Chapter Text
CHAPTER I
THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE...
Elation. The feeling one has when something momentous is happening, when some sort of milestone has been reached or some sort of untouchable goal has been achieved. The young boy did not know that word, but he did know that feeling.
He'd come with his parents from the big city to the country, to his grandparents' house, for his youngest cousin's baptism. That was not the reason the young boy was elated. Not at all. The reason was quite different. His parents had promised him they would buy him a bicycle if he finished his first year of school as the first in his class. That had not happened. Oh, he'd finished with top marks, alright, but he hadn't been the only one to do so. After all, how hard was it to get top marks in reading, writing and basic arithmetic? For that reason, at least as far as the boy knew, there had been no bicycle. His second year of school had been much of the same, top of the class along with a few others, learning a bit more in school, yet still no bicycle. Then his third year had come and gone in the same vein. He was now well past the end of his fourth year and this time, his parents had decided to allow him to learn how to ride a bicycle first, before actually buying him one. It would not do to break a new one, would it now? At least, that was what the boy thought the case to be.
The young boy had no idea his parents had not been able to afford it for the last four years and they were even now borrowing money so they could finally buy him the present they'd promised long before. He really didn't know anything about being poor. His parents loved him and they tried their best to hide their financial difficulties from him. He had a roof over his head and even if they sometimes had to make do with simple fare for their daily meals, he still never went without. He was still young enough, sheltered enough and a much beloved only child to miss all the otherwise obvious clues that would have told him his family was at best part of the lower middle class. So, he'd spent the better part of his summer vacation learning to ride a bike. Maybe it was a large one, maybe it was an old one, meant for adults, but he was determined to learn nonetheless. It had sure taken him a good long while, without any training wheels, but he could be stubborn, even if he'd fallen quite a few times, and he didn't complain.
At first, he had had to stop looking at the pedals. Then, he had had to stop looking just ahead of the front wheel and actually look where he was going. Finally, he had had to learn to turn, without stopping, dismounting and turning on foot that is, or without falling. He did not know if it was the audience made up of 'encouraging' old uncles and aunts that had held him back until that day, but on that day, he'd taken the old big bicycle out and he'd done it without any witnesses. It had simply... clicked. Everything had simply worked. He was riding a bike, a big one, he was riding fast and he could turn with the best of them. He was elated. The new feeling made him dare more.
His grandparents' house was at the end of the village. There was only another house on its side of the wide dusty country lane and that one was towards the main road. Across the lane, there were a few more, but on his grandparents' house's side of the lane there were only those two properties, with large vegetable gardens surrounding them, large vineyards behind them and after that, not much else but the rolling fields of wheat, barley, corn or whatever other crop had been planted that year. After a good while of pedalling and feeling the wind in his face, he realized this was still a country lane. Hard packed dirt, full of dust, but also sporting assorted potholes here and there and rather short. He decided to keep going along his grandparents' property towards the end of the vineyard, a couple of hundred metres away, which to him was an incredibly long ride. When he got there, he had a crazy idea. What if he would ride back by completing the circuit on the tarmac covered European Road?
He did not know it was officially named that. To him, it was simply the road they used when coming from the city, about an hour to an hour and a half drive away. It was the same road that ended at the ferry crossing which led the large TIR trucks and the few tourist cars into another country, some eight kilometres away. His grandparents lived very close to the border, the village being practically on it and their house being located less than a fifteen minute walk away from the actual border line, so that was normal. There weren't even any border guards nearby. The old border post that was supposed to house the soldiers meant to patrol the Danube shore had long been abandoned and the ploughed strip along the Danube could more readily be called a long strip of wildflowers and thistles. Who was going to cross the border there? The Danube was swift, deep and merciless.
In any event, he wasn't going to go swimming. He was just going to ride his bike on the tarmac road a little. He had been warned to pay very close attention on that road, the large trucks being no joking matter, but he had not been warned not to ride his bike on it, not in those words anyway. Even so, the young boy stopped when he reached the tarmac. He looked right and left, to make sure there were no vehicles, and since the road was clear as far as he could see, he started again.
He made a few mistakes there. In hindsight, it wasn't all that surprising. At first, he started riding his bike on the left side of the tarmac as he was going in the direction of the border town only eight kilometres away. He had no intention of actually getting there, it was just his grandparents' lane was to the left of the main road in that direction and at most two hundred metres away from where he was. His second mistake was to not realize that keeping that left traffic lane also meant using the wrong lane. After all, traffic in his country was using the right lane, not the left one. His third mistake was to react without thinking it through. He noticed a car coming towards him. The car was being driven on the correct side of the road, from its driver's point of view. It was also far enough and slow enough so that the young boy would not actually meet it by the time he had to turn left into the country lane that was his destination. Yet, he got a little scared at seeing it. Not because he was afraid of being hit by that car, no. Rather, it was because he realized his mistake and he wanted to correct it by riding his bike on the right side of the road, instead of the left as he was doing it. That was his next mistake, trying to correct his prior ones without making sure there was no car coming from behind him.
There was a small bridge as one entered the village, a bridge across an irrigation canal. The canal was wide enough, deep enough and tall enough to warrant it, given that it brought water from the Danube to irrigate the large agricultural lands in what otherwise would have been a semi-desert Danube plain. As any other irrigation canal of such magnitude, this one's rise made a little hump in the terrain there. Nothing too big, but just enough so that an almost eleven year old boy would not see if there was a car coming from the right. Oh, a big truck would have been visible, but there was a blind angle that could have covered a car.
As luck would have it, then and there, that blind angle had hidden a car from view and that car's owner was a man who liked to maintain his vehicle in top working condition. That also meant the engine of said car made almost no noise, even at a hundred metres away. The young boy heard the squeal of breaking tires on asphalt, a blaring klaxon and he then felt his bike being hit, the right side deep ditch coming fast his way.
* * *
The old man opened his eyes with sluggishness. He had once heard, somewhere and somewhen he no longer recalled, someone saying that the measure of growing old was given by the ratio of memories to plans for the future. So long as the latter outshone the former, one could consider oneself still young. Or something to that effect. He had been a young man when he had heard those words and unless his memory completely failed him, the one to utter them had been an old rich man. In other words, someone who could afford to promote hogwash and have some sycophant journalist believe and even repeat his words to a wider audience.
The old man knew better now. The measure of old age was given by the calendar, the actual old age one had and the way one could simply feel one's bones creaking and one's breath struggling. He was getting tired solely by breathing lately. Besides, there was nothing wrong with having more memories than plans for the future. Good or bad, all memories took a faint bitter taste with age anyway. Such as the time he had learned how to ride a bicycle all those decades ago, in another country, on another continent altogether, near another great river. Nothing had happened then, to himself or to the driver of the car that had pushed him into that ditch. Nothing had been bent, nothing had been broken. He still recalled the scare, though. Funnily enough, while that unknown driver had certainly been scared for good reasons, being afraid of having hurt a child, his younger self had been scared of having to tell his parents he had been riding his bike on the road, where he had realized that he was not supposed to be. In the end, he had not told his parents anything. He had not recounted that incident to anyone, for that matter, ever. In that moment, he had not spared even a single thought to having had Death brush him by when he was still not even a teenager.
That was the true mark of youth. One had no concept of death, not even a theoretical one. That was the true mark of immortality. Except, of course, there was no such thing as immortality. There was only the appearance of it or perhaps, even the complete ignorance of death that could later be seen, pedantically so, as the impression of immortality. When one reached one's thirties, that soon faded away. By the time one reached one's fifties, one began to wonder what dying would feel like. What would it be like afterwards? By the time one reached one's seventies, one simply did not think about it anymore, except to think it would come sooner or later, with the right guess being on sooner.
And yet, Death touched everyone, or maybe only its passing breath did. Most people never recalled anything from their early lives. The old man himself openly considered as his earliest memory a walk with his parents on a mountain slope, during a spring snowfall. He had been a little over three years old then. There was an exception, though. Something else he had never told anyone. Even now, he could still remember a night, long ago, when he had survived a bad fever. He had almost not made it. He recalled his grandmother and an old aunt. He recalled a nurse from the village. All of them had been old women to his eyes, and all the old women had worn worried expressions on their faces then. Even his young mind had managed to grasp the notion that he would likely not see another sunrise. He had been perhaps one year old then, perhaps a few months older than one. Yet, for some reason, he had refused to die. Something unknown, something deep within, had made him survive that night. Funny that. He still recalled that night, at age one.
Why was he recalling his early childhood? Was it his time?
“Yes,” a whispered voice sounded in his room.
The old man was in his bed, inside his private room at the facility he lived in. Or, as most of the residents said in grim humour, at the facility they were waiting to die of old age. He could not complain about comfort, but he had to admit he had not wanted to imagine himself dying alone, in an old people care facility, or a hospice by any other name. It wasn't like any of the residents had anywhere else to visit but the funeral home, when they finally left the place. It was always a one way trip.
So then, the old man smiled as he saw his death come. It had even taken the shape of that actor from a long ago film. Blond, young and handsome. Of course, the actual actor was himself dead. He had been for years. Of old age.
“It doesn't have to be,” the Brad Pitt lookalike said in his whispered voice, in the language of the old man's birth country, spoken like a native.
“What are the options?” The old man humoured Death or perhaps just himself.
What happened then, no one would truly learn. No one alive anyway. It did not last long, but the old man knew what Death had meant, he knew what his options were and he made his choice within less than a few minutes. After all, there was nothing left to lose and he felt as if a new adventure was just what the doctor had ordered. Who knew what would happen next?
“Goodbye.”
The old man was later found peacefully smiling. His eyes were closed, so that officially, his death was recorded to have happened of natural causes. Usually, that just meant someone old enough had died in their sleep for no other obvious reasons than just old age. His children felt guilty for not having been there, but eventually, they went on with their lives. As they should. One day, they would learn no one dies alone. Even for the most forgotten, Death is there, as their last companion. And... for some, for some very few, death is merely a new beginning. There was a reason the old man died smiling.
* * *
I opened my eyes with a gasp, as memories rushed in. I closed them again and I remained still for what seemed to be hours. In reality, a mere five minutes passed by before my eyes opened again. But, those five minutes may as well have been a lifetime, with how much information my mind processed and assimilated. There was still much I did not yet know, both about myself and about the rest of the world around me, but those were details that could easily be covered with time and some effort. What was truly important was already there. I had made the right decision, or perhaps he had had made the right decision for me, and I would now have to live with it, come what may. I was determined to give it all I had so that I could fully experience this chance at life. Well, it was his second chance... which was rolled into one with my first and likely only chance. My eyes shone with a seemingly new light. Had anyone been able to see, they might have taken a step back. Not because I would have inspired fear. No. It was because the expression in my eyes did not belong to someone that looked so young. That was something I would learn sometime later.
Unsurprisingly, the Brad Pitt lookalike Death had been correct. There were other universes out there. I was now living in one. Without any confirmation, yet, I simply knew I was living on a magical world, too. I had already known I would live in one of three random magical worlds, after all, before dying the last time around. I had never before had the experience of magic, not that I could recall, but I could now feel as if I had an extra sense of sort. It was muted, easy to ignore, but it was there. I could also just tell that this world had magicals on it as well. Of course, Death had been cheeky about it. I had expected my new life to be lived in the feminine, since that had been one of the constants among the three random options given and the old man I used to be or the old man I remembered to be in another life had agreed with it, but expecting something intellectually and actually experiencing it were proving to be two very different things. Just as experiencing magic as a witch was likely to prove to be an ongoing process. I snorted, just an odd sound of bitter amusement that did not belong to and should not have been made by someone as young as I must have looked. Considering I had every intention of living for a long time, it was in my best interest to get used to the idea of living as a woman and as a witch. Not that I was either yet. For the time being, I was an old man reincarnated as a teenage girl. At least, that was what my mind was telling me. I had yet to see a mirror and it was not altogether too important in the immediate. I had many decades to go yet before I could say I had lived more as a woman than as a man anyway. I had no experience whatsoever in living with magic. Was there any wonder I snorted?
No, in the immediate, I had to take the measure of my situation.
To begin with, my body had the curves and shape presaging my new adult self already. I had no idea how far along I was on that road, but I suspected it was more than I thought and less than it seemed. I knew I could not be too old. Yes, I had the memories of a full life already lived, but seeing myself as the man I used to be was a sure recipe for disaster. This was a new beginning. As such and as with any new beginning, I needed to look around first.
In the moment, I was outside, the air was chilly and it was nighttime. What was more, there was the scent of an oncoming rain in the air. I had no idea yet how come I would know such a thing, but that was less relevant in the immediate. Above me, stood a tall cliff. To either side of me, there were other cliffs stretching in the distance. I also noticed similar looking rock formations across from me, not very far at all. In short, I appeared to be inside a gorge with tall cliffs on each side or perhaps a very narrow mountain pass, complete with sparse vegetation that suggested a temperate climate, the current chill notwithstanding.
I then knew which of the three possible random new beginnings belonged to me or that I belonged to, whichever way one looked at it. As I could now recall, the first option would have been as my own alternate's younger sister. On that Earth, my own alternate would have had a younger sister instead of being an only child. In that case, myself as the younger sibling would have been the only one with magic, my 'brother' and my 'parents' being squibs. I would have replaced the actual seven year old girl who would have been killed in that bicycle ride, because of course, the little one idolized her brother and she would have followed him on that bike ride, with her own old and unwieldy bicycle. On that Earth, there would have been a broken down post or something of that nature inside the ditch, which would have been certain to impale her brother and kill him. The young girl's massive bout of accidental magic would have saved her brother, killed herself and allowed for my appearance on the scene, all in one shot. Or at least that was what I thought would have happened. Obliviators would have appeared on the scene, taken care of the formalities and the story of a new life would have begun. That had been random door number one and it had also been the earliest beginning along the timeline.
Random door number two would have had me wake up in France, on the rooftop terrace of a certain penthouse flat in the 5th arrondissement of Paris, the one holding Le Panthéon and La Sorbonne within its limits, the one covering most of the Latin Quarter, thus being also known as such. I would then soon learn I was recently orphaned and I would have to take it from there. That would have happened the latest along the timeline.
Random door number three seemed to be the one I'd opened. Waking up alone, in the mountains of central Romania and making my way from there. I even knew these details were coming to me now only because the other two options were no longer available to me. Before going through the metaphorical door, I had only known there were three doors to start with, but no details about them other than they would be leading to a magical world of a certain kind, a Harry Potter magical world. In all likelihood, two of my other old man alternates had gone through those doors and were starting those lives, in two other universes. Good luck to them. Good luck to myself.
It was time to start living. I barely noticed my tone of voice, amazed, a little raspy and warm, as I said the first words in my new life at the same time I was thinking about which of the three options I belonged to.
“Fuck me sideways. It worked!”
Yes, my former self had trusted it would work, but seeing was believing, even when 'Brad Pitt' had no reason to lie to my past self. Well, to myself really, but again, thinking of my past self as having lived another life and of myself as living my current life felt more honest. It felt correct and true. Not that I was about to share such musings with anyone. People would think me crazy. After all, everyone knew reincarnation was fictional and the multiverse was theoretical. Right? Well, maybe I was wrong with those points of view. Maybe I would later change my mind and I would share my story, but if so, the ones in the know will be few and far between. That was not important in the moment.
My eyes continued surveying my immediate surroundings. A few metres away, there was the sole sign of technology and dare I say, civilization. It was not easy to see in the poor light, but I could make out the approximate shape of a Renault 12. It was at least clear enough the vehicle had been involved in a crash, a rather nasty one by the looks of it. With a slight groan, I moved, all while ignoring my state of undress. For some reason, I had arrived completely nude. Making certain not to cut myself on the sharp rocks that littered the ground, forgetting or choosing to ignore I had been lying down on those very same sharp stones mere moments earlier, I approached the car. That was when I understood the vehicle was a clone, not a French manufactured Renault 12. I was, in point of fact, looking at a dark blue Dacia 1310. Judging by the details I could vaguely recall from my past life's childhood, the car was indeed of Romanian make and it was registered in Romania, or at least its bent front licence plate said so.
Looking around again, I had the vague impression of recognizing the mountain pass. Central Romania was a rather large place, but once upon a time, my past self had trekked through these mountains. If my memory was correct, I was in the Piatra Craiului mountains. It was not a region that saw much traffic, if any at all. There were no ski slopes nearby and hiking was counter indicated during the wet months, due to slippery conditions and a general lack of easily practicable trails. Even the gorge I was in was only skirting the mountains proper and it was used only rarely as a connection between a nearby town and a tourist lodge high up, close to the crest. However, that sort of supply run was usually done with horse drawn carts or with all terrain vehicles, not with small cars. There was no tarmac on the road and that was even before taking into account the fact one had to climb on a dirt lane all the way to the mountain lodge – the road did not reach that far.
Why had the car been driven there? I did not know. In any case, it seemed the two people in the car had died for having ventured to the area. The driver was a man, with his neck turned at an unnatural angle and his glassy eyes seeing nothing anymore. Otherwise, there was no mark on him. He seemed to have died due to one of the B pillars having given way. His passenger was likely his wife as well, judging by the matching wedding bands on their fingers. Her body was almost bent in two at the middle, with some of her lower vertebrae puncturing her blouse. On top of that certain and academic paralysis, her neck was almost severed.
I did not even notice I felt no nausea from the spectacle of death before me. Long life experiences prevented such a reaction. Instead, I coldly measured angles, positions and other clues, concluding the woman had not been wearing her seat belt while sitting with her feet on the dashboard. When the car had been sure to crash, she had tried to right herself, possibly as a belated reaction. The result was gruesome. She had been propelled through the windshield and then back while the car had flipped, twice. Afterwards, her body had fallen back in, remaining bent, with her head limply hanging from her neck's torn skin. The accident had nearly decapitated her. Death must have been quick.
Judging by the dried blood, the dried bodily fluids and the corpses' rigidity, the accident had happened long hours earlier. Perhaps even the day before, if the current time was past midnight.
Judging by the stag lying dead nearby, I suspected that had been one of the causes of the crash. A stag jumping in the road or being caught there by the speeding car, its heavy bones and antlers helping not at all. It was likely those same antlers had decapitated the woman, and not the windshield, as I had initially thought. Another cause would be the car being there to begin with. These mountains were known to be unforgiving. Yes, people did drive through at times, but it was not advisable. Perhaps it was callous of me to think that way, but it was no less true for it.
In all likelihood, someone was bound to come by the next day, or perhaps the day after at the latest. They would discover the wreck then. That meant I had a short window of opportunity to gather some information, if any was available.
There was a newspaper lying on the empty and otherwise seemingly untouched backseat. The rear left side door was conveniently opened, too. The daily proved to be useful both as a tentative date marker as well as an ad hoc glove. I did not wish to leave any prints behind, just in case. With its help, I was able to recover all that I needed from the car's boot, which had also been popped open by the accident. The glove box was equally opened, but it was also empty and besides, the woman's corpse prevented access to it.
As 'Brad Pitt' had promised my old self, the means to start my journey would be available from the very beginning. I had just not expected they would be located inside the boot of a crashed car. I found a small black leather pouch, with the Deathly Hallows symbol embossed on it. Inside the pouch, or fanny pack, or belt bag, I found a small gold key, a journal with some interesting information in it – I only skimmed some salient points from it, not even noticing I could actually read in the poor light. At least not then. I also found a few coins that had no earthly business being in use anywhere the makers of that car were bound to go shopping. The coins were accompanied by small stacks of banknotes in various currencies and denominations, both local and international. What was more, the belt bag was larger on the inside than it was on the outside. I could feel the touch of magic on it. Besides the small belt bag, there was a rough looking yet sturdy black leather backpack inside the car's boot, with the same Deathly Hallows symbol on its buckle. That was all that I could consider as mine or meant for me, at a first glance. The rest of the car boot was filled with two backpacks and a tent. I was not going to take any of the non-marked items. They represented what any couple gone camping would carry and if they were to be missing when the car would be discovered, someone might be interested in deepening the upcoming investigation. It would be better to not give the local rozzers' curiosity any fuel and I did not want to use the items belonging to the two dead people anyway.
Having said that, the newspaper proved to be far more informative than offering me a simple date. I inspected it with a small torch or large penlight I found inside one of the backpack's outer pockets. Unlike the main interior of the luggage piece, those outer pockets were not expanded on the inside. I still had not caught on to the extra light being only helpful, not absolutely necessary. Though I did not exactly have scotopia, I was close to it, something that I would eventually come to realize.
