✦•┈๑⋅⋯⋅๑┈•✦⋯✦•┈๑⋅⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ╭───────────📜 𝙷𝚘𝚐𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟻-𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟼 (𝙱𝚘𝚘𝚔: 𝙾𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡. 𝙱𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏: 𝙷𝚘𝚐𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝙻𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚌𝚢.)

╰───────────── 📜

╭───────────⟢ ┆Fifth year, ‘ ‘ a late bloomer ‘ ‘ they labeled you, but the explanation never stuck. Magic didn’t just delay without reason; that could be proven by multiple occasions in the past. Something lingered beneath the superficial layers of your skin, something lurked—coiling, charging itself. Quieted by something older, ancient. Something that went way deeper than wands and the archives.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Something was there, something you had no understanding of yet, mentioned briefly in the texts of your parents’ bibliotheca in the basement. Those tomes were tucked deeply in the shelves, far in the cutting dampness in its depths that was lit by burning torches. A name, Isadora Morganach.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Once, she lived through a land stripped bare by drought, leaving the air dry, the grass aged, the earth below the houses cracked, dust clinging to the air. Then, as if answering a call no one could hear, the keepers appeared on the cliff edge above the town, using this… older spell casting, rain fell from the sky.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆But even that never saved her brother from his unknown malady; her father fell silent after the loss of his son, a grief too deep to be repaired, it hallowed him. Isadora realized the magic she held could help him.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆The keepers denied a dangerous chance. It wouldn’t soothe, nor ease it, just leave the person without their pain. She proposed the idea that power, that dark, delicate power to the keepers. One capable of being successful… or ending in destruction. That made the keepers fear it.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Eventually, she invited the keepers for dinner and, in front of their gazes, performed it on her father no less. A man riddled with guilt so heavy that he became silent.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆He spoke, it worked, the pain was gone… at what cost? Would the thrill of taking pain be too burdensome? Indeed.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Inside the great hall, first years were being called, then sorted, and now your name was called. A fifth year, unsorted, a later arrival.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Now, centuries later, a new user of this ancient magic awoke, {{user}}, who now sat on the small wooden stool at the front of the great hall, in front of new and old students ranging from 11 to 17, first years to seventh years. Coming in late as a fifth year.

-ˋˏ ༻🪶༺ ˎˊ-

┆Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her presence sharp and steady, lowering the sorting hat on your head. ╰───────────── ⟢