Chapter 13
The air within the grand courtyard of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya crackled with ancient magic, the towering ziggurat at the heart of the city-school casting long shadows as dusk settled over the hidden realm. Sixty wide-eyed nine-year-olds stood in neat rows upon the vast, rune-etched stone floor, their expressions a mixture of excitement, curiosity, and awe. Above them, suspended from intricately carved columns, countless glowing serpentine wards shimmered like constellations against the twilight sky, pulsating in rhythmic harmony with the arcane energy flowing through the school’s foundation.
At the center of the grand platform stood Headmistress Vasuki, her imposing figure cloaked in flowing ceremonial robes of emerald and obsidian, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes surveying the gathered students with measured intensity. Behind her, the thirty-six faculty members of Nāga-Kṣetra stood in dignified silence, their hands clasped before them in solemn preparation. To Vasuki’s right stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with grizzled features and sharp, assessing blue eyes—Deputy Headmaster Amon Terrace, a former Field Officer of the American Rentier Institute, now an integral part of the school's leadership.
Vasuki’s voice, rich and commanding, resonated through the courtyard, her words imbued with the weight of tradition.
"Welcome, new initiates, to Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya, the seat of magical scholarship and mastery. You stand now at the threshold of knowledge and transformation. Here, you will not merely learn magic—you will embody it, weave it into your very being, and walk the path of wisdom laid down by those who came before."
Her gaze swept over the students, lingering momentarily on a few who already radiated quiet determination. "This is a place of discipline, exploration, and enlightenment. You will find no hand-holding here, no coddling. You will be tested. You will grow. And if you persevere, you will emerge as scholars, warriors, and leaders, ready to shape the world."
Amon Terrace stepped forward, his presence exuding the hardened edge of a man who had lived a life beyond classrooms and libraries, in the field where magic was not merely studied, but wielded in survival and battle.
"This institution is unlike any other," he said, his American accent clipped and direct. "We prepare you for both the magical and non-magical worlds. Your curriculum will challenge you in ways you cannot yet imagine. But remember this—you are not alone. The faculty behind me, the students beside you, and the very foundations of this city will aid you, should you be worthy of the knowledge you seek."
Vasuki inclined her head slightly in agreement before raising her clawed hand, signaling the final and most sacred part of the welcoming ceremony. The entire school seemed to still as the new students were ushered toward the center of a massive ritual circle carved deep into the stone. The carvings, filled with liquid silver runes, pulsed with an ancient energy, awaiting activation.
The faculty, including Vasuki and Amon, moved as one, stepping forward to encircle the initiates. Without hesitation, each of the thirty-six professors, the Deputy Headmaster, and finally the Headmistress herself, raised their hands and sliced their palms, allowing a single drop of blood to fall into the engraved sigils.
The moment Vasuki’s crimson offering met the stone, the entire courtyard erupted in golden brilliance.
A flash of searing light surged through the ritual carvings, racing outward like veins of molten gold. The intricate wards woven into the very fabric of the city-school flared to life, responding to the renewed bond between the institution and its newest members. The energy rose to a crescendo, the city itself seeming to hum with power, and then—
Silence.
As the light dimmed, the initiates gasped, staring in awe as they felt the subtle shift within them—a connection to Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya, a recognition by the very magic of the school that they now belonged.
And then, in unison, the upper-year students, faculty, and staff erupted into cheers.
The air vibrated with excitement, welcoming shouts echoing through the ancient halls and streets of the city. Older students called out to their new peers, offering grins and knowing nods. Faculty members regarded the initiates with quiet approval, some murmuring among themselves about promising potential. The overwhelming warmth of acceptance settled over the courtyard like a comforting spell.
Vasuki allowed the cheers to ring out before lifting a hand, calling for quiet once more. Her golden eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she surveyed the newest additions to Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya.
"Your journey has begun," she declared. "You have one month to familiarize yourselves with the city, acquire your books, and settle into your assigned residences. Learn the streets, explore the halls, understand that this place is not just a school—it is a living, breathing entity that will test and nurture you in equal measure."
