I spun.
Reality snapped.
For a fraction of a second, I wasn't anywhere. Not here, not there—just a nauseating idea of movement without a path. Then the world slammed back into existence around me.
I was standing in the second circle.
My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to Apparate out of my chest and relocate somewhere safer, like Switzerland.
First thing I did—always—was check my hands.
They were still there.
Good start.
Then I checked my fingers more carefully, because that's where the universe liked to be petty.
My left index fingernail was missing.
Again.
I stared at the raw, exposed nail bed and sighed like a man whose problems had officially gotten too stupid to fear. "Really?" I muttered. "We're doing nails now?"
The Ancient One stood a few steps away, hands folded calmly, as if I wasn't actively trying to teleport without self-harm. She looked like she always did during training: composed, patient, and faintly amused in a way that made me suspect she'd seen far worse than a teenager leaving behind bits of himself like breadcrumbs.
I lifted my wand and drew a thin line of purple smoke across the tip of my finger, using a quick restorative weave I'd been practicing—less healing, more "reasserting the body's original shape." The sensation was odd, like the air was knitting something back into place. The missing nail slid into existence as if it had merely been delayed in transit.
No pain.
Just wrongness resolving into normal.
Apparition in this universe was still a nightmare, but the resistance was getting weaker. Either I was improving, or space was starting to get tired of complaining.
"Master Abel," the Ancient One said, voice calm enough to insult gravity, "you should rest."
Normally, I would've argued—because I'm stubborn, and because I hate leaving practice unfinished, and because the Hulk was currently redecorating New York with military vehicles. But I was so exhausted that even pretending to be stubborn felt like work.
"Yeah," I admitted, and the word came out like a concession. "Okay. Rest sounds… amazing."
I dropped onto a cushion near the wall, crossed my legs, and started Kamar-Taj's meditation breathing. It wasn't flashy magic. No sparks. No portals. Just control—slowing the mind, smoothing the magical core, letting the body stop screaming. The technique worked annoyingly well, like the Ancient One had discovered a cheat code for exhaustion and then refused to monetize it.
My thoughts settled. The ache behind my eyes dulled. My reserves steadied into something that felt less like a drained battery and more like a bank account that had stopped hemorrhaging money.
And I couldn't stop smiling a little.
Thirty-seven tries.
Only thirteen splinches.
And most of those were tiny.
Progress.
Sure, losing nails—even nails—still sucked. But progress was progress, and in my experience, progress was usually bought with discomfort and a little bit of existential dread.
After half an hour, I opened my eyes and found the Ancient One watching me with that tiny knowing smile she always had. The one that made you feel like she already knew the punchline to your life story and was politely waiting for you to catch up.
"So," she asked gently, "the spell is stabilizing?"
"Yeah," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "I can feel the path better now. Not a line, exactly. More like… a pseudo-passage. A corridor that doesn't exist unless I force it to."
She nodded once. "Space magic always begins as intuition."
I hesitated, then grinned because there was a second thing I'd been wanting to test ever since I realized my magic was behaving differently in this universe. "I've got another spell I want to try."
That got her attention. Not dramatic attention—she wasn't the type to widen her eyes and gasp—but her focus sharpened, like she'd just been handed a new variable.
"Show me."
I stood slowly, letting my breathing settle. Patronus magic had been a cornerstone in my old life. It wasn't just a spell; it was a declaration: I have something inside me that darkness doesn't get to touch.
Back home, it was mostly for dementors. Here… after Latveria, after feeling the Dark Dimension press against my mind like a gigantic eye, I couldn't shake the sense that the Patronus might have helpped me more than a defensive trick.
I closed my eyes and reached for the feeling. Not the performance version of happiness. Not the forced grin. The real stuff.
Sean sending me stupid memes that made me laugh at 2 A.M. when I shouldn't have been awake.
Theresa's cooking, warm and grounding, as if food could anchor you to a world that kept trying to shove you into cosmic chaos.
The first time I successfully opened a portal and didn't look like an idiot.
Pepper yelling at Tony like she was the only person on Earth who could scold a billionaire into behaving.
The sensation of flying—real flying—without broomsticks, without rules, just the world opening under you.
The simple, stupid joy of being alive even when everything was complicated.
I lifted my wand.
"Expecto Patronum."
Silver mist poured out, luminous and clean. It drifted around me like moonlight breathing—soft, protective, and strangely heavy with meaning. It didn't fully condense into an animal this time; it hovered in that in-between stage, like it was waiting to see what kind of world it was being asked to exist in.
The Ancient One stepped closer and reached into the mist with two fingers, as if she could pluck the spell apart strand by strand. Golden diagnostic sigils formed around her hand, not touching the Patronus exactly but reading it, interpreting it the way a doctor reads an X-ray.
Her expression changed.
Not into fear. Not into shock. But into recognition, perhaps, and a cautious respect.
"This spell of yours…" she murmured. "Pure protection. Purification. Repelling darkness. A magic born from joy and positive thoughts."
I blinked. "So… good?"
"Very good," she said. Then, more firmly, "Extraordinary."
