Sean stared, a little numbly, at the splintered remains of his desk. Chunks of wood and twisted metal littered the carpet where, moments before, a perfectly ordinary piece of furniture had stood. His parents, Yad and Martha, hovered in the doorway, their expressions a bewildering mix. Shock was undeniably there, stark and wide-eyed. But beneath it, Sean could swear he glimpsed an almost feverish glint. Astonishingly, it looked like envy. And even stranger, there was also a breathtaking, almost wild ecstasy.
What was happening?
For a bizarre moment, he wondered if they'd harbored some secret, long-standing grudge against his desk. A deep-seated, inanimate animosity.
Then, the more pressing, chilling question slammed into his consciousness: how did the desk even break?
"A cold dread, sharp and unpleasantly familiar, pricked the edges of his mind. In a past life he now struggled to recall clearly—a life that felt more like a distant, fading dream than a solid memory—Sean had been utterly captivated by the Harry Potter series. Back then, those stories were pure fiction, a charming escape from everyday life. The thought of actually living inside that magical world was so remote, so fantastical, it had never once seriously crossed his mind."
For the first ten years in this new life, Sean had nursed a quiet resentment about his displacement to Britain. He'd been meticulously planning his future: a top private school, then perhaps a strategic move into the bustling world of London finance or technology, aiming to build an empire by leveraging the faint echoes of foresight from that life almost forgotten.
And now, this. A violently shattered desk, and his parents looking at him like he'd just performed a miracle. A quick, sickening calculation told him he was the same age as Harry Potter himself when his magical journey began. This wasn't some old-fashioned template; this was his reality, and the danger level had just soared into the stratosphere.
Sinking onto the living room sofa, Sean accepted the cup of hot milk his mother pressed into his hands, though its warmth did little to soothe the sudden chill in his soul.
If he were given a choice, a genuine choice, Sean would have opted out of this burgeoning magical drama and clung to his carefully constructed plans for a normal, albeit ambitious, life. But the universe, it seemed, wasn't offering options. Not when the raw, untamed magic now clearly stirring within him felt like a volatile Obscurus, threatening to consume him if not properly guided and controlled. For the simple, non-negotiable reason of self-preservation, the Wizarding World was no longer a distant fantasy—it was an impending, unavoidable reality.
Besides, his parents… their hope was a tangible force in the room, almost suffocating in its intensity. Both were Squibs, individuals born into magical families but lacking magical ability themselves, effectively expelled and shamed by their respective pure-blood lines. To them, a wizard son wasn't just a child; he was a vindication, a golden ticket back into the societal standing they'd lost, and a chance to finally hold their heads high. It felt like a classic case of pure-blood families manipulating their less magically endowed relatives, a subtle, ingrained pressure that had clearly shaped his parents' desires.
His father, Yad, re-entered the room, his face flushed after a hushed, urgent phone call. Sean looked up, a sliver of his old-world curiosity momentarily overriding his turmoil. "Father," he asked, his voice surprisingly steady, "do wizards… use telephones?"
Yad, already beaming with a paternal pride that now bordered on reverence for his "magical genius" son, rushed to explain. "Ah, no, Sean, not usually the main families. Most wizards prefer to communicate using owls or the Floo Network for more direct contact. Telephones… well, they are primarily for peripheral family members to contact us. We, in turn, must go through those peripheral members to reach the core family."
So, Squibs like his parents couldn't even directly contact their own kin. Sean's nascent impression of this "family" grew colder, harder.
His father had made the necessary call to his side of the family. His mother, Martha, remained quiet, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her expression unreadable. Sean wasn't surprised; he knew her own family ties were severed, her parents lost in what was always vaguely termed an "accident" many years ago. Now, with dawning horror, he suspected that "accident" likely occurred during the dark times when "No-Nose" – Voldemort – and his Death Eaters were actively terrorising the wizarding world, with Muggle-born witches and wizards being prime targets.
Of course, these were just his grim deductions. Prying into such painful memories felt like twisting a knife in an old wound, and to what end?
He sipped the milk, its temperature now perfectly lukewarm. As the last of it slid down his throat, a sharp, decisive knock echoed from the front door.
A spark of almost frantic anticipation lit his father's eyes as he practically scrambled to answer it.
The door swung inward, revealing three imposing figures cloaked in dark, expensive-looking robes. His father, Yad, almost bowed as he ushered them in, his demeanor bordering on servile. The old man standing in the middle, radiating an aura of cold authority, completely ignored Yad's stammered, eager greetings and Martha's polite, nervous welcome. His gaze, sharp and piercing as a hawk's, swept past them and locked directly onto Sean, still seated on the sofa.