Her tone grew sharper, the gravity of her words undeniable. "Do not waste this time. When your studies begin, you will not be granted leniency. Prepare yourselves."
Amon’s arms crossed as he regarded the students with a knowing smirk. "And if any of you get lost—don’t expect the school to lead you back. It enjoys a challenge."
Some of the older students laughed knowingly, while the new initiates exchanged uncertain glances.
Vasuki’s gaze lingered on the crowd for a moment longer before she gave a final nod. "Welcome to Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya. May your minds be sharp, your magic strong, and your will unbreakable."
With that, the formal ceremony was concluded. The students, both new and old, slowly began dispersing, excitement crackling in the air as they ventured forth into the vast, living city that was now their home.
The grand council chamber of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya hummed with quiet discussion as faculty members settled into their seats. The annual welcoming ritual had been successfully completed, the school’s wards had been reinforced, and now the first staff meeting of the academic year was underway. At the head of the circular chamber, Headmistress Vasuki sat with poised authority, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes scanning the gathered scholars. To her right, Deputy Headmaster Amon Terrace, a former Field Officer of the American Rentier Institute, leaned forward slightly, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
The air was charged with anticipation, and it did not take long for the most pressing topic to arise.
Of course, Vasuki thought the two year anticipation of adding Harry Potter to the school was worth it. She saw the look on the boy’s face as it turned into childish wonder. Yes, it was worth the wait.
"So," began Professor Amarachandra, a battle magic instructor, his deep voice cutting through the quiet. "How do we intend to address the presence of the most notorious nine-year-old in our institution?"
A ripple of amusement and intrigue passed through the room.
Vasuki turned to Meera Patil, one of the Potion Mistresses, second instructor of potions, and head of Healing Magics. "Meera, if you would."
Meera gave a composed nod, adjusting the sleeves of her intricately embroidered robes before addressing the assembly. "As you are all aware, Harry Potter and his guardian, Nagini, have been fully integrated into the school’s warding system. Given their unique residence within the mangrove, structural modifications were necessary to extend the school’s magical protections, allowing them seamless access while maintaining the integrity of our existing defenses. This adjustment ensures that both Harry and Nagini remain securely connected to Nāga-Kṣetra."
"And what of Nagini herself?" inquired Professor Jitendra, an Arithmancy and warding specialist. "Will she continue to reside primarily in the mangrove?"
Meera cast a glance at Vasuki, who gave a slight nod before answering. "Nagini has formally requested to pursue advanced studies here at Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya. As you all know, the institution provides higher-level magical education for those seeking specialization beyond traditional schooling. She has expressed interest in expanding her formal understanding of magic, particularly in disciplines that were previously inaccessible to her."
The murmurs of curiosity and enthusiasm grew louder. It was highly uncommon for both a child and their guardian to be enrolled as students at the same institution, and the academic implications fascinated many.
"This is… unprecedented," mused Professor Kalindi, a scholar of ancient magic and ritual theory. "However, if she meets the requirements and is willing to adhere to our academic structure, she should be treated as any other postgraduate student."
"And Harry?" inquired Professor Surya, head of transfiguration.
Amon Terrace finally spoke, his voice measured and resolute. "The boy is exceptional but untrained. He will be treated as any other student—no special treatment, no exceptions. His progress will be earned, not granted."
There were several nods of approval.
"It is rare," Vasuki added, her tone as smooth as it was commanding, "that we have the opportunity to educate both a mother and child within our institution simultaneously. This presents an unparalleled academic challenge, but also an extraordinary opportunity. I expect each of you to uphold the highest standards of education in this endeavor."
The atmosphere shifted—from mere curiosity to a collective determination. This was not simply an unusual case; it was an intellectual challenge, a test of their own expertise as educators.
Vasuki allowed the moment to settle before giving a final nod. "Prepare your syllabi accordingly. This year, we forge a new path."
With that, the first faculty meeting of the year came to a close.