The date on the newspaper was Wednesday, the 4th of April, 1990. While the current date could be anything after that, within reason, the salient takeaway from the newspaper was something else. It was that Romanian national daily that gave me more information and added more items on my list of things to do at the beginning of my journey.
That was because the newspaper still carried the name Scînteia. The word itself meant 'the spark' and the publication was otherwise known as the official Romanian Communist Party's mouthpiece. Its front page had a large photo depicting the country's leader in some sort of ribbon cutting exercise. It was pure propaganda and nothing new. What was new, was the fact said personage had been deposed, executed and buried at the end of 1989, during my past life. The newspaper had changed its name and tone by the beginning of 1990. I confirmed something else, after browsing the international section. Either there had been no wave of regime changes in Eastern Europe back in 1989 or whatever attempts there may have been had all been smothered. I was going with the former. The Soviet regime and its allies may have been able to quell one uprising, but not all of them. Considering the article about whatever military exercises the Warsaw Pact was undergoing, there was only one conclusion. There had been no fall of communism in Eastern Europe in 1989, not in this reality. Likely as well, there would be no coup attempted in Moscow in August 1991 nor will there be a dissolution of the USSR in December 1991 either.
Another article drew my eyes. It mentioned the European Commonwealth. Yet another one mentioned the 13 Commonwealths of the United States of America. The topics discussed were irrelevant in the moment, though they would come back to me later as useful knowledge. The immediate relevance was the different name to what I knew as the European Union and the different administrative organization of the USA. That was without even mentioning the different flags both polities seemed to be using. The general lines were the same, with respect to the flags – the American stripes and the European circle of stars. I could not judge the colours with certitude, since the photos were printed in black and white, but they looked right to me. However, the American flag was the Betsy Ross variant and the European one included a four point compass rose within the circle of stars.
Knowing I had to be in a Harry Potter universe, considering my reason to be here as well as how I had arrived here, and seeing how those articles triggered some old memories, I felt a shiver of dread pass down my spine.
“Is that why Death suggested 1977 as my new year of birth?” I muttered to myself. “Cheeky bugger... my stay here certainly has an expiry date now, doesn't it?”
I was on a version of Earth that combined a magical world with a non-magical society having developed differently since the 1940s than the one I had once known. I was in a world of Fallout. Maybe. On top of that, I was a muggleborn witch, behind the Iron Curtain. On top of even that and according to what I could glimpse at a glance in the small journal I found inside my new belt bag, my background said I was an orphan, my 'parents' having died earlier in the car crash near which I had arrived. No matter the couple of squibs had been childless. No matter I had never known them. What did matter was my existence being perfectly valid and real, as decreed and arranged by 'Brad Pitt'. Why? Because the couple having died in an obscure accident had been descendants of a certain magical line that had left the UK hundreds of years prior. Not only that, but they had lost their magic almost two hundred years before my present, myself being the first magical, witch or wizard, 'born' to that line since the beginning of the 19th century. Which was why 'Brad Pitt' had been able to insert me into my new life so easily. That was also the reason why I was actually the Heiress Apparent of that line, ahead of the Heir Presumptive living in England. As belonging to the senior line, it would be my claim the one to take precedence. All because 'Brad Pitt' had wanted it so.
I suddenly stiffened as a new factoid came back to me, from the deep recesses of my mind. I was a teenage muggleborn witch, untrained and possessing only some basic skills and knowledge, in need of a life in a world of Fallout, potentially, sixty years before the Resource Wars were going to start, in Europe.
“Well, shit!”
With some measure of alacrity, I opened the backpack with meaning this time, looking inside it with the help of the penlight. I found clothes fit for my body frame, more documents and some more money. There were also some other necessities present. General over the counter medication, basic hygiene and cosmetic products, a couple of apples and a couple of sandwiches, along with a bottle of water. In other words, everything a hiker would need and nothing fancy. As the cherry on top, I also found a wand, a holster and its required cleaning kit. The wand itself was long, knobby and it gave a certain cold aura that for some reason felt familiar, as if it belonged. I could not say to where or to whom. I could only identify a feeling of belonging. There was even a label on the wand. It came off without leaving a trace of adhesive.
