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78.05% HP: A Magical Journey [Complete] / Chapter 344: Converging Paths?

Chapter 344: Converging Paths?

If you want to read ahead, you can check out my Patreón @

[ https://www.patreón.com/fictiononlyreader ]

The link is also in the synopsis.

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Elliot entered the gardens of the West property, stretching his shoulder to relieve some stiffness. It had been longer than usual since he had got to spend some time at home, away from all the strains of work. All the problems in Germany had sapped all of Elliot's energy and were taxing enough that he wished he could take a vacation.

He was about to move to the corner where he had planted herbs on his own when he chanced upon Quinn laying on the ground, spread eagle.

"Is something bothering you," asked Elliot.

Quinn groaned and kept groaning until he said, "I am old."

". . . You just turned eighteen, young master. You're in no way or form old."

". . . My magic stopped growing yesterday," said Quinn, his eyes staring at the sky.

"Your magic?"

"The flux period, I exited it yesterday," sighed Quinn.

The flux period of growth. When a magical human turned eleven, they'd enter a state of magical flux where their magic would grow even if they didn't use any— magic being a muscle would grow with use, and during the flux period, magic would grow at an incredible rate if regularly utilized. Quinn had been using as much magic as he could every day ever since he could remember— it wasn't an exaggeration that he had larger magic reserves than anyone his age. Quinn was even sure that he had larger reserves than Dumbledore and Voldemort.

However, the flux stage as it was appropriately named. . . a stage. It had to come to an end. It was observed that the flux stage would pass when a magical would pass at the end of the seventeenth year and around the eighteen birthday.

Quinn, who had just recently turned eighteen, had passed the age limit, and today, his magical core had finally matured to an adult's. The magic inside him was still capable of growth, albeit at a very slow rate.

He had thought his flux stage would continue for another four years because of his transmigration status, but it seemed that he was too optimistic in his thinking.

"This sucks!" There was a feeling of stagnation inside his body. If his magic had been free before, as if he was walking through the air, now it seemed like it had been forced to walk inside a vat of viscous liquid that pulled on his every movement to move forward.

Elliot laid down beside Quinn and faced up, also looking at the sky. "Doesn't it signify that you're ready?" he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Now that your magic core has matured, doesn't that signify that you're ready for a magical journey, your magical journey? That you're done with preparation and have all the tools you'll need to progress, and now you can fully give it all."

"I've been giving it all since a long ago," said Quinn before sighing. "I understand what you're saying, but it is hard to accept that the same amount of effort won't be paying the same level of dividends. "

"So you won't be doing it anymore?"

"I don't feel like it," said Quinn. He could somewhat understand why Voldemort had gone down the path of artificial modifications— and he had just been off of the growth just for one day.

"Then don't," said Elliot. "It must've been tiring to expend all of your magic every day. It won't be bad for you to take a break from it."

Quinn reached into his pocket and showed Elliot a golf-sized ball of shiny metal that reflected in many colors. "This is lead. . . I have had this ball since I started Hogwarts. Lead is a metal that's difficult to manipulate and meld through magic— it takes a lot of magic and requires a decent amount of focus to perform operations without exploding the metal. Since I got it, I have been doing it, and this ball has seen at least sixteen hours of contact with magic every day. . . . I just can believe that I'll be stopping.

How're you doing? You look tired," asked Quinn.

"The mess in Germany isn't sorting out as we expected it would. The fact remains that they're foreign and we indigenous, is creating unnecessary friction. The partnership break is creating much more problems for us than for them. It'll take some more time to sort the problems out so that problems.

"How's grandfather doing?"

"Busy. I don't think he's going to stop until he thinks he's done, which might take a while," saying that Elliot got up before saying his finishing words, "Don't let the tension pile up in your heart. No matter what choice you take— it should be the one that comes from your heart."

Quinn watched Elliot till he was gone before looking back at the sky. He floated the lead ball up so he could see it and wondered if he should continue with the exercise that, when compared to before, now seemed pointless.

