The chat room, previously stunned into shocked silence, rapidly devolved into a pointed interrogation. These were not men and women accustomed to following blindly. They were the architects of history, the shapers of civilization and they demanded answers.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: Evolution? You speak of leading us forward, yet you hide behind shadows and reptilian eyes. What is your ultimate goal, Architect? To rule? To reform? To destroy?
[Nicolas Flamel]: The mana density is indeed stabilizing—I can feel the fundamental change in the atmospheric pressure, the way magic breathes now. But these "tools of gods" you speak of... they anchor directly to the soul. Are they a gift... or a shackle?
[Bathilda Bagshot]: I have read every historical text written in the last two centuries, cross-referenced sources back to the founding of the International Confederation. There is NO record of an "Architect." Who are you? What are you?
[Albus Dumbledore]: If you truly wish for us to shepherd this new era responsibly, trust becomes essential. Reveal yourself. Let us see the face behind the vision.
The questions accumulated rapidly, glowing text scrolling against the pristine white background.
But the Architect remained utterly, conspicuously silent.
In the physical world, Alister leaned back in his leather chair, watching the curiosity and growing frustration of the world's most powerful mages with a faint, deeply amused smile. He took a leisurely sip of water, savoring the moment.
Then he tapped the air with deliberate precision.
"Time to stir the pot," he whispered to the empty study. "System—switch to User Profile: Alister Potter."
A distinct chime rang out in the private chat room—a crystalline sound that cut through the mounting tension.
[Notification: New Member has joined "The Apex".]
The rapid-fire questioning from the assembled legends stopped abruptly. Every eye turned to the bottom of the screen, watching with intense curiosity to see which other ancient monster had been deemed worthy of summoning.
Instead, a name appeared that seemed woefully, almost comically out of place among the titans of magical achievement.
[Alister Potter] has joined the chat.
There was a pause. A long, heavy, pregnant pause.
[Alister Potter]: am i supposed to be here?
In the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, perched high in the tallest tower, Dumbledore's silver eyebrows shot up into his hairline so fast they nearly disappeared. Alister?
But deep in the dungeons of Hogwarts, in the domain of bubbling cauldrons and preserved specimens, a vial of half-finished Veritaserum shattered in a gloved hand. The Potions Master stared at the floating screen with an expression of pure, unadulterated loathing.
He didn't care about the mysterious Architect anymore.
[Severus Snape]: Even here, in a gathering of the world's finest minds, your insufferable arrogance somehow managed to intrude.
[Alister Potter]: ...professor snape?
[Severus Snape]: Do not play the fool with me. How did a mediocrity like you possibly bypass the filter meant to identify the "finest minds"? What strings did you pull?
[Gellert Grindelwald]: How interesting. You know this boy, Severus?
[Albus Dumbledore]: Alister? My dear boy, is that truly you?
[Alister Potter]: headmaster? i don't understand what's happening. my vision flashed white and i was dragged into this... place. is this some kind of advanced class?
In his study, Alister pressed a fist against his mouth to suppress a genuine laugh.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: A Hogwarts student? How delightfully nostalgic. Tell me, Albus—does your school now produce 'Apex' caliber minds while they're still in adolescence? Or has the standard for genius simply fallen so catastrophically low?
[Albus Dumbledore]: If we are speaking strictly of raw potential, adaptive thinking, and the capacity to perceive magic from unconventional angles... then yes. Alister does possess the necessary qualities for this gathering. He has a remarkably unique perspective on magical theory. Wouldn't you agree, Severus?
There was a deliberate pause. You could practically feel Snape sneering through the glowing text.
[Severus Snape]: He possesses the singular quality of being insufferable.
[Severus Snape]: Whatever. If the Architect insists on dragging children into serious discussions, so be it. I wash my hands of the matter.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: How... fascinating.
In the dark tower of Nurmengard Prison, the former Dark Lord sat up straighter in his spartan chair, heterochromatic eyes narrowing with interest.
For Albus Dumbledore—champion of humility and caution—to openly defend a student against his own Potions Master? That was extraordinarily rare.
Albus typically preached the virtues of modesty. To openly validate the boy's "unique perspective" meant the child was either dangerous, brilliant, or—most intriguingly—both.