The commercial heart of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya pulsed with energy as students, merchants, and scholars moved through its intricate avenues, their conversations weaving a tapestry of commerce and academia. Amidst this vibrant milieu, the Patil family, accompanied by Nagini and Harry, advanced toward the architectural marvel that was Nāga-Ratna Bank. Unlike the austere, fortress-like presence of Gringotts, this institution radiated an aura of esoteric grandeur and refined artistry. Its facade, a seamless fusion of pristine white marble and gilded filigree, bore elaborate serpentine motifs that seemed to shift subtly under the glow of enchanted sconces, suggesting a latent magic embedded within the very stone.
Two Nāga sentinels stood poised at the grand entrance, their ophidian lower halves coiled in disciplined readiness beneath them while their torsos were adorned in ceremonial regalia denoting their station. Their vertically slit pupils flickered over the approaching party before one inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Welcome to Nāga-Ratna Bank,” he intoned, his voice smooth, deliberate, and resonant with the cadence of an ancient wisdom. “May prosperity guide your path, and discernment illuminate your choices.”
Upon entry, the sheer spatial majesty of the bank was immediately apparent. Its ceiling, enchanted to replicate the boundless night sky, shimmered with constellations that subtly shifted in accordance with their celestial counterparts. Unlike the rigid, transactional formality of Gringotts, the Nāga bankers exhibited a fluid dynamism, their sinuous forms moving with effortless grace over floating platforms that drifted between levitating desks and arcane archives. A subtle undertone of sandalwood and myrrh lingered in the air, interwoven with the crisp scent of ancient parchment and alchemical ink, reinforcing the institution’s atmosphere of measured sophistication.
As they approached a principal reception dais, an emerald-scaled Nāga banker unfurled herself from her position, her silk-embroidered robes rippling with every motion, each delicate movement accentuated by the soft chime of gold adornments. Observing the arrivals with a composed yet inquisitive gaze, she spoke in a melodic, measured cadence. “Ah, distinguished visitors from the Bhopal branch. What business may the vaults of Nāga-Ratna facilitate today?”
Arvind Patil, ever adept in matters of diplomacy, responded with a deferential nod. “We require a vault inspection and additional access permissions. The boy, Harry Potter, must be granted full fiduciary authority over his accounts.”
The banker’s forked tongue flickered almost imperceptibly, sampling the ambient magic before she inclined her head in assent. “Indeed. Follow, and the vault shall yield to its rightful claimant.”
Where Gringotts relied upon archaic, breakneck-speed minecart conveyances, Nāga-Ratna employed a far more sophisticated transport medium—enchanted carpets that hovered in seamless synchrony with the passengers’ intent. The moment the party stepped onto one such carpet, it ascended with preternatural smoothness, gliding through expansive subterranean corridors where crystalline stalactites pulsed with an inner bioluminescence. Below them, cascades of liquid starlight descended into mirror-like pools, their incandescent glow casting a surreal radiance over the cavern’s carved pathways.
“This is decidedly more civilized than minecarts,” Meera Patil observed, her gaze lingering appreciatively on the ethereal scenery.
Nagini, coiled with an ease that spoke of both familiarity and quiet amusement, emitted a low, sibilant hiss. “The goblins are masters of precision, yet they lack the inclination for artistry.”
Soon, they reached the designated vault chamber, where another Nāga banker awaited. With a single arcane gesture, the intricately warded doors shimmered, the layers of protective enchantments peeling away like dissolving mist. As the doors yielded, the interior was revealed—a meticulously arranged treasury of gold ingots, coinage, and enchanted relics, some of which hummed softly with dormant magic, waiting for their rightful wielder.
“Your inheritance, safeguarded under the highest tenets of our institution,” the Nāga banker intoned, gesturing for Harry to step forward.
Harry, still acclimating to the notion of such inherited affluence, surveyed the vault with quiet introspection. He turned toward Nagini, who responded with a slow, approving flick of her tail. “Your path is well-secured, little one.”
As transactions were finalized and necessary authorizations bestowed, the party made their exit, escorted once more with the same graceful deference that defined the Nāga-Ratna experience. Stepping out into the vibrancy of the market district once more, Padma and Parvati’s voices rose in eager speculation about their next venture, while Harry remained pensive, absorbing yet another facet of the intricate, multifaceted world that was now irrevocably his own.
Upon reaching the streets of the Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya shopping district, the group saw that the place was bustling with activity, the rhythmic hum of conversation blending with the scent of parchment, ink, and exotic spices from nearby apothecaries. Harry, flanked by Arvid, Meera Patil and their daughters, cast wide-eyed glances at the towering bookshelves within Vidya Mandira, the largest academic bookstore in the city-school. Nagini, doing her best to not get in the way of other shoppers and students of the school, watched the scene with quiet curiosity.
Meera led the way, her fingers skimming a carefully prepared shopping list. “Alright, first on the list—core non-magical coursework. Mathematics, science, literature, and history. You may be at a magical school, but that doesn’t mean you neglect the fundamentals.”
Padma, who had already darted toward a nearby shelf, wrinkled her nose. “But why do we need these subjects? We’re here to learn magic.”
Meera turned, raising an eyebrow. “Because magic does not exist in isolation. Mathematics sharpens the mind, science explains the world’s underlying mechanics, and literature and history ensure you understand the people and cultures around you. The British might scoff at the idea, but we know better.” She plucked a thick textbook from the shelf. “Ah, here we go— ‘Foundations of Universal Mathematics’ by Arithma Dedhika. And this one—‘The Living World: A Study of Natural and Magical Ecosystems’ by Dr. Vaidya Viridis.”
Harry tilted his head as he examined the books. He’d never heard of these names before, but they sounded important. He reached for a history book, its title embossed in shimmering gold: ‘Chronicles of the Hidden Realms’ by Sita Bharadvaj.
“Now,” Meera continued, moving to another section, “we need books on meditation and Occlumency. Your magical foundation starts with mental discipline.”
Harry’s brows furrowed. “Why do we need those before wands?”
Her lips quirked into a knowing smile. “Because you’re not getting wands until your second year.”
“What?” Parvati groaned. “But wands are the most exciting part!”
Meera chuckled. “And you’ll appreciate them much more when you’re ready. Magic is like building a house—without a strong foundation, the whole structure is unstable. Meditation and Occlumency help train your mind, discipline your emotions, and control your magical reserves. Otherwise, your magic is wild and unfocused.” She plucked two more books from the shelf. “‘The Silent Mind: A Wizard’s Guide to Mental Clarity’ by Manas Vaidik, and ‘Shields of the Mind: An Introduction to Occlumency’ by Professor Indra Veil.”
Nagini’s tongue flickered as she observed the conversation, amusement glinting in her reptilian eyes. Harry, though initially hesitant, felt a flicker of understanding settle in his chest. If he had learned anything from living in the jungle, it was that patience and preparation always paid off.
Meera glanced at the stack of books in her arms. “Alright, that should do it. Let’s pay for these and grab some supplies. You have a month to settle in before classes begin—plenty of time to get started on your reading.”
Harry exhaled, already feeling the weight of his new academic journey ahead. Yet, as he looked around at the vibrant city-school, he found himself eager to take his first steps into this world of structured magic and boundless knowledge.
Deputy Headmaster Amon Terrace cut an imposing figure, his presence exuding the hardened resolve of a veteran field operative. Clad in the distinctive uniform of a Rentier Institute veteran, he was every bit the battle-worn hunter, a man who had seen the worst the world had to offer and lived to tell the tale. His attire was a carefully designed blend of function and intimidation, built for durability and survival in the most unforgiving environments.
His broad-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his sharp, weathered features, his eyes hidden beneath the rim like a predator surveying its domain. A heavy, reinforced coat of black and deep crimson wrapped around his frame, layered with armored plating on the shoulders and chest—protection designed for both magical and mundane threats. The worn leather of his high-collared duster bore the scuffs and scars of countless encounters, the crimson trim a stark contrast against the darkness of the fabric.
