Hannah was, in many ways, the perfect older sister. Clever, bookish, and just enough of a smart-aleck to annoy Renauld without invoking war. She liked puzzles, talking back to their grandmother, and collecting odd stationery—quills in bizarre colors, paper that smelled like pine, parchment with glittering runes that only revealed themselves under moonlight.
Renauld, despite his post-reawakening maturity, still found her infuriating in the most traditional sibling sense.
But he loved her dearly.
They fought often—over who ate the last biscuit, who got the sofa seat closest to the fireplace, or who scratched whom that one time in July. (He still insisted it was a "reflexive clawing," not an attack.)
Before his awakening, Renauld had been a little monster. Tantrums. Biting phases. A brief obsession with throwing stones at windows. But after rediscovering his identity, he started to ease into himself a bit. There were changes. Nothing drastic. But one would notice if they cared to look, he was a lot less dismissive, learned to pretend to be nice when needed, much to their grandparent's joy. "He's learning."…."Indeed he is, he comes from thick blood".
He was still irritable, still prone to jealousy and mischief, but now it was calculated chaos. He didn't bite anymore. He hexed lightly. Subtly. Emotionally.
And he had opinions. Still things had changed, quite obviously. She had taken to calling him "little gremlin" to his obvious chagrin. And the name had stuck. Outside of ear's reach his grandparents also enjoyed referring to him as such, but usually it was in the plural sense. SO he could take conscience in fact that his sister was not above his station. Hmm that sounds weird. "Fucking childhood" he muttered.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing"
I had not even noticed her, where had she even come from? Never makes my life easier, does she? Hannah had strutted about to the sofa beside him, now puling at the blanket draped over him. Seeming forgetting about his lapse. Which I was extremely grateful for. 'thank bloody merlin' . Oh yes he had started swearing using wizarding expressions, since he obviously had magic.
"Honestly," he muttered one rainy afternoon, sprawled on the sitting room rug with a chocolate frog melting in his hand, 'I don't know why everyone thinks Order of the Phoenix was the worst. The angst was earned. And don't get me started on the movies butchering Ginny's character, much less Ron, always had a bit of a soft spot for that doofus, he was actually a little like Sirius Black, but milder and Weaslified. Where he was a brilliant strategist, and provided Harry a friend in his younger years, his character was pretty much shattered in the movies. With pretty much all of his positive attributes being bestowed upon Hermoine. I'm pretty sure that screenwriter had something of an unhealthy obsession with that character. I never really got the feeling of the golden trio as much in the movies, as I got in the books. Harry was going around waving his wand, screaming, fighting, or being an emo kid, while Emma Watson, yes not Hermoine was solving up all the loose ends, being the perfect heroine. While Ron was just there, existing. Something lesser than a sidekick. I don't know why I am reminded of that Song
"Your friend Steve, du du du du to doo doo du"
Oh yeah I forgot lyrics except for that line "HAH!"
Emma, passing by, raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"
"Oh don't worry about him, he's like that sometimes," Hannah quipped from the side.
'thanks for the save' he acknowledged mentally.
He had read the entire Harry Potter series in his first life—more than once. It had been a childhood staple, an adolescence comfort, and an early adult frustration. He'd watched every movie, save Half-Blood Prince—missed it cause he already watched both of the Deathly Hallows before that. And after that he was firmly in his teens and adopted by the dark side, I mean anime. So he could never quite sit through those two hours. It was nothing personal, as he had already read all the books.
He supposed it was ironic, being reincarnated into the wizarding world he'd once read about with equal parts wonder and critique. He had often imagined himself as a character there, or if he had magic, of what he would do differently. Maybe he would become the next Dark Lord? Or make a distinguished pure-blood house? Oh well he is already part of one. Even though he is half-blood now. His children won't be considered as such. For one there is the 4 grandparents rule.
Then there was the Sacred-28, wherein he had their blood flowing through his veins. SO, if he married a pure-blood, his children would also be the same. More on that later, he could also explore deeper into magic! "Is there a research department or something?" he mused. "Well there is the Department of Mysteries and my mother's a part of that." He could also become a Quidditch player, that should pay well, he hedged. Well there is always leaving everything and settling in a cottage or a mansion somewhere nice and forgetting about the world.