Grindelwald's fingers drummed against the worn armrest of his chair in a familiar, calculating rhythm. He typed with renewed interest.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: It is exceedingly rare for Albus to vouch so strongly for anyone so young. You have captured my attention, boy.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: Tell me, Alister Potter—does the curriculum at Hogwarts still restrict you to waving sticks at teacups and transforming them into tortoises? Such pedestrian exercises?
[Alister Potter]: um. mostly? we do a lot of transfiguration practice.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: Wasteful. Criminally wasteful. The Architect spoke of evolution—true evolution requires breaking ossified rules, not mindlessly following them.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: If you find the restrictions of Hogwarts... suffocating... I could offer you tutelage that your current teachers are too frightened to provide. The Dark Arts are not inherently evil, Alister. They are simply magic with all the safety restrictions removed. I could teach you to reshape reality itself, not just teacups.
The single word carried the metaphysical weight of a thunderclap—a warning that transcended the simple text.
[Albus Dumbledore]: That is quite enough. You will NOT solicit my students for your twisted ideologies. Not here. Not anywhere.
[Albus Dumbledore]: Alister, I urge you to ignore him. Mr. Grindelwald has a lifelong habit of mistaking wanton destruction for meaningful creation.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: And you, dear Albus, have an equally persistent habit of clipping a bird's wings and calling it "safety." Some of us prefer to let the eagle soar.
[Nicolas Flamel]: Gentlemen, PLEASE. We have all been forcefully conscripted into this gathering by an unknown entity, and you're bickering over a potential mentorship like territorial roosters?
The Architect tag appeared suddenly, the black text seeming to absorb light.
Alister decided to intervene before the two old lovers descended into a full chat-room duel.
[Alister Potter]: um, can we please stop fighting? i read through the previous conversation. shouldn't we focus on understanding the changes happening to the world and how they'll affect everyone?
[Alister Potter]: if the mana density is increasing this dramatically, doesn't that fundamentally change everything about how magic works?
There was a brief pause. Dumbledore and Grindelwald ceased their typing, the argument tabled by simple logic.
[Newt Scamander]: The boy's absolutely right. Well said.
[Newt Scamander]: It's not just the atmospheric changes. I've noticed my magical creatures are evolving at an unprecedented rate. They're becoming stronger, yes, but also significantly more intelligent.
[Newt Scamander]: Just this morning, my Niffler didn't merely try to steal a coin from my desk—it attempted to pick the lock on my reinforced safe. It used a bent paperclip as a tool. The Kneazles are organizing themselves into coordinated hunting packs. The Occamys are growing larger than their enclosures should physically allow, as if space itself is becoming negotiable.
Then, a message appeared from the eldest member of the group—a statement that carried such weight it silenced every other conversation.
[Nicolas Flamel]: It is not merely the beasts, Mr. Scamander.
[Nicolas Flamel]: I have walked this earth for six centuries. My magical core has been completely stagnant for the last three hundred years, held together only by the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life. I was, in essence, a preserved corpse. Alive, but not living.
[Nicolas Flamel]: But today... this very day... I felt my stagnated magic begin to grow again.
[Nicolas Flamel]: And it extends beyond magic. My ancient body, artificially sustained by the Stone, has become genuinely vital after practicing this circulation method. The constant ache in my joints my companion for two centuries is simply gone. I am not merely maintaining my existence anymore, Albus. I am actively regenerating.
[Horace Slughorn]: Merlin's beard... Nicolas, are you saying this mana increase is reversing biological decay? That's... that's theoretically impossible.
[Gellert Grindelwald]: He's saying that the limitations of the old world have been shattered. If a six-hundred-year-old man can experience genuine growth, then what are the rest of us capable of achieving?
[Albus Dumbledore]: Then the world stands on the precipice of chaos. My own magical capacity has begun expanding as well. If we are growing stronger, then so are those with significantly darker intentions. We must stay ahead of the curve—establish frameworks before anarchy takes hold.
[Nicolas Flamel]: Agreed wholeheartedly. We need systematic research and comprehensive data sharing. Individually, we cannot possibly track every variable. The scope is too vast, the implications too far-reaching.
[Bathilda Bagshot]: I'll compile everything I can extract from historical archives. Perhaps there are precedents for this "Mana Tide" in the ancient eras, before the great decline. Knowledge lost to time might prove invaluable now.
[Newt Scamander]: I'll document all biological changes in magical creatures. Create a comprehensive database.
[Horace Slughorn]: I can coordinate with the Potions Masters Guild. If the fundamental properties of magical ingredients are changing...
The chat exploded with activity—plans forming, territories of research being claimed, the finest minds of the age mobilizing with frightening efficiency.
In his study, Alister closed the holographic interface with a casual swipe of his hand. He stood, his spine cracking satisfyingly as he stretched his arms toward the ceiling. A pleased, predatory smile played across his lips.
"Alister?"
A soft, trembling voice came from the doorway. Alister's calculating expression vanished instantly, replaced by genuine concern. He turned to see Astra standing there in her nightgown, clutching the doorframe, her eyes wide with barely controlled panic as she stared at a translucent blue screen hovering directly in front of her face.
"It... it won't go away," she whispered, her voice wavering on the edge of tears. "I tried blinking, tried waving it away, but it's still there. Did I do something wrong? Is this a curse? Am I going crazy?"
Alister crossed the room in two long strides and placed his hands gently on her shoulders, grounding her with solid physical contact.
"Look at me, Astra. Not the screen—me."
She tore her gaze away from the floating text to meet his eyes.
"It's not a curse," Alister said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. "And you're not going crazy. Remember how I told you things were going to change?"
She nodded mutely.
"This is part of it. It's a gift—a tool. Like a library that follows you everywhere." He reached out and tapped the air near her cheek with practiced precision, showing her how to minimize the window. "See? It responds to intent. Just think 'close' and it will disappear until you want it back."
The screen flickered and vanished. Astra's shoulders sagged with relief.
"Okay," she said quietly, trust shining in her eyes. "Thanks, big brother."
She turned and padded back down the hall toward her room, her earlier panic already fading.
Alister watched until she disappeared around the corner, then returned to his desk. The night was young, and there was considerable work to be done.
The chat continued buzzing with activity—people introducing themselves, sharing initial observations, tentatively exploring the new interface. Alister watched it all with satisfaction, occasionally typing responses as "Alister Potter" to maintain his cover.
[Alister Potter]: this is all pretty overwhelming. I think I need to process everything. good night everyone.
[Albus Dumbledore]: Sleep well, my boy. We'll speak more tomorrow.
[Nicolas Flamel]: Rest, young man. Tomorrow brings new questions.
Alister minimized the interface and leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing across his lips. The seeds were planted. The greatest minds of the age were now connected, sharing information, mobilizing their resources.
And he controlled the infrastructure they were building upon.
He pulled a heavy, leather-bound tome from his pocket dimension: Secrets of the Darkest Art.
The silence of the study was broken only by the soft whisper of turning parchment pages. He opened to a particularly gruesome chapter titled "The Necrotic Tether"—the art of binding a soul fragment to a physical object through ritualized suffering and murder.
It was crude. Brutish. Effective in the way a sledgehammer was effective.
But effective nonetheless.
"Soul anchors through pain and murder," he murmured, studying the diagrams. "The degradation is the price. The madness is the cost."
He pulled out a blank sheet of parchment and began taking notes, his analytical mind dissecting the theory behind the horror.
"But what if..." he tapped his quill against his chin thoughtfully. "What if the fundamental concept is sound, but the execution is barbaric?"
He began sketching alternative approaches. Not to create Horcruxes—he had no intention of fragmenting his soul—but to understand the underlying principles of soul-binding magic.
"If you can anchor a soul to an object through murder... then theoretically, you could anchor any consciousness to matter. The murder isn't the mechanism—it's just the crudest fuel source."
His quill moved faster, ideas flowing.
"And if consciousness can be bound to matter... then memory can be bound to matter. Concepts. Ideal forms."
He drew the alchemical symbol for Iron, then began adding runic modifications around it.
"A sword that remembers its perfect edge. A shield that remembers its unblemished surface. Metal with memory written into its spiritual structure..."
The implications cascaded through his mind like dominoes falling.
Hours passed. The grandfather clock in the corner struck three times, announcing the deep night.
Alister barely noticed, lost in theory and possibility.
"Evolution," he whispered to the empty study, echoing the Architect's words from earlier. "Or extinction."
The quill continued to scratch against parchment long into the night, sketching the foundations of innovations that would reshape the magical world.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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