister in a hug that nearly knocked his chair over.
"I got in! I got in! I'm going to Hogwarts!"
"I never doubted it for a second," Alister laughed, hugging her back and steadying himself against the table. "Though I appreciate the enthusiasm."
She pulled back, breathless and grinning, and immediately grabbed the second page of the letter—the supply list. Her expression shifted from joy to thoughtful concentration in an instant, the way it always did when she found a problem to solve.
"The book list. It says 'The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1' by Miranda Goshawk." She looked up, frowning slightly. "But I've already read that. Twice. It's too basic."
"Then we'll get you Grade 2 for light reading," Alister promised, already imagining the bookstore bill. "Maybe Grade 3 if you promise not to practice Severing Charms on the furniture."
"And a cat?" Her eyes went wide and hopeful, all eleven years old again. "You promised a cat."
"A Kneazle," Alister corrected, holding up a finger. "We'll go to the Magical Menagerie. If we find a Kneazle that doesn't try to eat me immediately or set the manor on fire, it's yours."
"Deal!"
Diagon Alley
Diagon Alley in late July was vibrant, completely different from the tense, shadowed street Alister had walked down as the Architect. The fear of the vault freeze had evaporated like morning mist, replaced by the cheerful bustle of the back-to-school rush.
Children dragged parents from shop to shop. Owls hooted from cages stacked outside the Eeylops Owl Emporium. The smell of fresh parchment and cauldron polish mixed with the sweet scent of ice cream from Florean Fortescue's.
The Daily Prophet headlines screamed about Quidditch trades and a minor scandal involving an enchanted teapot.
They visited Ollivanders first.
The shop was exactly as Alister remembered—dusty, cramped, smelling of old wood and older magic. Thousands of narrow boxes were stacked to the ceiling in precarious towers. A single spindly chair sat by the window.
The bell tinkled as they entered.
"Ah," came a soft voice from the shadows. Mr. Ollivander emerged like a ghost materializing from mist, his wide, pale eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Ms. Potter. I wondered when I'd be seeing you."
He moved with surprising speed for someone so elderly, circling Astra like a jeweler examining a particularly interesting gemstone.
"Your brother was in here last year." His gaze sharpened. "You have the same eyes. But the magic feels... different."
"Curious," the old man murmured, disappearing into the stacks. He returned with a long, thin box. "You have your brother's intensity, Ms. Potter, but none of his... rigidity. Try this. Cherry wood and dragon heartstring. Nine and a half inches."
Astra took the wand carefully. The moment her fingers closed around it, a vase on the counter exploded in a shower of porcelain shards and dried flowers.
"No, no. Definitely not." Ollivander whisked it away and produced another. "Rowan and unicorn hair. Ten inches."
The second wand made the windows rattle ominously.
"Absolutely not."
The third set a box of wands on fire.
"Dear me."
It went on. And on. Alister counted twelve attempts, watching as Astra's initial excitement gradually shifted to concern, then determination. The pile of rejected wands grew higher.
"Difficult customer," Ollivander muttered, but he sounded more intrigued than frustrated. "Very difficult. But that means something special..."
He paused in the middle of reaching for another box. His hand hovered in the air, trembling slightly. His pale eyes went distant, unfocused, as if he were listening to something only he could hear.
Slowly—almost reluctantly—he reached for a box on a high shelf. It was covered in dust, as if it hadn't been touched in years. Decades, perhaps.
"I wonder..." he whispered, opening it with reverent care.
The wand inside was beautiful and terrible at once. Yew wood, dark as midnight, polished to a high sheen.
"Yew and phoenix feather," Ollivander said quietly, and there was something strange in his voice.
"Thirteen and a half inches. The brother wand to..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
Astra reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the smooth wood, the shop sang. A clear, high note that resonated through the walls and floor, through Alister's bones, through the very air itself. Silver and green sparks erupted from the tip in a spiral pattern, beautiful and somehow ominous, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
"Oh my," Ollivander breathed. He was staring at her with an expression Alister couldn't quite read. "Yes. Yes, I think we have a match."
"It's perfect," Astra whispered, turning the wand over in her hands.
"Yes," Ollivander said softly. His hands were clasped together, knuckles white. "Yew is a powerful wood. Rare. It chooses wizards and witches with the power over life and death. Not dark magic, necessarily, but... significant magic."
"Seven Galleons, Mr. Potter."
Alister paid, watching the old wandmaker's face.
They left with Astra clutching her new wand like it was made of spun glass and starlight, chattering excitedly about what spells she'd practice first.
Behind them, Ollivander stood in the doorway of his shop, watching them go. His pale eyes were troubled.
"Brother wands," he murmured to the empty street, so quietly that even he barely heard it. "The other chose Tom Riddle. And this one chooses her."
He shook his head slowly.
"Is this fate?" The question hung unanswered in the dusty air.
He turned and went back inside, closing the door softly behind him. The bell tinkled once, then fell silent.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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