Skyl still found out about the Three Cups Traveling Tavern from the newspaper.
He immediately realized that the little tavern's thoughtform had finally taken shape. Skyl made time to visit once, to see the current state of the Three Cups Traveling Tavern for himself.
The result was a little different from what he'd expected. Skyl had assumed the tavern's soul could exist independently. In truth, it was Henry Henton's soul that was holding the Three Cups Traveling Tavern up, the two reinforcing each other and forming a special kind of thoughtform construct.
The tavern had become something strangely wondrous, following Henton's last wish and constantly searching for the dying so it could lend a hand.
But with Skyl—the archwizard—gone, the tavern's three cups of wine could no longer make beautiful dreams come true. The unlucky souls it tried to help still died in the end. Their spirits then entered the tavern and joined the feast.
Every so often, an ordinary person would stumble inside by accident, drink themselves senseless, and wake up to discover they'd been dumped for no reason at all in a far-off corner of the world.
Now it really was a haunted tavern.
These days, the Three Cups Traveling Tavern had become a bizarre space akin to an underworld. It still wasn't anything like a complete realm of the dead—only a rough prototype. Yet as it accepted more and more ghosts, and as its legend spread and deepened, the tavern would only grow more uncanny. Still, the odds of it ever becoming a true paradise that could ferry the dead and oversee reincarnation were vanishingly small.
If Hogwarts were burned to ash in some great blaze, and a few archwizards were sacrificed on top of it, it might also form a supernatural space like this.
Speaking of Hogwarts—there's a special "ghost" there called Peeves. He's a pure thoughtform: a prank-spirit nurtured by a thousand years of student mischief and pent-up feelings. He loves causing trouble, trembles in the face of authority, and yet can't stop himself from pushing right back at it.
Peeves's existence made Skyl certain that thoughts and longing could shape a soul.
Skyl also noticed that the Three Cups Traveling Tavern was producing many spontaneous magical phenomena: endless food in the cellar, instruments that played themselves, and the ability to shift itself close to the dying. These functions used to be Skyl's magic; now they'd become part of the tavern's legend. Or rather, Henry Henton—the one "running" the tavern—believed these things ought to exist, and so they simply happened.
The Three Cups Traveling Tavern was a decent experiment. Henry Henton had the ability to cast spells inside it, yet he himself possessed no magic—meaning the magic was being generated by the tavern. The greater the tavern's legendary influence became, the stronger its thoughtform grew, and the more magic it produced.
Skyl found himself marveling at thoughtforms all over again. He'd planned to conduct experiments on combining thoughtforms with magic, but now it seemed unnecessary. Under special conditions, a thoughtform born in the right way could generate magic on its own.
Which meant, in theory, if a Muggle managed to establish contact with a thoughtform, they could become a wizard.
Dumbledore had once mentioned to Skyl a way to communicate with a thoughtform indirectly: curse yourself—place a curse on a name. The classic example was Lord Voldemort. That name couldn't be spoken; the moment it was said, he would sense it. And the more terrifying his reputation became, the stronger his magic grew.
But cursing yourself always came with a price. It was a crooked path.
There was another way to communicate with a thoughtform as well: inviting a power to possess you. In old American frontier folklore, there were tales of "Holy Ghost boxing," where a person entered a trance and let a revered spirit ride their body—turning the soul into a vessel for the thoughtform and merging the two into one. That method touched the road to godhood and was just as perilous, but if it succeeded, the rewards were enormous.
There was a successful example in the world of The Elder Scrolls: the Emperor Tiber Septim, who rose from a mere mortal to become the Ninth Divine, Talos.
And in this world, the person with the strongest thoughtform influence right now—without question—was Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart.
Lockhart was now the bridge between the Muggle world and the wizarding world. With him acting as matchmaker, many old wizarding families had begun dealing with Muggles again. The Malfoy family, for instance—before the Statute of Secrecy was enforced, they'd been deeply entwined with powerful public figures, even welcomed guests of the British Royal Family, often handling "inconvenient" tasks on their behalf and gaining tremendous status in the Muggle world.
At the same time, the goblins of Gringotts were also eyeing the gold in Muggle pockets with naked greed, which only made a Muggle-friendly leader even more indispensable.
Lockhart's succession as Minister for Magic was hardly just "the will of the people," and Cornelius Fudge's downfall wasn't only due to incompetence.
Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of The Quibbler, pointed out that the new Minister was effectively the Muggles' mouthpiece. His every move was controlled by the Human Union Department. Through him, the Muggles were inserting themselves into the Ministry of Magic's work, while Lockhart himself had become a rubber stamp—issuing decree after decree at the direction of the Human Union Department's minister.
Because he was famous, and because he was foolish, politicians and ambitious schemers all treated him like a priceless treasure.
But the Dark Lord Grindelwald intended to destroy that treasure.
January, 1993.
At the German Ministry of Magic, Dark Lord followers from across continental Europe had gathered. They were not, as the Daily Prophet and other papers described, a gang of decrepit wrecks and washed-up stragglers. On the contrary, there were plenty of young people among them—sharp, capable, and efficient—setting the Ministry's governing apparatus in motion like gears meshing, like a clockwork spring being wound tight. People came and went. The faces of the civil servants weren't slack with fatigue, but cold and severe.
In the center of the main hall stood a "schedule tree," its trunk splitting into dozens of branches. At the end of each branch grew a noticeboard, marked with names and company titles: heavy industry firms, rail and transit companies, power stations, water utilities, chemical manufacturers, seed companies, heads of government departments across different countries.
Some names were smeared in red, meaning execution. Some bore a yellow star, meaning purchase. Some were painted gray, meaning control.
Gellert Grindelwald—gaunt and withered—stood on the second floor, looking down on the schedule tree. At his side were two women, one older and one younger. Both were from the Rosier family, Grindelwald's loyal followers.
"Sir," the younger girl asked, "what's the point of all these names?"
The older woman answered for Grindelwald. "The modern Muggle world is a precision machine. A small number of people hold most of the power. Control them, and you control modern society. If you want to seize power, what matters most isn't defeating the enemy's armed forces—it's controlling transportation, electricity, running water, and the grain stores."
"But won't the other Muggles resist?"
Grindelwald's voice was hoarse, but his tone was gentle. "People are blind animals. Like lambs. As long as you ensure their lives aren't disrupted too badly, they won't rebel. And if you can keep their lives stable, they'll even support you."
"How pitiful," the girl murmured. "Muggles… and us, too."
"Yes," Grindelwald said softly. "The world shouldn't be like this. Wizards can create a better society. A world full of miracles." He smiled, watching a single name slowly appear at the very top of the schedule tree—Gilderoy Lockhart. "A wizard controlled by Muggles. He's wasting his gift."
"Disgusting!" the young girl spat.
"Lina, don't get worked up," the older woman said, gently taking her hand. "Lockhart's false radiance will be swept away by the true sun."
They stared as Lockhart's noticeboard slowly began to seep with blood-red color.
Grindelwald looked toward the west. "Invite Lockhart to a wizard's duel with me."
"Would he refuse?" Lina said. "Surely he isn't that stupid."
"If he doesn't agree…"
Every noticeboard on the schedule tree began to bleed. Wizards walking through the Ministry froze in shock—because it meant an all-out war with the Muggles.
But fortunately, the blood-red did not spread. It slowly faded away.
"The Muggles will find a way for us," Grindelwald said, eyes full of cold mockery. "They always do."
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