1 Chapter 01: Magical Dumpster Fire.

(Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or I would certainly not spend my time here. I'd rather be in the bahamas with a freaking model, sipping cocktails and watching sunsets. I'm just a college student playing in Rowling's sandbox, and no Billy that's not a sexual innuendo. Sur ce, have a nice day.)

My story, like so many others, started on a ship. Or rather, in a ship. In an unrealistically large and stable section of the captain's cabin, but we'll get to that later. The rules of physics, much like common sense, become utterly irrelevant once you've gotten crushed in a train accident of all things, only to come face to face with a Darth Sidious cosplayer and his apprentice.

"The ritual was a failure." Sighed my captor; a wrinkled arse midget in stereotypical cultist robes; skulls and everything. He looked resigned, and constipated; I'll make an educated guess and assume it's a normal look for him.

'Poor sod, old man was too ugly to get a wife so he decided to worship our Lord and Saviour Cthulhu.'

"Did…did we do something wrong, sir?" squicked a terrified mess of a teenager who looked like a whitewashed Ned Leed with issues…well, more issues.

'Wait, Ned Leed was white in the comics. So is it whitewashing to whitewash a brownwashed character? He was an abusive husband too, so I guess they'd rather forget he existed before the MCU.'

"I doubt it, Timithus." Answered the raspy voice of the escaped low budget villain, as he picked up an antediluvian-looking stone tablet from a pedestal.

"The execution was perfect, the ingredients of prime quality and the astral conditions favorable." He rambled, looking at the tablet as if it was his dad's hidden playboy magazine. "Morganna, we even harnessed the power of a Deep sea Leyline. No, we did everything right!"

'What the hell is he talking about?'

"The sacrifice was of such high quality, too. So much power…" He looked at me, his utterly vile eyes squinting in a mix of envy and greed.

'As long as it's not Lust or gluttony, I can live with it… nah it still sucks.'

"Alas that's the risk with all ancient magicks, eldritch rituals doubly so. We simply have no way of knowing the efficiency of the spell before trying it, even its function is but guesswork. " Darth Virginus lectured before cackling lightly. "At least it didn't summon an unbound daemon, this time."

'This time?'

My tired mind couldn't process such a high level of bullshit, I couldn't keep up the near-unconscious facade I'd assumed to secure my life and hopefully maintain the embargo on my arse.

"This time?" squicked Ned the White, in what appeared to be a rare case of common sense.

"I'll tell you about it later, now get rid of the mudblood." He ordered the teenage cultist, who pulled out a weird looking wooden stick.

'Daemons? Mudblood? A Wand?'

"Excuse me, but what the fuck?" I couldn't help but ask, even if that high pitched voice was certainly not mine. In hindsight, speaking up was a very foolish idea; but I'd just died, so it can be forgiven.

It was but another existential dump fate took on my ear, I'd have to suffer through it later though. The young obese wizard in training pointed his wand at my hopefully less grotesque body, shouting some unknown word before a strong feeling of weakness washed over me. It took all of my willpower to resist falling asleep in front of Pedomaru wizarding variety and magical soy boy.

"Stupefy!" squicked the living meatball, he'd have to make some more effort if he wanted to put me down. Can't let myself keel over so easily, I've got a reputation to maintain.

My mental faculties were too diminished to achieve any level of productivity at the time, I am not nearly proud enough to deny that. But I still had enough sense to know that one did not survive getting squished by a fucking train. That the whole death deal did not involve a one way trip to the age of wooden ships and iron men. That maritime pedophiles were unlikely to summon demons, generally. And that a little fat boy in robes couldn't knock me out with a six-inches stick.

'And I'm pretty damn sure I didn't have a glowing arse scroll floating in front of me before this whole clusterfuck happened!'

"Merlin damn it…Stupefy!"

And the whole world went dark.

For five glorious hours, my worries and panic were halted by the sweet, albeit unwanted, sleep I so desperately needed. My forces were indeed greatly diminished, sudden exhaustion and repeated shocks did a number on even the most resilient minds.

Death. Agony. Waiting for assistance knowing your fate was already sealed. The numbness. The detachment our minds impose when we see our own muscles moving, intestines leaking. Not feeling my legs; a crushed spine. Not feeling anything. A single moment stretching itself to infinity, seeing my entire life flashing before my eyes while resignation appeased my restless soul.

All was dark, all was quiet. I felt peace, followed by a sudden pain.

The expectation, fear and overwhelming dread as my consciousness lingered. Waiting for an end, or an escape. Angels or demons greeting me. Morgan Freeman. Anything… except a withered incel with a dark ages fetish.

The insanity of it all would break normal people. I, however, am everything but normal. It was a truth I've faced, once denied and now proudly accepted.

It was for the better, as all claims of normality would be hard pressed to resist the sheer madness I was facing…

It was messed up, too messed up. But for now, I rest. God knows I'll need the strength…

…

I woke up to the smell of shit and salt, like a twisted rendition of the Azor Ahai prophecy. The sound of weeping, desperate whispers and the clank of chains; all hushed in fear, none daring enough to be heard. My eyes were still closed, but it was so easy to picture the kind of place I was in.

Filth and grime everywhere, piss and vomit painting the beddings. The permanent movement, inviting me to join in and contribute to this hygienic nightmare with the content of my stomach; fortunately, it was empty.

'A ship.' I smiled. 'How lovely, a moving prison of misery and disease where even the safest escape means death.'

'And it looks like I have some company.' I focused on the sounds, still unwilling to open my eyes.

Seeing would make it real, and I sure as hell don't want it to be.

'Many men, few women. Everyone's dumped together, I'm sure there is no way this arrangement could be problematic. Desperate people are well known for being very calm and understanding.' I'd shake my head, but I fear it would make me puke my guts out.