But one career path really appealed to him, that of a curse-breaker. He knew about them, and how they explored the discreet and obscure locations deep in the Amazon Rainforests, the Himalayan Ranges, Tibetan Plateau, the Siberian expanse, the Mayans, Inuits and so much more. He really wanted to explore this world in detail. As it is he was enamoured with the idea of travelling the world. Now with the existence of something as novel as magic, he couldn't resist it, he guffawed in that cartoonish evil laughter, wiggling his fingers animatedly.
"You'd think I'd be more shocked," he told Hannah once. "But honestly, this feels right. Like I belong here."
She'd just raised an eyebrow and tossed a sock at him.
His magic had yet to settle, but signs were there. The glass-shattering tantrums. The oddly consistent good grades (even when he hadn't studied). The time he got full marks on a math exam after a brief surge of irritation. Even the registry had changed to reflect his "miracle."
He chalked it up to subconscious magic. Or cheating via magical osmosis. Who knew?
And then there was the Legilimency.
He discovered it accidentally with the neighbor's younger brother, John—a sweet, if dim boy. Renauld would mutter "Legilimens" under his breath and try to peer into his mind, usually with no result other than John blinking at him confusedly.
But over time, he began to feel things. Snippets. Emotions. Memories not his own. He tried not to dig too deep, especially with Hannah. Privacy was a sacred thing. But sometimes, their eyes would lock, and he would know she forgave him for that scratch.
The air was crisp with early autumn chill, the last stubborn leaves clinging to the trees like defiant old men.
I was wandering the Atkins' garden, kicking at the frostbitten grass, when I saw Hannah crouched by the flowerbeds.
Her hands hovered over a wilting daffodil, her brow furrowed in focus.
A whisper of warmth — unseen — brushed against the petals.
Before my very eyes, the drooping yellow head straightened, trembling slightly, and bloomed anew, shivering gold against the cold.
I stood frozen, a spark lighting in my chest.
Magic responding to will... to emotion... to something deeper.
Later that night, in secret, I tried the same with an abandoned dandelion growing near the shed.
It took hours. It took bloodied knees from kneeling.
It took frustration and whispered curses I wasn't supposed to know yet.
But when the first green tendril unfurled, stubborn and tiny under my trembling fingers —
I laughed, breathless, giddy, victorious.
It was possible.
I could bend the world if I wanted it badly enough.
After that, I grew reckless.
I stared at neighbors until their thoughts nudged at the edge of my mind like curious cats.
I pushed at them — tentatively — when no one was looking.
Once, I made Mrs. Poulter forget she had already given me a biscuit and hand over another with a confused frown.
Once, I caught the fleeting image of Hannah hiding my missing toy sword under her bed.
Accidental? Perhaps.
Curious? Always.
Intentional? Increasingly.
Of course, accidents had consequences.
There was the time Emma's best tea set exploded during one of my "mental exercises."
I stood among the shards, eyes wide, tears trembling — the picture of heartbroken innocence.
(Inside, I was cataloging every adult reaction with clinical precision.)
"Oh, poor lamb," Emma cooed, sweeping me into a flurry of hugs and reassurances.
Hannah shot me a suspicious glare over Emma's shoulder.
She knew.
Hannah, of course cornered me later in the attic.
"You rascal," she hissed, yanking gently on my cheek. "You're going to get us both expelled from life!"
I stuck my tongue out at her, arms crossed.
In retaliation, she planted a loud, obnoxious kiss right on my forehead — a humiliating display of sisterly affection.
Red-faced, I screeched and lunged at her hair, pulling with all the ferocity an indignant younger brother could muster.
She yelped, shoved me, and we tumbled into a shrieking, breathless heap.
Somewhere between wrestling and wheezing laughter, magic cracked the air — a sudden gust of wind knocking over a dusty lamp.
We froze.
Listened.
No footsteps.
No angry grandparents.
We dissolved into giggles again, sprawled on the worn attic floor, victorious in our petty war.