The lead ball distorted into a liquid consistency that thrummed with spikes. It broke down into smaller pellets that then flattened into rings that began rotating in front of his face.

". . . I'm a sucker of magic."

The lead continued to change shapes as Quinn stared at it from below, wondering if there was someone he could go to. Merlin couldn't help him on this— the flux period wasn't discovered in his time, and Merlin himself hadn't done personal research on the subject. Quinn had written to Alan, and even though he knew about it, he had never tried to push his magic after his flux period, and even during it, Alan had been like any typical teen when it came to increasing his magic reserves.

Quinn suddenly sat up with a sparkling look in his eyes. A golden idea had struck him. It was genius, he thought.

"I know! I should go ask Grindelwald!"

It was time to take a trip.

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- (Scene Break) -

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Voldemort sat in a room with a poshness that oozed out from every corner of the room. There was a glass of wine in his hand that he rose up to his lipless mouth.

"You have been doing a fine job against George West," said Voldemort, pleased. "He's been so busy that he doesn't have the time to raise an eyes towards Britain."

"Dark Lord. . . we're already struggling with George West," said one of the German pureblood. "At this rate, he will steal our business rather than us his."

"Pulling out of the partnership has plunged us into the risk of future losses that seem inevitable," sighed another pureblood. "This doesn't seem to be looking to be a good deal."

A sudden chill descended into the room. There were a dozen or so people in the room, and every single one of them looked at the one who had spoken, their eyes practically screaming that he needed to stop.

"Handschuh. . . do you like your money more than your life?" asked Voldemort. "George West will take your money but won't kill you. I, on the other day, can take away your life and your money after that. . . which one do you think is better."

Handschuh felt his feet go cold. "N-No, my apologies, My Lord."

"Hmm. . ."

Handschuh wasn't over yet; he gathered up his courage and spoke, "M-My Lord, if-f I may."

Voldemort lazily waved his hand, so Handschuh continued, "I was a bar when I heard a name. . . ."

"What name might that be?"

". . . Gregorovitch."

The wine in Voldemort's hand trembled. He turned to Handschuh with his eyes being a mix of excitement and danger, "I hope you're not jesting, Handschuh, are you?"

"N-No, M-My Lord. I heard it clearly. They were talking about Gregorovitch. . . and you were looking for him. . . ."

"Tell me more about it, Handschuh, and I will forgive your previous unsightliness."

"T-Thank you, M-My Lord. . ."

.

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Voldemort glided along a twilit street. The buildings on either side of him had high, timbered gables; they looked like gingerbread houses. He approached one of them, then saw the whiteness of his own long-fingered hand against the door. He knocked. He felt a mounting excitement. . . .

The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her face fell as she looked into Voldemort's face: humor gone, terror replacing it.

"Gregorovitch?" said a high, cold voice.

She shook her head: She was trying to close the door. A white hand held it steady, preventing her from shutting him out.

"I want Gregorovitch."

She cried, shaking her head. "He doesn't live here! He doesn't live here! I don't know him!"

Abandoning the attempt to close the door, she began to back away down the dark hall, and Voldemort followed, gliding toward her, and his long-fingered hand had drawn his wand.

"Where is he?"

"He moved! I don't know, please, I don't know!"

He raised the wand. She screamed. Two young children came running into the hall. She tried to shield them with her arms. His wand tip glowed green—

"No!" A man burst into the room

Voldemort lowered his wand as the green grow subsided, and a smile grew on his face, "It's good to see you, Gregorovitch."

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"Give it to me, Gregorovitch," Voldemort's voice was high, clear, and cold, his wand held in front of him by a long-fingered white hand.

He had just found out why his wand didn't work against Harry Potter's and found another piece of exciting information. If his wand didn't work, then he needed to get another— and if he was going to a new one, which better but the best wand ever made.

