The world never quite sits still—not even in the magical one. You'd think, with all the layers of enchantment surrounding this castle, all the traditions stretching back over a thousand years, that there would be some kind of quiet certainty in it. But if there's anything I've learned, it's that magic doesn't rest. It shifts beneath the surface, constantly adapting, searching for new conduits, new ways to manifest. And the world, both wizarding and Muggle alike, feels as if it's holding its breath.
I often come here—Astronomy Tower, past midnight when the rest of the castle sleeps. The stars have a rhythm that isn't changed by bloodlines or brewing politics. They just *are*. There's comfort in that. Tonight, I brought parchment, ink, and no intent to write letters or essays. Just thoughts. Sometimes I need to see them spilled out like ink on stone—raw and unrefined.
Lately, I've been thinking too much. About the whispers in the paper, about Gellert Grindelwald rising in the east like a stormcloud most pretend not to see. About magical creatures disappearing in places where they should've been protected. About how quickly the old systems pretend that everything is fine.
The Ministry here is nervous, though it hides it behind bureaucracy. Dumbledore speaks in half-truths, and I can tell he knows more about Grindelwald than he lets on. Most students don't care yet—too wrapped up in Quidditch scores or Hogsmeade trips. But there are others, older students mostly, and some like me who've already lived too much life outside the safety of these stone walls. We know. You can *feel* it in the air, like ozone before a lightning strike.
Grindelwald isn't just another dark wizard. He's something older, something… *ideological*. He doesn't just crave power—he has a vision. That's what makes him dangerous. And what's worse is, he's *right* about some things. The Statute of Secrecy is flawed. Magical potential is being stifled by outdated traditions. The Muggle world *is* growing faster than most wizards are willing to acknowledge. Electricity, flight, the wireless—technology is becoming their kind of magic. And the magical world, for all its wonders, clings to its past like a relic afraid of the future.
But the solution isn't domination. It's evolution.
I've read Newt Scamander's writings more times than I can count. *Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them* isn't just a catalog of creatures—it's a philosophy. Scamander saw creatures not as weapons or tools but as *expressions* of magic in its wildest forms. And yet, as Grindelwald gathers power, rare beasts are hunted, either for the glory of killing them or for their parts to fuel dark rituals. The Nundus, the Thunderbird, the Graphorn—all falling prey to wizards who fear what they do not control.
It disgusts me.
There's a part of me—maybe the Slytherin in me, though I wear no green—that understands the allure of control. Of bending chaos to your will. I've done it. The Fiendfyre I unleashed in the Chamber… that wasn't an accident. I meant it. I *commanded* it. But I did so to protect, to limit, to end a threat that had lingered in silence for centuries. I didn't do it to conquer.
And still, I wonder… if someone like me can walk that fine line, can others? Grindelwald is charismatic, a visionary. I've read transcripts of his speeches—smuggled through the libraries of Durmstrang, circulated in secret. He talks of a new order, a world where wizardkind lifts itself out of hiding and takes its rightful place. He never says *subjugate*. He says *guide*. He says *protect*. But the subtext? It's conquest, veiled in righteousness.
Worse still, I know how many noble families support him—quietly, through donations, through blood oaths sworn behind closed doors. The same families who pretend to value order and stability here in Britain while sending their younger sons abroad to "widen their horizons." It makes me sick. Some of them even sit in the Wizengamot, their votes polished with old gold and ancient arrogance.
Even beasts are dragged into this. Creatures like Obscurials—terrified children whose magic turns inwards, made unstable by fear—are seen as weapons by some. Grindelwald has already used one. And yet Scamander sees them as victims, as beings who could be healed if only our world were less afraid. Who's right? I know who *feels* right. But feeling isn't always enough.
And where do I stand in all this?
I'm not a hero. I'm not trying to be. But I can't be a bystander either—not anymore. Not after what I've seen, what I've done. The Basilisk is dead, but the darkness it was born from still lives in the cracks of our society. In pure-blood supremacy. In blind tradition. In the silencing of new ideas. Salazar Slytherin himself told me magic remembers. And I believe him. But so do *I*.
I remember the smell of burnt stone and sulfur. I remember the way my wand trembled when I cast spells beyond my years because the moment demanded it. I remember what it meant to *survive*.
And I remember what it feels like to hope. To stand beneath stars that do not judge you, that simply shine.
If war is coming—and I believe it is—then I must be ready not just with wand and will, but with understanding. Of beasts. Of runes. Of people. Of power. If the world is breaking, then someone must know how to rebuild it.
And maybe, just maybe, that someone could be me.
So I study. Not just the textbooks Hogwarts assigns, but the forbidden ones—the lost tomes buried in the Restricted Section and the hidden chambers below the castle. I've begun translating fragments of the Voynich Scrolls, puzzling over their runic encryptions. I've practiced mind arts until my dreams feel sculpted, not merely dreamt. I've explored the deep magics, the binding rituals, the theories of wandlore long dismissed as outdated. The deeper I delve, the more I realize that power alone cannot fix the world. It is knowledge, tempered by will, guided by empathy, that might just chart a path forward.
And in my solitude, I reflect not only on Grindelwald and his machinations, but on the roots of the rot within our own borders. The Ministry's obsession with control. The noble houses clinging to blood-purity like a drowning man to a myth. The undercurrents of fear that dictate so many decisions. But I have also seen glimmers of hope—young minds questioning the old ways, professors who dare teach beyond the curriculum, and beasts who, despite humanity's cruelty, still show wonder.
I don't know what role I will play in the years to come. But I know I cannot turn away. Magic, as Salazar told me, remembers. But it also *chooses*. And it has chosen me.
Let the world turn. Let the storm rise. I will be ready.
