Conflict

*Click*

Everything changed.

Deacon's eyes lost their luster. His mind was placed in a frenzy. Something was in his body, and it wanted him out. Memories rushed through his mind. Memories of an enormous golden tree, of staring himself in the eyes at the mirror and seeing a deformed monster. He saw memories of leadership, of failure, of shame, and desperation. His magical circuits flared in disgust upon feeling something foreign in his body.

And it shared that disgust.

The soul reached his very essence and reeled itself back, it peered past the thin veil that covered his memories. It was judging him, and it enjoyed what it saw, so much so it envied him. It wanted his life, his memories. It wanted in.

Deacon's flaring magical circuits affected his surroundings as if begging the very world to remove this foreign presence that took its place in him. The world answered. It armed the soul with its very nature, the unpredictable and frenzied nature of magic. All went black.

He felt his soul reel under the pressure, his mind starting to melt. His very being was being condensed into something solid. It felt horrible as if thousands of boulders were laid on top of him, everything wanted to break, everything needed to break. But it wouldn't. It just stayed there resisting the pressure. Why couldn't it break? Why? The pain broke him, it surged through every part of his being, he felt his soul cry out in agony, every memory he had, every version he had of himself in the past and in the present cried and screamed.

Why won't it break?

If it broke, if he broke. The pain would be gone he just knew it. 

But what if he persisted? What if he continued? What if revolted?

So with all the will in his soul, all its strength, he pushed. The world was pushed back, the foreign soul was pushed back. He repelled the world! He did it! 

There was no pain anymore, no pressure, just a gnawing feeling.

Where did the other soul go? Where did the other soul, which peered into his very being, which saw through everything he hid in the back of his head, which caused him pain and pressure like no other?

It was there. Fused into his, no that's not it. It was melded into his, grafted into his own.

[Error! A faulty soul has been detected! Cleansing...]

His soul split apart, and a burning sensation overcame his entire being as he was reconstructed! His soul sizzled and crackled, combining, melding, fusing with the other like two molten metals forming an alloy, his soul... no, their soul refined each other, the conflicting nature of their souls led to a duality, a sort of split personality...

[Soul reformation has been completed]

[Host's soul has become unrecognizable]

[Host has been deemed unworthy of the system]

[Host has been given farewell gift!]

[Child of Permanence trait has been given]

What? 

Just what has happened?

The system has deemed him unworthy? At least it gave him a farewell gift, right?

But it has not been explained! What does it mean?

I don't know! Why am I fighting with you?

I... don't know.

---

Suddenly... Deacon's eyes regained their luster, only much more different. Before Deacon Butch could be described as ambiguous, nothing really special about his appearance. However, now he had the air of a leader, it was as if he had gone through many experiences in his life. Now it seemed his conflicting consciousness had been fused, he had the curiosity of Deacon Butch, the maturity and hate for the mundane of Donald Mikhail, and the experiences of Godrick the golden.

Strangely, he could visualize his soul, and to say the least, it was not pretty. His soul looked as if it did not belong as it was, cracks were constantly forming on its surface, and those cracks were being constantly sealed by something unknown.

"Mr. Butch! I'm afraid if you don't respond in the next 15 seconds, you will spend your first week at Hogwarts in detention!"

Oh yes! He was supposed to be buying things with Professor McGonagall! His legs stretched themselves straight as he got out of his seat at the bench, Miss McGonagall seemed to be very pissed considering he likely ignored her reprimands for the past... how long has it been?

"I'm so sorry Miss McGonagall! I sort of spaced out didn't I?" 

Her eyes softened, it seemed it would be advantageous to act as the 11-year-old he looked like instead of the accountant/ex-demigod he was. She gestured with her hands for him to follow her, and so he did. She lead him up a cobbled path, passing by several shops and stalls, he even picked up a random edition of Witches Weekly off the floor, he didn't know what the magical world truly entailed, after all, he only knew how to act like a Gryffindor from the books. It truly troubled him to think of what would happen if he got sorted into Slytherin or Ravenclaw. 

Speaking of which, since when had he been so logical in his thinking? Since when had he been troubled by what some imaginary scenarios entailed? Since when has he ever used the word 'entail'?

It was the soul! It must be! He and Godrick had merged souls after all! It was no wonder he would obtain some aspects of his personality.

Thank goodness he hadn't gotten his wand yet, after what he had just been through he would be surprised if his wand stayed with him.

"Go on in Mr. Butch, I'll round up the class materials and send them off to your lace of residence"

He was broken out of his monologue as he looked at the strange, crumbling store in front of him, it was obvious what store it was since he had gotten everything but one thing. His wand.

The sign with the peeling gold letters confirmed his suspicion.

"Ollivanders"

"Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."

*Chime* 

A bell rang as he walked through the door, and immediately his eyes scanned over the surroundings. It was as if the shop was abandoned, many wands sat in personalized boxes tailored for each one, even more wands were scattered across the floor, and nearly all the surfaces seemed to either be scorched, dented, or slashed. It looked as if some madman went postal with all the power a wand gave and exploded into a symphony of destruction.

Probably because there was.

"Ah yes, I believed I'd be seeing you soon, you seem rather two-faced for a child, strong wand... sturdy and stubborn seems to be your pick... show me your wand arm"

An eccentric old man appeared out of the shadows and he seemed to be a bit too eccentric for a kid... perhaps he has some... preferences? 

Forgetting about that for a moment, Deacon showed his left hand, wand arm probably meant which arm he used to write. Or at least he hoped so.

"Try this one, Ash wood, 11 inches, phoenix feather core"

Deacon was handed a wand, and as soon as he got a good grip it pulsed with disgust. How he knew it pulsed with disgust he didn't know, it was strange and it shook in his hand, clearly dissatisfied with him.

"Not for me sir, it's too... selective?"

"You have a good eye, Mr. Butch, you know what they say about wands, the wand picks the wizard and not the other way around"

Suddenly he was handed another wand, and when that one shot out a purple blast out of its tip in a random direction he was given another... and another... and another...

It had to have been hours since he entered right? 

"You are as unlikable as can among the wands it seems. Here try this one, rosewood with a rougarou hair, 10 inches, and the last available wand in my store, I never wanted to sell it let alone give it away because of its weak core"

As he was handed the wand, a sweet smell ravaged his nostrils, and he got a good grip on the wand, it was... frightening to say the least. The wand greeted him like an old friend, and he felt his magical circuits surge. The wand seemed to contrast between the sweet smell and the dark aura released by the core, and while 10 inches was every man's dream for their third leg, it was quite average for a wand.

He twirled it in his fingers, a light flick facing up, and a storm of fireworks erupted from it's tip.

---

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