Chapter 15: Strange Conjecture
Whitehall, a prominent avenue in Westminster, London, is the seat of the British Muggle government. Countless Muggle departments operate above ground—but what they could never imagine is that deep beneath Whitehall lies another hidden authority: the Ministry of Magic.
There are three conventional ways to enter or exit the Ministry. The first is through the Floo Network, accessible via fireplaces on each of the Ministry's ten underground floors, providing a convenient commute for employees.
The second is via Portkey—though not the typical one-time-use variety. High-ranking individuals use refined, reusable versions that offer smoother travel. They're less jarring to the body but far more complex to maintain. According to an overworked employee in the Ministry's Maintenance Department, only a few ministers, such as Fudge, frequently use them—mainly for welcoming important guests. Recently, Fudge even permitted himself to Apparate directly into the atrium on the eighth floor, claiming that maintaining the anti-Apparition wards was too costly.
The third and most unusual method? A red phone booth. An old, seemingly abandoned box sits on the surface. To use it, one dials 62442—the letters for "MAGIC." The booth then issues a visitor pass through the coin slot and slowly descends, delivering its occupant to the Ministry's main atrium on the eighth floor.
And me? I'm Fenydax, a trainee in the Auror Department—an intern, you could say, at the wizarding version of the police. I graduated from Gryffindor just last year. My favorite way to get to work is through that phone booth. I like things slow-paced. I'll order a butterbeer nearby, then take the elevator and ease into my day.
But lately, something's been… off.
Across from the phone booth entrance is a small café. I remember it well—I'd gone there before with my Muggle-born ex-girlfriend. But recently, it's been "under maintenance," and there's been barely anyone around. Even the usual trickle of Muggles has all but vanished.
Huh? Was that a spell just now?
"Expelliarmus!"
A short, hooded figure—more shadow than person—burst from the café, launching a red spell beam with blinding speed.
"I can't dodge!" I thought in panic as it struck. "Wait—it's not lethal. Just a body-bind…"
My muscles locked, petrified in place. Panic began to subside.
Then, I heard another incantation—cold, emotionless: "Obliviate."
The hooded dwarf was none other than Ryan.
"Tenth," he whispered to himself, marking this as his tenth trial.
And then—he vanished.
No sound. No light. Just a faint breeze. This was no ordinary Apparition. This was something more—what Ryan called "Phantom Displacement," a hybrid of martial movement and magical stealth.
Back in the café, Ryan frowned.
Sigh... the Obliviate spell is still too unstable. It's hard to selectively erase only a few seconds of memory. I can't help but wonder how Lockhart managed to do it so precisely...
Ryan had acted on impulse. But it wasn't just a random attack. This was an experiment.
For this test, Ryan had instructed Jack to buy out the café across from the Ministry entrance and refurbish it—turning it into a perfect observation post.
He'd been stationed there for days, using his detection spells to monitor the magical strength of passing wizards. Most adult wizards, he found, had magical power ratings close to 30. Some were even as low as 20–23. Today's subject, Fenydax, had a magic level of just 22.
How did Ryan know his name? Easy—he had Jack acquire records of Ministry employees with low magical signatures, especially their commuting patterns. It made setting up test targets much easier.
But something was puzzling: even though Ryan's spell strength matched his previous experiments, the defensive reactions of these adult wizards were disproportionately strong. Spells that should have barely scratched them were suddenly explosive.
The only clear difference?
They were adults.
That supported a theory Ryan had long suspected: magical adulthood changed more than just age. While children might show raw, instinctive outbursts of magic, adults wielded a more focused, dangerous version—even if their innate power hadn't increased.
His brain worked like a machine: once he fed it a question, it would continue analyzing and generating answers endlessly. A gift, but also a curse. The more he used this ability, the more time and energy it drained. The truth it uncovered was often incomplete—just a relative truth, not the ultimate one.
Still, Ryan had uncovered a disturbing pattern.
Wizards—especially when gathered—formed a collective consciousness. Their shared beliefs and limitations became mental shackles. They were prisoners of their own system, constantly policing each other, enforcing conformity without even realizing it.
From birth, they were restrained by invisible chains.
Young wizards could sometimes break free—like those rare childhood magical outbursts. But by adulthood, most had become average, their spark dulled by education and social norms.
The Obscurus was the tragic manifestation of this phenomenon. Wizards who suppressed themselves too long exploded with uncontrollable magic—and most never lived to see adulthood. Society punished strength, especially strength that didn't conform.
Even worse, the moment wizards reached adulthood, their spell potency skyrocketed. Not because of growth—but because they'd finally been "accepted" by the magical consensus. This gave the illusion of maturity, but in truth, it was simply collective permission.
Ryan's tests confirmed it: wizards weren't getting stronger. They were getting permission to act stronger.
This realization was sobering—but also useful. Ryan had a status panel, unique to him, allowing steady growth. But if he could avoid this "shackling" process altogether, he might surpass all of them.
In his search for answers, he came across the records of Despicable Helbo—the earliest known dark wizard in magical history.
According to modern textbooks, Helbo was a cruel sorcerer who created the first basilisk, invented terrible curses, and pioneered the Horcrux.
But Ryan's family records painted a different picture.
Helbo had been a friend of one of Ryan's Smith ancestors—an eccentric man, introverted and paranoid, much like many in the Smith family line. His Horcrux wasn't made from malice, but from fear—he believed he had a terminal illness.
The "evil" spells he supposedly invented? Most weren't even his. Like some infamous thieves in folklore, his reputation grew beyond his actual deeds. The darkness, perhaps, was just a mask—to keep people away, so he could work in peace.
A curious man. A cautious one. But perhaps not an evil one.
And now, Ryan was treading a similar path.
---
End of Chapter 15
--------------------------------+--------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 30 advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at patreon.com/Translatingfanfics