She studied me like she'd just found a hidden star in a sky she thought she'd memorized. "This magic will be a weapon against corruption, curses, and darkness in general. Train it well."
I laughed nervously. "Guess I'll need more happy memories then."
The Ancient One's smile returned, faint but real. "Then live in a way that creates them."
That sounded like advice and a warning at the same time.
And that night, after training ended, I couldn't shake the sense that she was… distracted. Not worried exactly—she didn't do obvious worry—but thoughtful, the way she got when she was balancing futures in her head like scales.
I didn't see where she went when she left. I didn't follow. I wasn't stupid enough to spy on her when she was in that mood.
Well that's a proble for futur me.
Then I opened a portal straight into Tony's temporary New York apartment, because subtlety had not been my strongest skill lately.
The portal formed and I stepped out—
—and a screwdriver flew past my face so close I felt the air ripple.
I jerked sideways on reflex, wand half-raised, and stared at Tony Stark standing in a makeshift lab setup, looking like he'd just tried to murder me with hardware.
"Jesus, Abel!" Tony shouted, clutching his chest dramatically like he was auditioning for a soap opera. "Teleport with a warning. One day you're gonna kill me before the villains do."
I rolled my eyes. "Relax, grandpa. You're still dramatic."
Tony snorted, but the joke didn't stick. His gaze flicked—just for a second—to the arc reactor reflected in a nearby mirror. Quick, almost unconscious.
But I saw it.
Palladium fear lived in the pauses Tony didn't think anyone noticed.
"I've got good news," I said.
That stopped him cold.
No sarcasm. No ego.
Just a scared man pretending not to be.
"Almost?" he asked quietly, voice stripped down to bare honesty.
"The potion's almost ready," I confirmed. "Kamar-Taj substitutions stabilized. Materials confirmed. But we still need exact ratios and dosing schedules. Human trial-and-error would take months."
Tony's eyes sharpened, and I watched the familiar machine inside him spin up—the part of him that handled panic by turning it into math.
"But your AI," I continued, "could simulate it."
His face lit like someone had plugged him into electricity. "JARVIS," he said immediately, already moving. "Get me a full simulation environment. I want every variable modelled. I want risk curves. I want—"
"Tony," I cut in, because if I didn't, he'd sprint into a wall out of enthusiasm. "You need my data first."
"I know," he snapped, then softened. "I know. Give it to me."
I handed over the formula pages and notes. Tony scanned them like a hurricane reading a novel, muttering to himself, already correcting things, already rewriting in his head. I could practically hear his brain complaining about my handwriting.
Pepper walked by once, saw his expression, and left without a word.
Because she knew that look.
The please don't let me die like this look.
A moment later, Pepper came back with someone beside her—tall, red hair, killer smile, posture just a little too aware.
Natasha Romanoff.
Undercover.
Pretending to be casual.
SHIELD never stopped watching.
Tony didn't even notice. He was already buried in equations. Saving himself was step one. Saving everyone else was step two. Tony Stark never stopped at step one.
I pretended not to notice Natasha too, because honestly, I had bigger problems than SHIELD's curiosity.
Tony disappeared into his workspace for three minutes that felt like thirty.
Then he burst back out holding a tablet like it was the Holy Grail.
"WE DID IT," he yelled, and for once it wasn't arrogance. It was relief so intense it had to come out loud. "JARVIS calculated optimal ratios. Perfect stabilizer curve. Minimal efficacy loss per dose."
I took the tablet and checked the formula.
Checked it again, slower.
Then nodded.
"It works," I said quietly. "This is it."
Tony sat down hard, like his legs had only just remembered they were allowed to stop moving. His hands shook a little, just a tremor he couldn't fully hide.
"You know," he said, staring at nothing for a second, voice low, "I built armor in a cave. Fought terrorists."
He swallowed.
"But this…" He exhaled. "This scared me."
Because Tony Stark didn't fear death in the abstract.
He feared dying before he could fix things.
Before he could be better than his father.
Before he could protect Pepper.
Before he could make his mess worth something.
I didn't joke this time.
"We brew it," I said.
Tony's face hardened, mask snapping back into place, the way it always did when action became the only option. "Let's start," he agreed.
As he turned back to his lab, I caught a glimpse of Natasha in the hallway—watching, evaluating, pretending to be nobody. Her eyes met mine for half a second, and I felt the silent message in it.
I see you.
I looked away first, because I didn't have time to play spy games tonight.
I had a potion to brew, a billionaire to keep alive, and a city full of chaos where the Hulk's blood was spilling into the streets like opportunity wrapped in catastrophe.
And as I followed Tony into his workspace, my enchanted bag felt heavier at my side—not from weight, but from the number of futures packed into it.
One wrong step.
One bad ratio.
One interruption.
And everything would spiral again.
Because change might be my nature…
…but change also attracts consequences.
And I could feel them gathering.
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Hey guys, I'm Aurelius D. Black, your author, and welcome to Path of Arcane (or How to Survive and Maybe Craft Hogwarts in Another World).
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