The thing no one ever talks about is that, despite being cute, most children are unbearably talkative. Not talkative like a normal person—talkative in quantity, like a middle-aged aunt who has cornered you at a family gathering and shows no intention of stopping. I learned this the hard way after spending a single evening with little Shayna.
Frankly, wizards ought to research a child's mind rather than magic. It is far more complex.
One moment Sha—as we call her at home—was animatedly describing the castles she and I had built, and the next she was muttering darkly about how her pretend wand no longer performed "good magic." Most of her conversation revolved around which grandmother or grandaunt she liked best at Hemlocks, followed closely by an in-depth analysis of food and what tasted the most delicious.
From her chatter alone, I learned that she was fond of at least seven grandaunts—surprisingly, some of whom belonged to entirely different factions. Apparently, her cuteness worked not only on our direct branch but also on relatives from rival lines. A terrifying ability, really.
As expected of a millennium-old power, our family possessed several factions. These were not formed around philosophies of rule, methods of governance, or even succession disputes. No single faction could ever dictate family decisions. At least four-fifths of the warlocks were required to approve any major course of action before it was enacted.
The factions existed because every warlock was entitled to create a branch family. Each time a wizard ascended to warlock status, a new faction inevitably emerged—particularly if the individual found the existing power structure unsatisfactory. These factions competed internally, but it was largely a healthy competition: prestige, resources, and rewards were allocated based on contribution to the family as a whole.
In that sense, the factions resembled Hogwarts houses. All belonged to the same family, yet each was led by a different warlock, vying for better results. The difference was that results here determined control over resources—and the greatest prize of all: tutelage under an Archmage, reserved only for those who consistently proved themselves indispensable.
Currently, the Wyllt family had six factions. Four were directly aligned with our main line. One opposed us outright due to an old rivalry between its warlock leader and ours. The final faction remained isolated, devoting itself entirely to magical research.
By the time we returned home, the sun had set. Mother was already in the kitchen, cooking, while the house-elves fluttered about her like anxious birds. She looked up as we entered, smiled faintly, and said,
"Have you played enough, children?"
"Mama!" Shayna burst out excitedly. "We made a super big castle—like the Garhys one—and it was huge! Brother made it by the river. We even put dragons by the gate. They were very big."
"It's Garhys, sweetheart," Mother corrected gently. Then her expression sharpened. "And why were you standing in the water so long? You'll fall ill. O'Shea, that was most irresponsible. You—"
I interrupted swiftly, before she could gain momentum. My mother was gentle and kind, but once she began a tirade, she sounded like a senator filibustering the end of the world.
"Mother, I kept Sha on the shore most of the time," I said calmly. "And whenever she went into the water, I dried her off immediately. She was never wet for long. She won't fall ill."
"Mama, mama!" Shayna chimed in urgently, lifting her picnic basket. "Brother was very good to me. Don't be cross. He even brought fruits for you. See?"
She proudly displayed the fruits we had collected from the orchard—far more than either of us could eat. Shayna filled up quickly, and I alone couldn't manage the rest.
As Mother's voice began to rise, Shayna launched into her most devastating weapon: earnest loyalty paired with overwhelming cuteness.
Mother glanced at the basket, sighed, then smiled.
"Very well," she said. "I won't scold your brother. Go wash up, both of you, and come down for supper."
Shayna bounced off toward her room, accompanied by Mara, her personal elf. Mother turned her attention back to me.
"Your father will not be returning soon. He is overseas," she said. "I shall take you to the platform myself."
"It's alright, Mum," I replied. "Alar can take me as usual."
Alar was the head of family security and normally handled my travel to and from Hogwarts—except on the first day of term, when the entire family attended.
"I am not occupied in the coming days," she said. "I will go with you."
"Alright."
At dinner, Shayna enthusiastically recounted our adventures to Mother, embellishing freely. I added comments where necessary. Mother listened, smiling throughout, and whether it was heightened perception or something deeper, she seemed genuinely happy.
Seeing my closest family laughing together eased something tight in my chest. It dulled the lingering trauma of the ritual and reinforced my resolve to care for them properly.
After dinner, I retired to my room and focused on retrieving the memories left behind by the foreign soul. To my surprise, his memories were completely unguarded overflowing, unprotected. For a senior politician, I had expected resistance. Perhaps his soul had already dispersed. Or perhaps it was simply because he was a Muggle.
Accessing his memories felt less like observation and more like immersion—like a Pensieve, except I was the man living those moments. As the memories dissolved, they nourished my soul. By the time I finished, I would inherit not just his experiences, but his skills.
He came from the same planet, but a different timeline—somewhere in the 2020s, nearly four decades ahead. His life was filled with politics, rivalries, contingencies, and ruthless pragmatism. He was socially adept, yet utterly alone trusting no one.
If I ever formed my own faction, his knowledge would be invaluable, though dangerously unrestrained. Murder and chaos were acceptable tools to him. Still, beyond family politics, such skills would be terrifyingly effective.
Among all his memories, one stood out.
Harry Potter.
In his world, Harry Potter was fiction. Here, it was history—future history. I didn't understand how those memories crossed timelines, but knowing what was to come filled me with an exhilarating sense of opportunity.
I was currently a fifth year at Hogwarts. Many names destined for legend were still obscure. My first priority was recruitment.
I did not intend to rule the wizarding world outright. Influence, however, was invaluable. It would elevate my standing within the family and open countless avenues.
I began drafting lists: those unaffiliated with Dumbledore, those not entrenched with the Dark Lord, and neutral yet influential figures. I mapped known future events, layering contingencies and advantages.
By midnight, I had a rough roadmap.
As I turned toward sleep, my door creaked open. Shayna entered, clutching her teddy bear.
As usual.
She stopped when she saw me awake—normally, I was strict. But when I smiled and beckoned, she climbed into bed, eyes wide and hopeful.
Guilt stabbed me. I had neglected her before.
Not anymore.
I stroked her hair and told her a story—about a bumbling fool and flying.
That night, I decided something important.
The most valuable thing I had to protect in this world was not power, legacy, or magic.
It was the smile of the silver-eyed child beside me.