A Land of Wizards and Magic

Diagon Alley, The Wizarding World

September 11th​, 1971

His vision restored itself from the unthinkable sights he'd experienced while in transit towards this unknown world. It was an interesting trip, witnessing the Blind Eternities. He struggled to conceptualize the sights and synesthesia he'd experienced in English, although in R'lyehian or another tongue, it became easier.

"Ot throdog hnahh llll mgah, ahnah ah mgep epgoka; llll fahf syha'h, ah shuggogg llll." The man mumbled to himself, gazing up at the slightly overcast sky. A natural sun shone down on him, illuminating his pale skin, perfected and without pores, unnatural to a keen observer. Such was his nature. For however much the Wyrm attempted to obscure his nature, he would forever be somewhat odd. Even the canniest would never truly associate him with the Eldritch without a blatant display, but those with the right perception and wherewithal about them would notice something wrong with him.

Ebon sighed and wandered forward. From his shadow, the slithering whispers of his patron rose to his demand. His former nudity was washed away by manifesting additions of clothing that fitted themselves onto his form. From soft bare footsteps to the hard strikes of a boot he strode. Clothing manifested around him; a simple pair of trousers, connected to suspenders that fitted over a black and white pinstripe vest, a white dress shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a tie feeding into his blackened vest. The alley he appeared within had signs of industrial work, although the bricks were odd, and a perception that was unfamiliar told him there were signs of magic within the structure of the alley he now walked.

He exited the dark alley and peered out into the street, and his eyes widened minutely as he beheld robed figures wearing a wide assortment of hats that walked the narrow street. His eyes idly tracked certain individuals who wore various uniforms; pairs of disciplined men wearing bright red and crimson outfits. People tended to move out of their way and acted with deference towards them. Police, enforcers, or otherwise; it'd be best to stay out of their way. Then there was another uniform that was common, belonging to teens and young adults.

The teens ranged from fourteen, and then grew towards an age he'd have trouble placing; college age, he'd say. Their ties and robes were unique, red and gold, silver and green, blue and copper, yellow and black. He'd say they belonged to different schools, if not for his keen eyes making out the same insignia or emblem on their uniforms. As an American, he didn't know if this was a system that was popular within, what he assumed to be the UK. The people's accent was noticeable even from his secluded vantage within the mouth of the alleyway, and he frowned deeply trying to divine if this was possibly South Africa; although the lack of dark-skinned individuals and the rather nippy weather had him leaning towards the UK.

His shadow, the fractured remains of his Patron whispered to him information. These were Wizards, conduits capable of harnessing and manipulating a local mystic resource or energy. Powerful insofar as their bodies could channel Magic, and the energy itself was a state of high entropy. Magic, however, tended to alter reality, and by channeling magic, they changed the natural state of the inert and stable energy into a ordered chaos, or a lower, but more instable state of entropy. Like an isotope decaying into radioactive particles, he noted.

Magic, when channeled by the Wizards needed to be tamed lest its innate chaos distort the world in wild ways, and once ordered, it was then released with memetic intent programing it. He noted all individuals tended to only be casting or harnessing magic using sticks -wands- and his patron expanded that the wands assisted in controlling the unstable energies. Effectively, a School or Order of magic that could be considered 'Wand Magic', applying its own rules and structures to formalize the inherently chaotic energy to their demands. The school uniforms also hinted at the magic being capable of being taught. If that wasn't true, then his Patron would likely call them Sorcerers, not Wizards.

Ebon idly wondered how his patron knew such information, and the fragment explained itself as simply being old. It had great experience with mystic and magical realms, and while one might think the End of All would be beyond the nuances of mortal magics; magic itself wasn't beyond its notice. By understanding the fundamental structure of the energy source, it was only a matter of intelligence to put together a blurry image of what a greater system of magic might look like.

'Would it be possible for me to learn this?' He wondered, a bit of childish whimsy entering him. In turn the uncountable number of prisoners, and his own patron, laughed.

'Why learn this paltry magic, when you already have the knowledge of Truth?' His Patron questioned scathingly.

Ebon frowned, leaning up against the wall of the alley. He ignored his Patron, and instead ruminated on his actions, past and future.