It said “fifteen inch of elder wood with a thestral tail hair core – my stick always eats at the (y)”. There was even a small dot above the letter y at the end, as if to make sure I understood the real message. Who knew Death had a ribald sense of humour? Cheeky did not even begin to describe it. I idly wandered what was Dumbledore using for a wand, considering the actual Deathstick was in my backpack. I shrugged and picked the wand up, filled with curiosity. A massive wave of magic infused my whole body. At least I hoped it was magic, having no reference to compare. It was. It was also accompanied by a wave of dark purple, amber and silver stars exploding in a thick jet from the wand. I could feel the connection establish itself as the wand told me it was finally home again. There were no words, there was just a knowing, as a glimpse of knowledge and experience appeared at the edge of my mind. I just knew it would always be there, as a part of me, as long as I had the wand.
As if in response to that thought, my body glowed. I had no idea if a muggle or even a magical could see it. Likely yes. I certainly could. My entire body was covered in a thin film of a light purple aura with darker purple accents. The next thing I knew, my right thigh opened up, with blood starting to come out of the long split in my flesh. Whether the reason was the shock or the magical aura still surrounding me, I did not know, but I felt no pain. Not then. It was most disconcerting to see and feel my flesh open up without feeling the pain associated with it. Then, the wand flew from my hand on its own and it entered my right upper leg, right next to my femur. The flesh knitted itself back, with all the blood flowing in reverse, leaving not even a drop outside my body. It was... surreal. Or perhaps magical. And not just because my blood had a purple colour, something I would need to be mindful of in the future. It was when my thigh looked pristine again, not long later, with not even a scar being left behind, that I felt the Deathstick fusing itself with my body. That was also when I fell to my knees in pain, not even noticing the sting from the rocks on the ground or the fact I did not get even a scratch from them. The initial acute stabbing feeling all along my right thigh soon faded to a dull throbbing on the inside of my leg before that also vanished. I could feel magic coursing through me in the aftermath. I could also feel and see a faint residue of blackness exiting through the skin pores of my right thigh and then vanishing in the air as if it had never been. It was almost as if an unknown weight left my shoulders at the same time. I gasped as new knowledge came to me, all while I was feeling the rapid decomposition of the Elder Wand within my magic and my body. Or perhaps it was slow? I had no way of truly knowing, but the feeling of the wand fusing itself to my being would eventually go away in mere days, after persisting almost like an afterthought at the back of my mind. I suddenly had access to knowledge both old and new. I suddenly knew what to do next and what the best paths forward would be, without having to chose any of them.
From that knowledge, the first part that seemed the most relevant was knowing I had mage sight. My eyes briefly glowed as if there was a purple fire behind them, as I would later learn while looking in a mirror. Eventually, I would also learn how to mask that obvious sign of using mage sight. In the moment, I looked into the boot of the car and I saw the Deathly Hallows symbol appear in a few more places, albeit only visible through mage sight. It was almost like a magical marker and for some reason, I knew only I could see it and only because the Deathstick was now a part of me. It seemed that was a threshold point or a point of no return along my journey on this Earth, not that I realized all the implications at the time.
The first item to attract my attention was the two person tent belonging to the two people in the car. I could hardly call them my parents, since I'd never known them, but perhaps it would be a thought to get used to. The tent they had was in fact, not the only one. There was a smaller magical tent in the same larger bag. I carefully removed it and as I touched a small patch of material on the outside, it shrunk. I attached it to the lower side of my backpack as I was looking for the other Deathly Hallows glyphs that I could see. They were present among the clothes in the two ripped apart pieces of luggage. Within moments, I had a full magical outfit, albeit one looking like high quality muggle apparel. Leather trousers, vest and duster, with silk shirt and undergarments, complemented by leather boots and what could only be an Australian outback hat from the same material. Inconspicuous, they were not – they were all pure white.