"It can't be…It just can't be…" "Deus…" "Cyka Blyat."

Couldn't they just shut up? I realize that they were traumatized and all, but some people still had enough will to fight back. This kind of defeatism will create a negative feedback loop and make everyone, including the most able of the lot, give up and revel in our shared misery.

Sheer spite gave me the courage to get my sore body up and open my damn eyes, what I saw made me wish I didn't.

All was moist and dead. Dozens of men and women were shackled, some huddled together for comfort, others sitting on their lonesome. We were few enough for the rather large cell to contain us, but too many for any privacy to be had.

A single guard stood vigil, smoking an old pipe as he blocked the staircase above. He was dressed poorly, fitting for a man from the Age of Sail. Dirty face, dirty clothes, dirty hairs and angry scars all over. Rotten teeth, broken nose and a stench rivaling the eldritch horror that is their…our prison.

As if his looks and smell weren't repulsive enough, he felt the need to carry a mean looking Falchion. The poorly maintained blade was strapped to his belt, right beside it, dangling like a prize was…a keyring.

'Okay, that's provocation.' I inhaled, instantly regretting when the smell almost put me down.

I too had my hands and legs shackled, but it didn't matter all that much. Nor did the itchy, dirty brown pseudo-medieval tunics I was wearing. Not even my lack of proper undergarments in favor of a loincloth could faze me when I realized just what in the most sacred fuck was in front of me.

'No fucking way.' I shook my head, almost laughing at yet another madness reality threw at me.

It's a good kind of madness, but a madness nonetheless.

[New Skill Acquired: Observe Lvl 1]

'This…this can only mean two things.' I grinned, which would've weirded my new comrades if they'd noticed my presence.

'Either I've snapped, and started seeing stuff as a coping mechanism.' An option I'd rather ignore, better to revel in my sweet, sweet insanity if it means I get to keep my precious, precious boon.

'Or I became The Gamer of all things.'

I was a bit disappointed not to hear a ding, and subsequently receive a Wisdom or Intelligence point for my oh so awesome deduction skills.

Meh, can't have everything.

'Still, I have a bad feeling about this…' I frowned lightly, cursing myself for not just enjoying what I have. 'Skills.'

The scroll-like panel reappeared, but was empty save for my newly obtained 'Observe' skill written in overly fancy handwriting…or is it game-writing? No matter, the pit in my stomach only grew.

'Perks.' I mentally called out, only to be disappointed by another empty panel. 'Shit.'

Not having multiple skills is alright, even when your life, freedom and anal virginity are at stake. Skills can be gained relatively easily, and they are from the most important aspect of the overwhelmingly broken power of the Gamer.

But Perks…perks are the bread and butter of all reality cheaters, and half of it is because of two relatively inconspicuous yet infinitely important powers.

'I don't have a Gamer's Mind or Body.' I fought back against the pessimism, it's not very effective.

'Status'

[Arthur Black

Title: Potential Wizard.

Mana Points: 100/100

Strength: 5

You are strong enough to carry multiple pebbles, heavy ones.

Dexterity: 5

You are agile enough not to trip on nothing, better than the U.S president.

Vitality: 5

You have enough vitality to feed a vampire, watch out for Cedirc Diggory.

Magic: 10

You have as much magic as the average Hogwarts first year, or Gilderoy Lockhart.

Magic Control: E

You have as much control over your magic as Severus snape has on his deer oriented Zoophilia.]

That begs for so many questions I'd don't even know where to start, but it gave me a better understanding of my situation.

'I am in some twisted version of the Wizarding World, as a recently enslaved child sent to who-knows-where and happens to have a sizable amount of magic. To get myself out of this shitstorm, I've been given an unfairly nerfed version of the gamer by some higher entity who might or might not be Cthulhu.' I smile. 'At least I still have my man bits, though I won't get to use them for a very long time.'

Then I realized, I'd have to go through puberty again.

'Fuck this shit.'

- - -

Chapter's End!

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the utmost pleasure to present you my very first fiction; born of the twisted imagination of complete closet Nerd with a knack for burning Xeno scum, perfected through the reading of a thousand fiction both good and bad, humbly offered to you fair people of the internet to entertain you in these trying times.

You might be curious about the direction this story shall take, I will therefor give you a brief overview.

This is a transmigration fic in an AU Potterverse where the basics of human nature and societal building are respected, even if the events of Canon are the same. The wizarding population has been modified to acceptable levels, and an appropriate class system was designed to allow a functional magical world. I have taken some liberties with the World and Magic in general; fully separating the two and establishing a good reason for those clueless wizarding folks not get caught.

I've established a military system, and economy and taken into accounts what little culture we've been shown to produce a compromise between canon and coherent. The result is a class based magocracy where wizards are the top, ruling over their own retinue of wandless non-trained 'Wandless' folks who are more numerous but lack the power or finances to be educated and made into a proper wizard. There is peasantry, pseudo-feudalism, a whole lot of issues which culminate in frequent and massive conflicts. In other words: War, lots of war.

This way, the Pureblood movement has meaning. The Victorian feel of the movies doesn't contradict the medieval aspects of the books and the wizarding world has no reason to just starve to death. The economy makes sense, and a whole lot of plot points and epic stuff can be written by your truly.

Billy: But commander, how can you modify the world in any major way without altering the story itself?

It's actually simple, private. By making the wizards into the higher class they are, every single plot points in the books makes more sense. The muggleborn are newly raised bourgeoisie or lowest nobility. The pureblood are old aristocracy. The Weasley are fallen nobility, who lost everything but their name. People not being in the same world makes wizards's isolation a way bigger deal. We don't have to contradict anything, we just add pieces to Rowling's world.

Billy: That's awesome, Sir!

Yes it is, Billy. Yes, it is.

Goodbye!