Gregorovitch, at whom he was pointing, was suspended upside down in midair, though no ropes were holding him; he swung there, invisibly and eerily bound, his limbs wrapped about him, his terrified face ruddy due to the blood that had rushed to his head. He had pure-white hair and a thick, bushy beard: a trussed-up Father Christmas.

"I have it not. I have it no more! It was, many years ago, stolen from me!" The hanging man's pupils were wide, dilated with fear, and they seemed to swell, bigger and bigger.

"Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?!"

"I do not know, I never knew, a young man— no— please— PLEASE!"

"One last chance, wandmaker!"

Gregorovitch's eyes widened in horror as a memory surfaced in his mind: Gregorovitch burst into the room at the end of the passage, and his lantern illuminated what looked like a workshop; wood shavings and gold gleamed in the swinging pool of light, and there on the window ledge sat perched, like a giant bird, a young man with golden hair. In the split second that the lantern's light illuminated him, Gregorovitch saw the delight upon his handsome face, then the intruder shot a Stunning Spell from his wand and jumped neatly backward out of the window with a crow of laughter.

Voldemort's wand glowed in green again, and Gregorovitch's mouth screamed wide open:

"GRINDELWALD!"

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Quinn West - MC - Airtrip! Airtrip! Airtrip!

Elliot Dalton - "Sebastian" - Time to have a kickback.

Voldemort - Dark Lord - "Oh. . . ?"

Mykew Gregorovitch - Wandmaker - On a new adventure.

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If you have any ideas regarding the magic you want to see in this fiction or want to offer some ideas regarding the progression. Move onto the DISCORD Server and blast those ideas.

The link is in the synopsis!


CREATORS' THOUGHTS
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Just like always,

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Chapter 345: Nurmengard

If you want to read ahead, you can check out my Patreón @

[ https://www.patreón.com/fictiononlyreader ]

The link is also in the synopsis.

.

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"Austria? Why're you going there?" Lia said, decanting a bottle of wine. She raised the decanter and asked, "You want some?"

"No, thank you," Quinn attached his pockets to the inner lining of his thin coat pocket. "As for Austria— I want to go mountain air-scaling—"

"What's mountain air-scaling?"

"Oh, you know, it's like climbing a mountain, but without actually climbing it. I'm going to scale the Austrian Alps by flying and hovering over the surface until I reach the top. When I get to the top, I'm going to jump from the top with a gliding suit that I stitched on my own. . . . Exciting activities and great weather are going to sum up to what I think will be a really great weekend."

"Oh, that does sound exciting! Maybe I should also come."

"Don't you have work?"

Lia sighed and poured her Bordeaux glass with aerated, unlocked wine and filled it a little too much over the one serving limit.

"Yes, I do. . ." she sighed. "Go to your stupid mountain air-scaling thing alone. . . . Argh, it sounds so much fun!"

Quinn calmly smiled. Saying half-truths mixed with half-lies was the best way to tell a lie. While he was going to Austria Alps and was going to scale a mountain— but in no way he was going to do it for a fun activity.

"Alright, I'll see you on Monday," said Quinn.

"Bring me something cool from Australia."

"Austria."

". . . I'm drunk. . . already?"

Quinn chuckled and exited the West manor with a pocket full of travel gear. Today was the day he was going to visit the impenetrable prison created by the most successful Dark Lord of the century, more successful than the current generation of the European Dark Lords: the Dark Lord of deceit, the one owner of the Death Stick— Gellert Grindelwald.

It had been a while since he had felt such a burst of excitement inside in heart. The pure exhilaration of unknown adventure with untapped potential. He snapped his fingers with a grin, and the gates to the West Manor melted away in the middle and remolded themselves back into shape as he passed through them.

"This is going to be marvelous."

He snapped again, which became the precursor to the loud pop that whisked Quinn away.

. . .

The Austrian Alps have the highest peaks of the entirety of the greater Eastern Alps, extending from the foot of the Bergamasque Alps at Lake Como and the Bernina Range in the Graubunden canton of eastern Switzerland along the Liechtenstein shore of the Rhine in the west as far as to the lower promontories east of the Mur River including the Hochwechsel in Austrian Styria. The valleys of the rivers Inn, Salzach, and Enns mark their northern boundary, the Drau river their southern border.

