So, Hogwarts letters delivered? Check. Exploding with internal excitement? Double-check. Next up: the legendary Diagon Alley! Even though I'd been there a few times, those trips were mostly for my parents' "adult" wizarding business, which usually involved me feigning boredom while secretly mapping out every shop. This time, though, it was our trip. School supplies! New wands! And for me, a whole new level of strategizing was about to unlock.
The manor, bless its ancient, creaking bones, was in peak pre-departure mode. It wasn't exactly chaos, more like a finely tuned, slightly frantic orchestra warming up. House-elves zipped past like tiny, overworked blurs, polishing door handles that already gleamed so brightly you could probably use them as emergency mirrors. Family heirlooms were being subtly charmed into place, probably to prevent any spontaneous combustion or accidental teleportation. And Mum, somehow, maintained an air of serene composure, like a swan gliding gracefully while, beneath the surface, her feet were paddling like a maniac on espresso.
"Lucian! Daphne! Astoria! We're leaving in ten minutes!"
Mum's voice somehow managed to cut through the elegant bustle, still remarkably composed for someone herding three potentially magical children into a public space. Astoria, my littlest sister, was already stationed by the Floo fireplace, clutching her thoroughly battered teddy bear, Mr. Snuffles. Her wide, serious eyes were probably contemplating whether the green flames would taste like broccoli or if Mr. Snuffles could be charmed into a sentient companion. She always had very profound thoughts about very odd things.
"Coming, Mother!"
Daphne called back, her voice perfectly modulated, as she drifted by, looking like she'd stepped straight out of a wizarding fashion magazine. Seriously, how did she manage that? Her robes were impossibly uncreased, her hair was exactly where it should be, and she just radiated an aura of dignified readiness. Me? I was still locked in a desperate wrestling match with a particularly stubborn shoe. It seemed to have developed an unhealthy, almost sentient attachment to my left foot, resisting every attempt at removal. I suspected a minor charm, maybe a 'