The most insulting thing about dying wasn't the actual death.Dying was pedestrian, It happened to everyone.
And honestly, as an Unspeakable working in the deepest, dampest sub-levels of the Department of Mysteries, Lloyd Nipple had always assumed his death would be spectacular.
He'd envisioned being vaporized by raw time energy, or perhaps having his soul sucked out through his nostrils by a catastrophic containment breach in the Death Chamber.
He had not envisioned slipping on the mucus trail of an escaped Flobberworm while carrying a volatile experimental crystal, cracking his skull on a stone floor, and bleeding out next to a bucket of mop water.
Ignominious,That was the word.
But if the death was insulting, the rebirth was just plain rude.
Lloyd opened his eyes, staring up at a ceiling stained with water damage that looked suspiciously like the continent of Australia.
The smell hit him next, not the comforting, metallic tang of ancient artifacts and ozone that permeated the Department of Mysteries.
No, this was the distinct, humid olfactory assault of Queens, New York, in July: burning diesel, stale curry, and the faint, underlying scent of desperation.
He sat up on the lumpy mattress that currently served as his bed, office, and dining table.
He groaned, a sound that was 30% physical pain and 70% existential dread.
"Another glorious morning in the armpit of the multiverse," Lloyd muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
He looked down at his hands.
They were younger than he remembered, calloused not from wand work, but from what appeared to be several years of manual labor before he'd hijacked this body a week ago.
He flexed his fingers, an old habit, reaching for the core of magic that should have been burning in his chest.
Instead of a roaring bonfire, he felt the magical equivalent of a damp match sputtering in a stiff breeze.
A translucent blue window, obnoxiously bright against the dim basement apartment, flickered into existence at the edge of his vision.
> [System Status]
> Host: Lloyd Nipple (Formerly [REDACTED])
> Current Mana Capacity: 15/15 (E-Rank)
> Mana Regeneration: Abysmal, Eat a Snickers.
> Active Quests: None
> Passive Effect: [Predator's Aura] - Small animals fear you. Humans find you mildly unsettling, like a clown in a funeral parlor.
Lloyd swiped the window away with a sneer. "Useless piece of arcane garbage. 'Eat a Snickers.' I was dissecting Dementors while you were still a glint in some cosmic programmer's eye."
He swung his legs out of bed, his bare feet slapping against the cold linoleum.
The apartment was a single room located beneath an Indian takeaway joint.
The rent was extortionate, the neighbors screamed at each other in Russian at 3 AM, and the landlord accepted cash only, no questions asked.
It was perfect for a Dark Wizard currently dodging the IRS,FBI,ICE, INS, SHIELD, and whatever other acronyms this spandex-obsessed dimension had to offer.
A metallic clink from the corner of the room drew his attention.
Lloyd sighed "Subject 42, If you have swallowed my last quarter, I will turn you into a coin purse. I am not bluffing."
A small, furry black snout poked out from beneath a pile of dirty laundry.
Two beady eyes blinked innocently, followed by the rest of the creature—a Niffler.
It was perhaps the only comfort Lloyd had in this godforsaken realm.
When he'd woken up here, the System had benevolently gifted him a Starter Egg.
Lloyd, hoping for a Basilisk or perhaps a nice, lethal Runespoor, had hatched a kleptomaniac mole.
The Niffler, which Lloyd refused to name anything cute, chattered defensively.
It waddled forward on its hind legs, patting the undetectable extension pouch on its belly.
"I know you're hiding something," Lloyd said, standing up and stretching. His back cracked like a whip.
"Spit it out. We need that quarter for the laundromat."
The Niffler looked affronted.
It shook its head vigorously.
"Don't lie to me. I can smell the copper."
With a sigh of profound reluctance, the Niffler leaned forward and gagged.
A saliva-covered U.S. Quarter dropped onto the linoleum with a dull tink.
"Thank you for your contribution to the household economy," Lloyd said dryly, nudging the coin toward his shoe with his toe. He'd wash it later, Maybe.
He stepped over the creature and moved to the "kitchenette," which consisted of a rusted sink and a two-burner hot plate.
On the hot plate sat a small cast-iron cauldron, the only piece of magical equipment he'd managed to scrounge up from a dubious antique shop in Greenwich Village.
Inside the cauldron, a neon-orange liquid simmered sluggishly.
Lloyd peered into the brew. It smelled like high fructose corn syrup and fraud.
"Potion brewing," Lloyd murmured, picking up a wooden spoon and giving the mixture a slow, counter-clockwise stir.
"I used to brew Felix Felicis for Ministers of Magic. I have bottled fame, brewed glory, and stoppered death."
He picked up a plastic bottle of blue Gatorade and splashed a generous amount into the cauldron.
The mixture hissed, turning a muddy purple.
"Now I am making 'Love Potion Number Nine' for a hormonal teenager named Flash Thompson."
He didn't have the mana to brew a real amortentia, even if he had the ingredients. Ashwinder eggs were notoriously hard to come by in Midtown Manhattan.
This concoction was 90% sports drink, 5% expired cough syrup for thickness, and 5% a very, very weak Cheering Charm he'd managed to breathe into it yesterday without passing out.
It wouldn't make the target fall in love with Flash Thompson.
It would probably just make her mildly nauseous and perhaps slightly more agreeable to his terrible jokes for about twenty minutes.
Close enough.
"Capitalism," Lloyd told the Niffler, who was currently trying to pry a loose screw out of the radiator with its claws.
"It is the mightiest magic of this realm. And we, my furry associate, are woefully deficient in mana."
He turned off the hot plate. The purple sludge thickened instantly.
He needed five hundred dollars by Friday or the landlord was going to throw his meager possessions out onto the street.
He needed money to buy real ingredients. He needed ingredients to breed real creatures.
He needed real creatures because he refused to live in a world where his safety depended on a man dressed like an American flag throwing a frisbee.
Lloyd decanted the lukewarm purple sludge into a small glass vial he'd stolen from a high school chemistry lab.
He corked it, wiped the sticky residue on his trousers, and checked his reflection in the darkened window.
Messy dark hair, pale skin that hadn't seen enough sun, and eyes that looked dead inside.
"Showtime," Lloyd muttered. He slipped the vial into his pocket, grabbed his ratty jacket, and headed for the door.
He paused with his hand on the knob, looking back at the Niffler.
"Stay, Do not eat the wiring. Do not try to burrow into the bank vault next door again; you aren't strong enough yet.
If anyone knocks, pretend to be a very ugly cat."
The Niffler blew a raspberry at him.
Lloyd stepped out into the oppressive heat of the Queens morning, ready to defraud a minor.
It was humble work, but every dark lord started somewhere.
Voldemort worked at Borgin and Burkes. Lloyd Nipple worked behind a dumpster near Midtown High.
Authors Note:-
Sup guys.
GIVE Power stones and add to library 💪.
It's gonna be a fun ride