They had great weather around the summers. It was neither hot nor cold, just the right temperature with the glaciated terrain letting a cool breeze throughout the mountain.

Quinn perused the map in his hands and turned his eyes up to look at the Petzeck of the Schober Group of the Alps, standing at the height of 3,283 meters and the prominent location of the Nurmengard Prison. Quinn closed the map, stretched his legs, and jumped against the ground to push himself into the air. Winds surrounded him, and he flew at jet speed, shoveling the snow dust to the sides from the air pressure. He air-scaled the mountain and covered the ground faster than any or thing.

When he reached the location marked on the map, he rose up straight into the air and rose until he could see the flat hilltop part of the larger peaks. It was an assuming hilltop to others, but Quinn could feel the tremendous magic activity that was practically oozing out in every direction. Magic flowed into his eyes that shined in purple, and his breath was taken away as the Nurmengard Prison came into view.

Nurmengard was a stone fortress at the edge, overlooking a deep ravine where falling didn't have any other result other than death. It had a square-edged tower with a cone-shaped top, possibly a watchtower. There was a building connected to the tower that was slim with windows. It did not look impressive any right, and from the outside simply looked like any other rugged and unimpressive building.

But Quinn could tell the truth. Even from his place, he could tell the actual impressiveness.

He flew down and landed on the boundary of the wards and spells with the sole intent to keep unwanted, uninvited people out— and Quinn was precisely that, an unwanted visitor. He scaled a wall and stood on the top of it as he stretched his hand forward, and a layer of magic as it passed over his hand.

"One. . . Two. . . Three. . ."

As counting uttered past his lips, Quinn studied how the ward interacted with his arm. Every single detail that he could observe was taken in and processed to form conjectures and conclusions.

". . . Six. . . Seven—"

He pulled his hand back. Seven seconds was the limit unauthorized personnel could remain on the prison grounds without alerting the guards. . . . It made Quinn frown deeply. The ward was weak— pathetically weak for the reputation that Nurmengard held.

"I can break these. . . like this," Quinn snapped his finger, and a red spot appeared before him, illuminating the previously hidden ward. Quinn stepped forward and passed through the ward boundary into the "official" prison space.

Quinn slowly moved through the grounds, taking each step carefully. Who knew what crazy Grindelwald had planned into the prison. Suddenly, behind a wall, Quinn stopped on the spot when he saw a guard dressed in stark white appear from the corner. Quinn remained still under the guise of invisibility, watching the guard lazily and carelessly stroll through the grounds. Quinn narrowed his eyes, raised his arm, and shot a spell into the back of the guard knocking him out.

After a thorough mental search, Quinn found the answers he was looking for. The grounds were harmless enough if the correct paths were followed; the real danger laid inside the prison. . . especially for those who were spell-marked as prisoners.

Quinn followed everything the guard did to traverse the prison, knocked out the equally careless guards in his path, and eventually reached the topmost floor and, thus, the topmost cell while feeling that something was very wrong. Before he stepped in front of the cell, he put on his Noir gear and mask.

The cell was a standard cell with bars in the front, and behind those doors was a man. He had no hair, his teeth were rotten, his fingernails had turned yellow, and the man looked like a sack of skin hanging over a skeletal frame. His piercing blue eyes, sunken into the depths of his skull, were the only feature that time had not faded.

"Hmm?" a hoarse voice came from behind bars— as if they hadn't spoken for ages. "Who might you be?"

". . . I am Noir," said Quinn. Even though he had been termed as the Invisible Vigilante, he wasn't the one who came up with said moniker.

"Noir. . . I see," the man got up from his cot, almost falling over as he did so. The man looked like he would keel over by the gentlest of winds. He came to beside the bar but didn't touch it. "And, Noir, why have you come to Nurmengard. . . this place isn't much of a sightseeing location.