Ebon, or whoever Ebon had been previously, sold his Universe, and all its constituents out, largely on a whim. He was acting somewhat rationally, largely motivated by self-interest, with the moral ramifications being as utterly horrible as they were; he wanted a lot for what he was doing. He found no interest in self-flagellation over the doom of uncountable numbers of lives, nor did he exactly want to dwell on his past. However, his past held a lot of motivation for where he went with his future.

Ebon didn't kill and doom his Universe and its multiversal constitutes out of hatred. He was just the lucky individual destined to benefit from their deaths; the man who sold the Universe, to something with the capital to purchase it. As an American, he found some twisted pride in being the greatest capitalist of them all. He'd gained things worth the deal by a mile, at least in his opinion. The title of Warden and Master for the Trapezohedron, the Patronage of an unfathomably powerful creature beyond divinities, and the knowledge of a language so powerful merely speaking it would taint reality in its wake. Not to mention his body and the awakening of his Planeswalker origin.

He'd lost nothing of worth. The man before Ebon wasn't anyone of importance. He had designs of joining the military, having nowhere left to go, but ultimately; he had nothing. Sure, he could've gained things; but compared to what he had now, nothing on Earth could've swayed him otherwise. Perhaps only the resurrection of his parents could have tempted him, but even then, he'd likely hesitate for what he had now. He loved his parents, and they loved him just the same. With the unproven word of an Eldritch monstrosity to go by, his parents were soul-dust; faded into oblivion by his Universe's lack of an Afterlife. They were gone and to dust, which meant even if he obtained a multiversal equivalent, they wouldn't really be them. And what was to compare; false and fake parents and a mundane life in another reality at the cost of uncountable realities and universes of potential, or unthinkable power, prestige, and opportunity for eons to come?

It wasn't anything personal; he just found that his empathy lacked the capacity to care for unthinkable amounts of faceless masses. His new mind, alien as it was, could indeed grasp the macro and microcosms of the deal he'd struck, unlike his mortal mind; but he was of the Eldritch now. For however human he looked, he'd been reforged into a creature that was very inhuman by design to handle and cope with the Eldritch Truth.

He was, in a way, a Demigod of the Eldritch, half-human, half-Outer God. He was nobility by association to The Wyrm, he was Master by his claim to the Trapezohedron, and he was Lord by his knowledge of the Eldritch Truth. Yet, for however he embraced his Eldritch identity, he was also still human by origin and wish. He was a human male of two-decades, and while he had no doubt that as he aged his humanity would decay; for now, he was very human, and in the springtime of his youth; why would he not enjoy life?

'And what would I like to do, in this life?' So wondered the sinner. It was his belief that he was not evil. He was not a sociopathic man, nor a psychopath. He understood such emotions, and yet, the evil within man's heart was not limited to such people. Motivation was the key, and his motivation was merely self-betterment; and as he was now bettered, he could, technically, live a normal mundane life. There was a side of him that appealed to such a wish, but there was also a greater side that desired more; ever more.

'But what is more?' He wondered. His mind drifted to unfathomable meanings, of the Eldritch Truth, to the energies locked away inside his shadow; the eldritch might and power that would spell the end of worlds if he so pulled upon his patron's unfathomable might that was but mere fragments thereof. The powers and abilities that he held were truly devastating, and while the Eldritch was often a creature of subtly; it was not the mind-bending normality or the pervasive corruption of a world that he desired. The lost city of R'lyeh would not rise under his desires; he had no true want to become some monstrous tyrant or king.

It was interesting, being on the other side of things. To be the Cosmic Horror, and to wonder and plot at which what they desired. And what did such unfathomable creatures want with the mortals of Earth? Even for all his knowledge, and the crying monsters held within his Prison; Ebon did not know. They were alien things, and even for all his mind had expanded, still yet a human perspective resided behind it all. To be twisted of mind was to be impossible for the human perspective to even understand, and it was in this way that these creatures acted; their plots and plans skewed and likely not even known by them at that point in time, such was the way of their nature. They were aberrations, upon reality, upon time, space, and all other constants thereof; to try and judge and describe them would forever be constrictive on an inherently nebulous concept.