The wind up here tastes like rain, though the sky's still clear. It makes parchment curl at the edges and my ink blot if I'm not careful. I wonder if the Thunderbird I read about in Scamander's work could sense storms like this one, subtle and invisible. A storm of ideas. Of shifting power. I sometimes wish I could ride such a creature—not to run, but to see the world from high above, to glimpse the whole and not just these fragments I carry.
It's maddening sometimes, being a student with a soldier's mind.
The professors here—some mean well. Sprout teaches Herbology with care in every movement, and Professor Wrenwick has more strength than half the Aurors I've read about. But they're still part of a system that pretends this school is a shield from the world. It isn't. It *never* has been. Hogwarts has always been a crucible. This place forges wizards and witches, it doesn't protect them.
And yet they keep the children ignorant, coddled with silencing charms and filtered textbooks. They teach us about the Goblin Rebellions but not the atrocities. About wandlore, but not the political control the British wandmakers held over the colonies. They won't tell us that Obscurials often came from wizarding households who feared what their children might become. They won't explain that magical beasts are vanishing, not only because of Muggle encroachment but because dark practitioners see profit in every claw and fang.
I know better. I've seen better.
Newt Scamander was not a warrior, but he was a revolutionary in his own way. He treated every beast—every *being*—as though they mattered. The way he wrote about Mooncalves and Bowtruckles, as if their lives carried beauty even when their magic wasn't flashy. And then there's the Zouwu… the way he risked his life just to calm it, not destroy it. That isn't just compassion. That's courage. The kind of courage I think we've lost somewhere.
Sometimes, I wonder what would've happened if Grindelwald and Scamander had met more often, not as enemies, but as thinkers. Maybe the best minds of our age are all fragmented—half philosophers, half warriors. What kind of world would we have if they had found common ground? But maybe that's just a fantasy, the kind that burns out when faced with reality.
The magical world is afraid. Afraid of beasts, afraid of Muggles, afraid of change. And fear curdles into hate far too quickly. They called it the Statute of Secrecy, but it's really just a wall built from fear. And while we cower behind it, Muggle inventions grow sharper. Radios that speak across oceans. Cars faster than brooms. Flying machines that touch the clouds without a single rune. What happens when they catch up? When they see through our Disillusionments and find dragons in the Alps or a Kelpie tangled in Scottish nets?
No one wants to answer that.
I'm seventeen now, and already I've killed a Basilisk. I've studied runes most adults can't pronounce, and practiced mental disciplines the Ministry restricts. I've walked paths that should have been sealed. But I didn't do it for glory. I did it because someone had to. Because the stories we grew up with—the Boy Who Slayed, the Wand that Chose, the House that Triumphed—are all half-truths. Romanticized victories to distract from harder realities.
The truth is, we are not prepared.
We need a new kind of wizard. One who understands the old magics but isn't bound by them. One who values both tradition and innovation. Who sees creatures not as tools or threats, but as partners. Who wields power but does not hunger for it. A protector. A scholar. A maker of pacts, not prisons.
I don't know if I can be that wizard. But I know I can try.
I've started writing my own bestiary. Nothing as grand as Scamander's, not yet. But mine includes more than just how to find a beast. It explains how to speak to them—how to *listen*. I've translated parts into Parseltongue and even tried developing a few warding runes that respond to creature-specific magical signatures. It's tedious work. But it feels right.
The world Is changing, and if we don't change with it, we'll vanish—not with a curse, but with silence. Obscurity. There's nothing more tragic than a world full of magic that's forgotten how to dream.
Thunder rumbles in the distance now, faint but growing. Maybe it's real. Maybe it's just inside me. But either way, I know the storm is coming.
And I intend to meet it with open eyes and a ready wand.
I remained seated as the night thickened, the silence settling deeper with each breath. The parchment before me was covered now—layered in ink, thought, and shadow. The stars wheeled above me like they had since time immemorial, their light ancient and indifferent. But beneath their cold watch, I felt something stir in me. Not just purpose. *Conviction*.
I folded the parchment and tucked it away in my cloak. It wasn't meant for anyone else's eyes, at least not yet. Maybe someday, if I survive what's coming, it'll serve as a record. Proof that someone saw the storm on the horizon and didn't look away.
The magical world needs change—more than that, it needs *balance*. We've lived too long in extremes: hiding or dominating, fearing or oppressing. It's not the strength of our spells or the purity of our blood that will save us. It's the strength of our choices.
I've spent months delving into ancient knowledge—parsel magic, warding, runes, the languages of dragons and the mental arts whispered about only in corners of Durmstrang manuscripts. I've fought beasts not just with power, but with understanding. I know now that knowledge alone isn't enough. Nor is compassion. But the two together? That's *alchemy*. That's *transfiguration* of the self.
There's work to be done. Secrets buried beneath the school still call to me—runes in the Chamber that pulse faintly when I pass, a half-heard whisper in Parseltongue from somewhere behind the serpentine columns. I will follow them. Not because I seek glory, but because I seek *truth*. Someone must chart this path. Someone must walk it first.
Let the old world try to stop me. Let the noble houses and their double-speak try to cage me in expectations and lineage. I am a Starborn, yes—but I will not be defined by inheritance alone. My blood remembers, but my mind *chooses*. And I choose to be more.
The storm is coming. The winds are already shifting. Somewhere across the sea, Grindelwald plots, gathering acolytes and ancient power. In silent vaults across Europe, Obscurials cry out in silence. Creatures are hunted for what they might yield. The old systems creak and groan, afraid to bend, unaware they are about to break.
And me?
I will meet that future not with fear, but with fire and focus. I will not be a weapon. I will be a *force*—of will, of learning, of vision. Not to rule, but to restore.
The ink is dry now. The sky has begun to pale at the edges. Dawn approaches.
It's time to descend the tower.
It's time to begin.