Oh, forgive me. How rude of me not to introduce myself. My name's Gellert Grindelwald. . . but you must know that already; after all, I'm the only one who lives in the castle."

Gellert Grindelwald had designed a prison so formidable and terrible – both from the inside and the outside – that the International Confederation of Wizards had deemed it too cruel to use on common prisoners. Only the leaders of his Dark Army had ever been imprisoned here. His army, more than any others, knew just how much effort their master had put into the spells guarding these walls. . . all of those leaders had long past away.

". . . Why're the enchantments outside so weak?" asked Quinn.

"Oh? They're weak," said Grindelwald, and Quinn quirked his brow behind his mask when he heard the voice getting smoother and less hoarse. "ICW and Dumbledore. . . Do you know Dumbledore?"

"Yes.

"Good. ICW and Dumbledore made changes to my masterpiece, soiling my creation. Dumbledore did a decent job," Grindelwald looked at the bars in front of him, "he added his own enchantments to this cell. . . I haven't had the chance to witness those; he hid them quite thoroughly. I wonder what they do.

It wasn't necessary, though. Mine are enough to keep even me. . . at least me of now inside.

The ICW— those guys infuriate me," there was a heated passion heat in his voice, "I always assumed they made mistakes. . . I haven't been outside of this cage ever since I got in, so I never knew," he smiled with his rotted teeth, "thank you for telling me. Those nitwits couldn't comprehend my genius and soiled the perfection that I had created. . ."

Indeed Grindelwald's mind, one of the greatest in the history of the century, had continually upgraded and improved upon his prison over the entire course of his campaign. Gellert knew of every enchantment he placed on Nurmengard, and he knew there was no way around them. When the ICW first sent their team of enchanters to increase the security of his cell, they thought they found several flaws in his containment spells, as Grindelwald knew they would. They tried to correct the flaws, only to spend their last moments alive wondering why their necks were bleeding. In the years that would follow, no less than five guards were killed as they attempted to fool around with the prison's enchantments. The last death led to the virtual abandoning of the upper levels of the prison; house-elves were left to deliver food and remove any waste from the few surviving prisoners.

"It was a surprise to hear footsteps on the cold floor. It has been ages since I heard human footsteps— I thought I had forgotten them," Quinn tapped the side of his head, "but it seems they were still there."

Quinn had no doubt in the statement. Grindelwald's eyes gave it all away. Unlike every other part of his being, the eyes shined like gems— they were intelligent, deep, focused, and a reminder of the man that had once been.

"I apologize if I seem talkative, but I haven't had a guest in so long. Just your presence in front of me is the most interesting thing that happened to me in decades. Why don't you speak some more? I would like to hear your voice. . . your real voice, and not the altered one. . . would you please offer this old man this small wish."

There was a silence for a minute before Quinn opened his mouth in a normal voice, "Hello, Gellert Grindelwald—"

"Your real voice," Grindelwald cut him off at once, his eyes taking what seemed was clear to be anger. "I may be old and frail— but don't disrespect me by thinking that I do not understand magic— I can still feel the fluctuations magic this close to me. . . so do not jest with me."

". . . My apologies," said Quinn, this time in his real voice.

"No worries, no worries. May I ask why I have the pleasure of your visit?"

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Quinn West - MC - Feeling a mix of emotions.

Gellert Grindelwald - Ex-Dark Lord - This is. . . interesting.

FictionOnlyReader - Author - Was hella tired yesterday. 2(out of 8) weeks done @ internship. 3rd week is on. . . . The work is. . . eh, okay. Am learning a lot though, so can't complain a lot.

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-*-*-*-*-*-

.

If you have any ideas regarding the magic you want to see in this fiction or want to offer some ideas regarding the progression. Move onto the DISCORD Server and blast those ideas.

The link is in the synopsis!


CREATORS' THOUGHTS
FictionOnlyReader FictionOnlyReader

Just like always,

Review, comment, add to the library, and share this fic.

Thx

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