His mind drifted back towards his desires, and he found himself pausing frustration. A frown etched itself onto his face, and he rapped his fingers against the brick wall behind him. Ebon found himself lacking the illusion of life, purpose. He denied outright servitude towards the Wyrm, for there lay nothing but destruction in that path; he was rewarded once, and treated in good faith, but further interactions with his Patron would forever be a questionable decision. Relying on such an enigmatic figure, alien in its wants and desires and only interactable in a position of strengths between it and its next meal was the only path towards compromise. Otherwise, why would a predator negotiate for a meal strung within the range of its maw?

In his deep introspection, Ebon wondered what he lacked that he so willingly and quickly sought to give away his World. The answer was obvious as he thought of his family; he lacked bonds. His nation was a means to an end, a transaction between citizen and state, in the capitalist way of the world. He paid taxes, and they maintained public services. In his youth he once held the pride and patriotism within his heart for the American Eagle, but as he grew, he didn't grow exactly embittered as he did grow disillusioned. The American dream didn't exist anymore, at least not without putting in an amount of work and effort for something he didn't truly care for. Financial stability was all he sought, not the self-aggrandizing hording of things and items. Perhaps in younger years of the world, the American Dream worked; people wanted things, but materialism had been soured by an upbringing of minimalism, of practicality, of rising living costs and a degree of uncertainty to the future with global crisis looming overhead.

It was his belief that as time passed, things would only ever grow worse. More resources would be consumed, things would cost more, more people would be born, there would be more competition, the climate would start to alter itself, food and water would start to become rarer in formerly wealthy parts of the nation and world. He imagined in his twilight years he'd live to see the first water wars, and he'd likely live through food riots, and a half dozen other disasters, whether they be war, famine, disease, or even a nuclear holocaust.

Ebon was educated to be mindful of his waste, and he felt guilty about flushing a toilet twice, or using too much toilet paper, or throwing away a bit of food. The propaganda was working, he was aware it was working, and that it was for a greater good; and yet, he was but a cog, a man, a boy. Why should he bear the price of the world's woes, when those of greater age were living out their remaining years as if they were still living in the twentieth century? America, and the world at large, felt like it was being run by a Death Cult; individuals of great age not concerned with leaving legacy, so long as they received their special benefits and corrupt offerings of appeasement. The world was unfair; he accepted that fact, and when proposed the opportunity to escape those fears, those doubts, and given power and knowledge beyond all…

A man became an island.

He reflected that was his greatest wish. Independence, and what he envisioned 'freedom' was. Absolute freedom was absolute, and thus unattainable without irrevocably altering his nature to be free from all things; wants, desires, needs. However, to be human was to want and desire. He wanted chains; he wanted ties, and he wanted bonds. For as his last bonds fell away, his family; look at what such freedom brought him. An utter apathy towards a troubled world, its peoples, and its nature. He sold all of what he disdained, feared, and dreaded, for his greatest wish was an independence from such things.

A body that cared not for the base needs of mortal living. He didn't need to eat, sleep, breathe, or drink; he was free from such things. A mind that was unshackled, given to the Eldritch Truth and expanded beyond the perspectives of mortality. Age, time, memory, disease, even death; he was free from such constraints. Then the Power; the Power to demand, to refuse, and dictate.

In a way, he imagined himself as the monster that his world, his nation, created. Apathetic, interested only in the self, entitled, a warped and twisted mind with foul ideas and conceptions of personal liberties and independence. Truly he was the personification of the American Dream.

Ebon's eyes gazed out at the crowds, his pondering and introspections drawing him towards the world he now found himself within. He was starting to realize how much he desired personal connection; for he was only human and had been alone for years ever since his parents' death. He never did get over that; and he imagined few people would. Left alone within an uncaring world, faced with nothing but responsibility and expectation. He felt a light smile crawl onto his face; for he was free.

His power, his knowledge, his pedigree; it was all meaningless to these people that walked by him without care in the world. Their ignorance saved them from the knowledge of the creature that stood in the shadows, debating what to do with them. He'd already stated he had no interest in becoming God or King, perhaps in some future he could see himself becoming such; but for now, he was still that mortal young man, lost in the world and grasping for some meaning or purpose.

