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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1 Inosuke Hashibira

The sun dipped low over the London countryside, its last golden rays barely piercing the thick canopy of a forgotten forest tucked between abandoned farmlands and a railway track that hadn't seen use in decades.

Professor Minerva McGonagall tightened her tartan cloak against the creeping chill and stepped carefully over an exposed root. Her wand was already drawn, her every step purposeful yet alert. The sounds of city life had long since faded. Here, silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of underbrush, or the distant caw of a raven overhead.

"This is madness," she muttered under her breath, her sharp Scottish accent tinged with equal parts irritation and concern.

And yet, the Book of Admittance had been unequivocal.

At precisely three minutes past midnight, its ancient quill had scratched out a name with frantic urgency, ink spattering the margins as if something volatile had jolted through the parchment:

Inosuke Hashibira.

No birth date. No address. No wand record. Nothing in the Muggle registry. Just a name, carved like a scar across the otherwise steady page, and a faint magical signature pulsing somewhere deep in this forest north of London.

She had expected to find a frightened, lost child. Perhaps a Muggle-born unaware of their own abilities. Perhaps a child hiding after an accidental burst of magic.

What she found instead was feral.

A sharp rustle sliced through the quiet.

Minerva stopped, breath catching.

The movement wasn't that of a deer. It was too fast. Too controlled. Something low to the ground, moving with a predatory rhythm, circling her.

She turned on the spot.

"Show yourself," she called firmly, wand raised.

Silence.

Then—CRACK.

Something leapt from a low branch behind her. It flew through the air like a missile—no, a beast—and landed hard in front of her. Dust and leaves exploded as a figure crouched in the clearing, shirtless, his body covered in scars and grime. He wore torn blue-green hakama pants, and his face was obscured by a boar's head, worn like a helmet.

He was a boy. No more than eleven. But his posture was that of a predator.

He grunted in a foreign tongue—sharp and guttural.

"ナンダテメエ!" (Nanda temee!)

McGonagall didn't have time to process the language. The boy sprang into action, swinging a sharpened tree branch at her head like a club.

"Protego!" she snapped, and a shimmering barrier flashed to life. The branch struck it with a crack, splintering down the middle. The boy snarled, undeterred. He dropped the weapon and lunged at her with bare hands.

Minerva stepped back swiftly, wand held defensively.

"Stop! I'm not your enemy!"

But the boy didn't understand her. He circled again, hands curled into claws, his breath heavy and sharp through the boar mask.

"クソババア,戦え!" (Kuso babaa, tatakae!)

He stomped the earth and dropped into a low, animalistic stance, muscles coiled.

"Dear Merlin," she whispered. "He's feral."

Then he attacked.

"獣の呼吸・壱ノ牙 穿ち抜き!"("Beast Breathing, First Fang: Pierce!")

He shot forward with both hands like daggers, a move so swift she barely saw it coming.

"Stupefy!"

The spell missed, grazing his side. He rolled, bounced off a nearby log, and brought another branch down like a war hammer.

CRASH!

Bark exploded off the tree behind her as she conjured a second shield. He leapt again, relentless.

Panting now, Minerva circled back, watching his stance. She realized he wasn't using standard martial forms—he was mimicking wild beasts. His movements were unrefined but shockingly fast, as if guided by muscle memory more than thought.

"Impedimenta!"

The spell struck his shoulder. He staggered but recovered mid-roll, launching a kick that grazed her arm. Her wand twitched.

Too much hesitation.

"Incarcerous!"

Ropes snapped toward him, wrapping around his arms and torso—but he roared, bulged, and ripped through them with sheer brute strength.

"I tried to speak to you!" she barked. "I tried to help!"

He bared his teeth and shouted again.

 "ウルセーッ!!黙れババア!" (Urusee! Damare babaa!)

McGonagall's patience finally cracked.

"STUPEFY!"

This time, the spell struck him square in the chest.

His body froze in mid-charge. He dropped like a felled tree, hitting the earth with a dull thud, limbs sprawled, boar mask skewed sideways.

The forest fell silent. Even the birds didn't dare chirp.

Minerva stood over the fallen child, heart racing.

She flicked her wand to check for magical interference. No curses. No wands. Just raw, instinctual magic flowing through an untrained conduit.

The boar mask had tilted, revealing a young, stubborn face. Scratched. Bruised. But alive. His brow was furrowed even in unconsciousness, as if locked in a dream-fight.

"Well, Mister Hashibira," A sigh escape her lips, tucking her wand away, "Hogwarts is about to become a much louder place."

She levitated him gently into the air, conjuring a floating stretcher beneath him. The mask dangled from her other hand, oddly heavy.

As she began the walk back to the apparition point, the forest stirred faintly behind her. Whatever other beasts had been nearby—they now knew who was in charge.

London – Later That Night

The lobby of St. Mungo's Hospital was unusually quiet, lit by floating lamps and enchanted orbs that dimmed with the hour. Healers in green robes moved briskly past fireplaces and medi-charts, occasionally glancing at the floating form now being pushed through the ward by a stern-faced woman in tartan robes.

"Emergency ward," McGonagall told the front desk witch. "Possibly cursed. Possibly concussed. Definitely feral."

The witch blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Within minutes, Healer Kenwick and two assistants ushered them into a private ward. The boy had been placed carefully on a cot, a monitoring charm hovering over his chest.

"Unusual magical pattern," Kenwick murmured, running diagnostic charms. "Spikes of arcane pressure around the joints. Like magical muscle reinforcement, but naturally developed. That's unheard of."

"He was raised outside civilization," McGonagall explained. "He doesn't speak English, and as far as I can tell, he's never had formal magical training."

"But he's channeling it through his body?" the assistant whispered. "Like a wandless martial form?"

"Exactly."

The Healer leaned closer to the unconscious boy.

"He's dangerous," Minerva warned.

"He's fascinating," the Healer countered.

Inosuke twitched suddenly. His mouth moved.

"...ケダモノが..."("…Beasts…")

Then a growl.

McGonagall readied her wand, but the Healer raised a hand. "It's just a dream. He's not fully conscious."

She frowned. "I'm taking him to Hogwarts as soon as he stabilizes. He's on the list."

"You might want to get a translator first," the Healer suggested. "He's clearly Japanese. Probably born in the wild, raised outside Muggle or magical contact. His survival instincts are… alarming."

Minerva nodded grimly. "I'll speak with the Department of International Magical Cooperation in the morning. For now, keep him contained."

"And the boar mask?"

She glanced at the hideous thing sitting on the chair beside her.

"Let him keep it. It's part of who he is."

As she stepped outside into the night air, Minerva looked up at the stars overhead. Somewhere behind one of those stars, another problem was no doubt brewing. But for now, she had a very earthly one to manage.

A wild boar boy, magic in his bones, rage in his blood—and Hogwarts in his future.

"Merlin help us all," she whispered.

And with a soft crack, she Disapparated into the night.

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