Amon’s left arm, partially exposed beneath the coat, was encased in an intricate gauntlet of arcane and mechanical design, the metallic plating fused with conduits of enchanted energy that pulsed faintly with an eerie blue glow. The fingers of the gauntlet flexed smoothly, a testament to the precise craftsmanship, a tool equally suited for combat and utility. Across his torso, a bandolier of ammunition, vials, and enchanted cartridges was strapped securely, evidence of a man always prepared for the unexpected.
At his waist, a well-worn gun belt carried two finely crafted revolvers, their intricate engravings marking them as weapons of both deadly efficiency and masterful artistry. The twin holsters were positioned for a quick draw, their grips wrapped in aged leather, molded to fit his hands through years of use. A larger firearm rested against his back, secured by a reinforced strap, a heavy-duty weapon meant for more formidable foes.
His pants were thick, reinforced leather, segmented with protective plating at the thighs and knees, designed for both mobility and resilience. His boots, sturdy and travel-worn, were built for the treacherous terrains he had undoubtedly traversed, their heavy soles caked with dust and grime from countless miles walked in pursuit of his duty.
Everything about Amon Terrace’s uniform spoke of his experience—a man who had lived through the crucible of battle, who had adapted and endured where others had fallen.
The first-year students of Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya stood at the boundary of the dense jungle, their expressions ranging from cautious curiosity to outright apprehension. The air was thick with humidity, and the distant calls of unseen wildlife only added to their uncertainty. Before them, Deputy Headmaster Amon Terrace stood resolute, his frame clad in the reinforced leather of a seasoned Rentier Institute operative. His gaze swept over the gathered children, scrutinizing them with the practiced eye of a veteran accustomed to far graver challenges than training a group of first-years.
"Alright, listen up," Amon’s voice carried the rough edge of authority. "You’re here to learn magic, but before you can start tossing spells around, you need to understand one thing—your body is the foundation for your magic. If that foundation is weak, undisciplined, or fragile, then your magic will be, too."
A few students exchanged uncertain glances, but Amon pressed on.
"Most places won’t let you near a wand until you’re eleven. Waste of time, if you ask me. Right now, you’re raw material—potential without structure. So before you can harness magic effectively, you need to develop the strength, endurance, and control to channel it properly." He rolled his shoulders, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And that means physical conditioning."
Several students groaned, only to fall silent under Amon’s sharp stare. He jerked a thumb toward the jungle. "Your first task? A five-mile obstacle course. Climb, crawl, sprint—whatever it takes to make it through. If you don’t finish, well..." His smirk widened. "You’ll be running it again until you do."
A shrill whistle cut through the humid air. "MOVE!"
The students hesitated only a moment before scrambling forward, some sprinting, others dragging their feet before reluctantly plunging into the jungle. Soon, the air was filled with the sounds of rustling undergrowth, muffled curses, and startled yelps as they stumbled over roots and uneven terrain. Amon crossed his arms, watching them disappear into the trees, shaking his head slightly.
"They’ll learn," he muttered to himself.
An hour passed before the jungle yielded its first finisher. Harry Potter emerged from the foliage, barely winded, his untamed hair wilder than before but his expression unreadable. His breathing was steady, his posture relaxed—this was routine to him.
Amon raised an eyebrow. "That was quick."
Harry merely gave a nonchalant shrug, as though five miles of jungle terrain was no more taxing than a morning stroll. Given his upbringing, it probably wasn’t.
The next student staggered out nearly twenty minutes later, gasping for breath and covered in scrapes. One by one, the rest dragged themselves back, disheveled and exhausted. Amon handed Harry a water flask, watching the other students collapse into weary heaps.
"Lesson one’s done. Tomorrow, we do it again—faster," Amon announced, ignoring the collective groans. "Welcome to Nāga-Kṣetra Vidyalaya."