'I wish for bonds and experience. I wish for an adventure, and a life to live without the mundane worries of lesser men.' Ebon internalized. 'I wish for people to share my gifts with, I wish to banish this plague of apathy that has haunted me since my parent's death. I wish to move on, and to grow once again.' Taking a deep breath, he faced the world, and went to action.

Stepping out from the alleyway, he walked towards a lone young man, likely within his early teens. The young man held a hawkish sight to him, a dower frown on his face as he skulked through the street into his waiting path. "Excuse me, young man." As he spoke his first bit of English, Ebon found himself holding a unique accent; not American, but one that came from feeling more at ease speaking the unknowable tones of Elder Beings. It warbled with a depth of tone that hid mystery and truth, with Ebon feeling capable of pushing the subtle intonations into his words to utterly corrupt the mortal language.

The young man's gaze snapped up to him, his brows furrowing, his posture and body curling into itself. "Yes?" He drawled.

"I'm afraid I'm quite foreign; lost, you see." Ebon smiled apologetically, "Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am?"

The young man's eyes turned queer, "Erm, this is Diagon Alley." He stated, brows furrowing in confusion.

"Hm, yes, and I would be correct assuming this is the United Kingdoms?" Ebon asked next.

"Yes…"

"And could I so please obtain the date?"

Real concern and worry appeared in the stoic man's eyes, "1971, September 9th​. It's Thursday."

Humor sparked in Ebon's eyes, "Fascinating." He uttered, licking his lips and wondering in what businesses he should invest within. Google was a certainty, Microsoft, Apple, the big stuff of course. But perhaps other things like Oil and more stable markets. His eyes darted down to the young man, "Are you a school student, perchance?"

The boy blinked, "You, where are you from?" Incredulity in his voice.

Ebon smiled with his eyes, "America, with dual citizenship with Canada. Specifically, I'm from Washington, quite far from home I am." He chortled at his lies. "I was testing experimental means of transportation. Had to rule out time-travel. Haha."

The lad relaxed noticeably, and smiled with curiosity, "You're testing out different means of travel?" He wondered, "Something different than Apparition, Portkeys, or Flooing?"

'Those words mean nothing to me!' Ebon joked internally, "Indeed. I call my means of travel Planeswalking, but don't go spreading that around, you hear?" He gave another good-natured laugh, "Still, I don't reach over across the pond too often; most of my interactions have been with the Japanese and American governments. Now that I'm here, it'd be interesting to get to know the lay of the land, eh?"

The boy remembered his question and nodded, "Well, I'm a student at Hogwarts, sir. A starting second year."

Ebon nodded, "You look around…"

"Fifteen, sir." The boy answered.

"Fifteen it is." Ebon hummed, "How long does this 'Hogwarts' go on for? Is the curriculum good?"

The boy smiled and nodded, "First years start when they turn fourteen, although some kids are already fifteen, or just about turn that age when school starts; so, fourteen-fifteen are the firsties. Then it goes on for seven years, until a student turns twenty-one; my professors tell me that's a powerful number in arithmancy and numerology, but we won't be learning that until our third year."

Ebon frowned, "Arithmancy…" He muttered, "And how are mundane subjects taken inside of the school?" He questioned.

The boy cocked his head, "Erm, mundane?"

"English, Mathematics, the Sciences, Social Studies; maybe some sporting electives, not to mention physical education and health classes." Ebon stated.

The young man furrowed his brow, "We, uh, don't have those…" He muttered.

Ebon raised an eyebrow, "Then it's something of a college?" He frowned, "Where do you learn those basic skills, then? Even with magic, one must know how to write papers, do mathematics, and all manner of basic skills."

The young man frowned, staring down at his feet with a dower expression, "I've been getting by with what I learned in public school..."

"Odd." Ebon muttered. "Be remiss of me to criticize a school's curriculum, what with the American standard." He noted with disdain, "Anyway, thanks for your time, lad. Perhaps you should look into getting a tutor; maybe an older student to help you along with your studies?" He recommended.

"Erm, a pleasure meeting you…"

"Ebon."

The boy raised an eyebrow, "Just…Ebon?"