There was also a Swiss watch, an Omega Speedmaster Professional calibre 321. In Communist Romania, such an obvious Swiss watch that I believed had never been sold in the country, would attract attention. I could not interpret what sort of enchantment it had, but I somehow knew it was enchanted and that enchantment would make others not notice my new watch or at least not notice its make and model. Besides the watch, which went on my left wrist, there was a bracelet that found its natural place on my right wrist. It had a charm attached to it, looking like a hardcover book. For the same reason I still ignored, I knew the bracelet would stop up to three moderately powerful spells or one really strong spell, while the book looking charm was actually a magically expanded trunk with its shrinking function activated. Another similar trunk was hanging from a necklace, another book shaped medallion, which unsurprisingly could turn into a second magical trunk. Completing the set of unusual items, albeit very helpful unusual items, I found a pair of silver grey mirror RayBan Aviators. I had no idea whether they would be seen as unusual in the place I was in, but considering they were enchanted, I had every intention of wearing them. After all, they seemed to not only be able to hide my eyes, but they could also help me see through solids, they improved my night vision even more and my vision in general and they made myself appear uninteresting. That was an enchantment I really wanted to learn, but until then, it was time to go.
I wasn't going to wear the magical garb. Wearing an all leather outfit, especially one that could only have been made from Antipodean Opaleye dragonhide and acromantula silk, would not be the best of ideas for the time being. It was a good thing I had the muggle outfit handy. Meanwhile, I stuffed the magical outfit into my backpack, as I removed the muggle apparel.
All the other clothes in my backpack were local sourced. That meant all were more or less drab, yet functional. The grey cotton underwear went on with alacrity as the wind was starting to pick up. Then the black undershirt, leggings and socks, followed by a form fitting dark wine wool jumper that could easily be called a jumper dress for its length and a pair of black corduroy trousers. Next, I put on the maroon military boots. They were a pair of mountain hunter officer boots, alike another pair I had once had in my previous life. They were sturdy and very effective in protecting my ankles, but perhaps more importantly, they suggested a certain level of social connections when taken together with my clothes. The clothes themselves were nothing fancy, for a Westerner, but in Communist Romania, their quality implied a particular social level. When combined with the boots, which could only be procured through relatives in the Army, especially as worn by a young girl, they implied a hidden level of political connection as well. In a totalitarian state, it was best to arouse envy and a small amount of jealousy in the regular cop, not curiosity. With my black hooded wool jacket, the trendy shawl and black watch cap combined with the backpack, my outfit would be perfect. It would attract minimal attention and it would cause those who would notice me to look elsewhere. No magic involved either.
Before leaving, I took the time to arrange my money. Some in pockets, some well hidden. Possessing foreign currencies, especially Western currencies, was illegal in 1980s Romania. I had to assume that held true in the present as well. Therefore, all my foreign currency would have to be well hidden. The same went for the few large notes of Romanian lei, albeit those I placed in an inside pocket. I also wrapped the gold, silver and bronze magical coins in the couple of underwear changes I had in my backpack. No one should see those.
Lastly, I took a closer look at my documents. That was when I wished for a full size mirror. According to some of them, I was supposed to be 19 years old on the 11th of April 1990, under the name of Lucia Ada Piper. In other words, I would be old enough to appear as a young adult. According to the rest of my documents, I was supposed to be born on the 11th of November, 1977, with a freshly issued Romanian ID, under the name of Revan Blake Piper, a name that could not even pretend to being remotely Romanian. Yes, not all the documents were Romanian, the foreign issued ones giving me some ideas and the beginnings of some plans, but some of the documents were Romanian. Such IDs as those I now had were issued during one's 14th year. The one for my Revan identity (which was going to be my main identity not too far in the future, even as I would be primarily using my Lucia identity for the time being) had been issued at least one year too early, considering it carried the right birth date on it and considering the issuing date was at least one year into the future. Unless that newspaper was one year old? Why would it be? Something else I would need to check.
Having said that, I could feel the enchantment weaved into the pages of all my documents, making whomever looked at any of them forget what they saw and think all was normal. My eyes glowed briefly as I actually saw the magical weave on what was otherwise a seemingly normal looking Romanian Buletin de identitate, or Identity Booklet. From what I could guess, the enchantment made everyone see whatever they needed to see to let me go. How adult did I really look? My body was still months from being 15, corresponding to neither set of official documents. That was something I knew, with the help of my wand. Did witches mature that fast that I could pass as older? A mirror would be needed as soon as it would be possible.
In the meantime, I would need to use my Lucia identity's documents going forward. My Revan identity's time to shine would come later. With that in mind, I started walking downhill. I was bound to reach civilization sooner or later.