That single, contemptuous dismissal was enough. Any lingering, naive curiosity Sean might have harbored about this so-called "family", any faint, blood-borne shred of goodwill, withered and died in that instant.
"You are Sean? Sean Bulstrode?" The old man's voice was gravelly, deep, and accustomed to unquestioning obedience.
Sean carefully placed the empty cup on the mahogany side table. He might already dislike these people intensely, but he would not be the cause of his parents' further humiliation. Respect, he knew, had to be earned, and the fight to reclaim the dignity that rightfully belonged to his parents would begin now.
He rose smoothly from the sofa, meeting the old man's unwavering gaze without flinching. He offered a slight, courteous bow. "I am Sean Bulstrode, sir. Son of Yad Bulstrode and Martha Carter."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the slightly plump, middle-aged man standing just behind the elder let out a soft, derisive snicker. "Heh. Carter."
The surname, in some contexts, could refer to a wagon driver or a coachman. Spoken with such disdain by this wizard, it was a clear insult, despising Martha's Muggle-born heritage and perceived lower status. For these pure-bloods who considered themselves born noble, Martha's background was undoubtedly deemed disgracefully common, perhaps even inferior to that of a pure Muggle.
Sean's expression hardened, his carefully constructed politeness threatening to crack. An insult to him was one thing; an insult to his mother was entirely another.
However, before Sean could voice his indignation, the old man at the forefront let out a sharp, cold snort. He turned a severe gaze upon the plump man. "Borell! Your manners are atrocious. It seems you have completely forgotten the etiquette I drilled into you since childhood. Return to the manor at once and copy the family codes of conduct until I am satisfied you have to relearn them!"
The old man's authority was clearly unshakeable. Borell, though his face flushed a dull red with resentment – clearly believing his jibe had been perfectly acceptable – still bowed his head stiffly. "Yes, Father." He accepted the punishment through gritted teeth, a flicker of malice in his eyes as he glanced at Sean.
After dispatching his youngest son, the old man, whose stern features hadn't softened, turned back to Sean. "Are you satisfied with that resolution, boy?"
Slightly startled by the direct address, Sean looked at the old man, trying to gauge the intent behind the steely eyes. He couldn't quite decipher the elder wizard's game, but he wouldn't be caught off guard. He gave a small, noncommittal nod. "Thank you, sir."
"My name is Gavin Bulstrode," the old man declared, his voice resonating with ancestral pride. "Father of Yad and Borell. From this day forward, you will address me as Grandfather." He then reached into the depths of his robes, producing a silver badge intricately etched with a family crest and a heavy-looking gold Gringotts bank note. He stepped closer, motioned for Sean to extend his hand, and placed the cool metal items into his palm.
"This", Gavin announced, his gaze unwavering, "is the Bulstrode family insignia and your preliminary family scholarship. Had your father been a wizard, your privileges would naturally be… more substantial. Unfortunately, your father is a Squib, and as such, was formally expelled from the main family lines. Therefore, your entitlements align with those granted to magically gifted children among our peripheral branches. These are the ancient rules of our house, Sean, not a personal slight against you. I trust you understand what I mean."
Sean looked down at the items in his hand. The badge felt surprisingly weighty, its silver cool against his skin. "I understand, Grandfather," he said, his voice remarkably even. "A family must abide by its rules if it is to endure. However," he paused, then lifted his gaze, a spark of unexpected challenge glinting in his young eyes, "these are gifts bestowed upon me by the family. As my grandfather, what personal gift have you prepared for me?"
A sudden, sharp intake of breath could be heard from Yad and Martha, their faces paling with renewed fear and anxious worry. Borell, who had not yet departed, now wore an expression of open disdain and mockery, though his father's earlier, swift punishment kept him from voicing it aloud.
Gavin Bulstrode simply stared at the child before him. He was only ten years old, yet he possessed a maturity, a self-possession, that far exceeded Gavin's expectations. That calm, almost audacious demand was rare, even in adults, let alone a child of this age. As Gavin watched, he felt a strange flicker of something akin to recognition, as if he were seeing a faint echo of his own younger self – equally steady, equally determined, and unafraid to claim what he believed was his due.
A very slight, almost imperceptible curve appeared at the corner of Gavin's lips. Slowly, deliberately, he crouched down. To the utter astonishment of Borell and the other silent, middle-aged woman who accompanied them, the formidable patriarch of the Bulstrode family lowered himself to look directly into the eyes of this grandson he had scarcely interacted with before.
"I have always favored intelligent children, Sean," Gavin said, his voice a fraction softer now, almost conspiratorial. "Your… initiative is commendable. As a reward, and as my personal welcoming gift to you, I have three items here. You may choose one. Consider it my early admission present, from your grandfather."
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