The man gave a wide smile, "Just Ebon. And you?"

"Severus. Severus Snape."

Ebon chuckled, "A snappy name, Mr. Snape." He tipped his head and bid the boy goodbye, entering the crowds of people that walked this 'Diagon Alley'.

His eyes darted about, paying close attention to exchanging goods and memorizing the specific details of coinage being handled. Copper pieces, silver pieces, and a rare few gold coins. He didn't know their names or values, but his senses did specify their exact properties; mystical and mundane alike.

From his vest he pulled out from his shadow manifested copies of gold and silver coins. His Patron assisted him in conjuring forth three-coin pouches, and he softly whispered for the bags to be expanded beyond their natural constraints. His words were spoken in a cosmic language spoken by star-sprites and void-beings, but one of an unfathomable number of languages he now knew.

With the enchantment applied, he then generated hundreds of the coins. They were not true counterfeits as the magical echoes and atomic structure of the coins were utterly identical to those his senses could divine. They weren't truly perfect; for they were crafted with the alluring and corruptive whisper of the Eldritch; all but the most inspective of searches would find no noticeable difference. Filling each of his bags up with hundreds of each of coins, Ebon walked the market and quickly found himself drawn into a bookstore.

The clerk was a queer man who tried selling him a dozen different things. "Look here, good sir, an Enchiridion of Transfiguration; a truly worthy read for those who wish to grasp the foundations. Perfect for reference of the complicated art." Such was his fifth offer already, and one that entered his interest.

"Would you happen to have introductory, advanced theory, and high-level compendiums of each school of magic?" Ebon asked. "I'm looking to bolster my at-home library and having reference books would be of great value."

The man smiled and nodded, ringing him up for a good three-dozen books divided between six different schools of magic. Transfiguration, Alchemy, Potioneering, Charms, Divination, and Runecraft. Then he purchased dictionaries for a half-dozen different forgotten and ancient languages; from Middle and Old English to Futhark Runes and Hieroglyphs that Runecraft so depended on. Magical society seemed to have great insights into such things that the archeologists of the mundane world could only wish to have obtained. On and on his purchases climbed, ramping up to a total of fifty-seven books in total, with an additional purchase of a shrunken trunk capable of being carried in a pocket to contain all his purchased goods.

Ebon was confident in being able to dispel the magics that shrunk and lightened his load, and after paying out three-hundred galleons of gold, conjured as they fell out of his pouch; he hit the road once more.

Shops passed by him in a blur of rapid spending, with Ebon obtaining all manner of goods his heart and eyes desired. A horde of potion ingredients and their required tools were obtained for when he deigned to study this field of magic. Joining them were three separate enlarged spaces, one a tent to act as a mobile home, another a suitcase that was reinforced to hold more volatile items without endangering the stability of the spatial enchantments, and another a reinforced trunk that did the same; just with more quality-of-life additions added onto it. Thousands of gold coins were conjured and sold, Ebon utterly uncaring of the impact that was going to have on the economy; as minimal as it would with a single man's wealth uplifting shopkeepers and small businesses.

His spending eventually brought him to an odd shop, one named Ollivander's, a Wand Making business that catered towards the wizards of this world. Entering the dilapidated shop, he was almost run over by a young teen with a massive grin on her face, laughing in joy as she waved a wand that caused flower petals to spread throughout the air.

"Narcissa Antlia Black!" An older voice called out in caution, forcing Ebon to dodge a mane of black hair that buffeted his form, an athletic woman racing after the girl and arresting her ear in a fierce pinch. Chuffing in a bit of irritation, Ebon smoothed his clothing while idly enjoying the floral scent of the woman's perfume. His eyes roamed the disorganized room filled with discarded wands and ruinous malpractices of chaotic magic. His eyes then turned where an old man appeared, the illusion hiding him a paltry thing to his eyes.

"Hmm, and what are you?" The old man wondered idly.

"A customer, I'd hope." Ebon stated, narrowing his eyes as the illusion faded, and a firm frown and piercing silver eyes scanned his form.

"A demon?" The old man wondered, cocking his head, "No, no infernal stench about you. But you have a gait about you that speaks of inhumanity. Fae, most likely. The too smooth skin, the too bright teeth. Your features are utterly symmetrical, handsome without recourse. If it weren't for that air of oddness about you, boy, women would be flocking to you; although even that could be attractive in their mysterious minds."

"I don't quite know what you're speaking of old man. I've just come to purchase a wand." Ebon stated blankly, ignoring his commentary.

"Hmm, yes. Who am I to press; after all, I'm just an old man." Olivander chuckled. "There are laws preventing me from making a sale to one who is not a Wizard, or one with a criminal record."

"I am a Wizard, and I do not have a criminal record." Ebon said with a shameless smile.

"And who am I to tell if that is the truth?" Olivander gave a grin, "Come, come. Let's test out some wands."

And so, they began. Ebon sat in a rickety old chair, fit more for young adults than a full-grown man, but fit he did all the same. Wands passed through his hands, and each wand that entered taught Ebon how to behave like a Wizard. At least, physiologically.

He needed to draw in the ambient energies, from where they came, he did not know, nor did he exactly care to find the source or root of magic. He was far keener on simply understanding how to cast magic first, then to understand where it sprang from and all its mysteries. He pulled this energy into his alien biology, feeding it through the metaphysical channels along his soul that overlayed his body. They were the same channels that the Eldritch Energies of his Patron coursed. The ambient magic and energy warped and twisted along Eldritch Runes pressed into his soul and mind, it screamed in a tortured melody as his Patron's gaze licked along its endless possibilities, and as it was hammered into obedience by the Trapezohedron's domineering nature, it became meek, if energetic. Held in a stable state of low entropy, like a plastic explosive ready requiring nothing more than activation energy or a catalyst to explode.

With magic in this state, he ejected the energy through a wand. It was the tenth wand he'd held, none holding any reaction to being held in his hand. Olivander seemed to be patient, watching him meditate, and smiled with glee as the wand cracked, burnt, shattered, warped; and then glitched as a lash of bright green energies carved a brutal scar upon the spatial fabric of the man's shop. The wound in space-time had Ebon open his eyes, and with a glare towards unordered chaos, he spoke.

"SEAL." He growled in English, and like an obedient bitch, reality buckled under his demand. The space snapped shut, Olivander's laughter not halting since. With a bored gaze he tossed the handful of dust his wand had become and raised an eyebrow at the cackling wand maker. He waited patiently, the man's laughter escaping out in giggles as he began mumbling nonsense while he ripped apart his shop; soon finding lengths of wood, vials and bottles of organs and odd materials. To which he left for the back of his shop to work with, not a word spoken between to the two men.

Fifteen minutes later, with several people coming into the shop, only for them to be gently booted out by the Wards did Olivander come out with bloodshot eyes. "A tincture of your heart's blood, the full length of your radius or ulna, a strand of your heartstrings, and some tendon or sinew." He demanded.

With a snort, Ebon's conjured a blade. He hacked into his left arm, and without a single drop of blood slipping out; he carved out his bone. From the same arm, he removed the connective tissues of his bones, then surgically removed his still beating heart from his chest after stripping down; conjuring a vial for his heart blood, and then shaved flesh from his heart. Giving each to the hyperventilating wand maker, Ebon silently fixed his body, his mumbled words of healing causing bone to grow back, tendons and ligaments realigning, and his heart healing to health.

Five more people entered the Wand Maker's shop, the wards kicking them all out, and within the hour of receiving the requested ingredients, Olivander walked out with a wand reverently held within his hands. He presented it towards Ebon, and the man received it was grace. The loaded and abused magic within him raced through the length of bone, honed and unnaturally shaped into the fine point of a wand. Thirteen inches long, it was a wicked looking thing; blackened bone with highlights of white, the char of some fire decorating the dangerous looking wand. He bent it and found it beyond flexible, nearly touching both ends together, before he felt an instinctual warning of damage if he pressed too far.

"How much do I owe you?" He asked the silent Wand Maker.

"Seven Galleons." The man whispered.

The coins clinked into the man's outstretched hands, and Ebon stalked out. A short line of bored looking people raised an eyebrow as he left them by, curious gazes following him as he entered foot traffic.

'Now, to find somewhere to study and practice.'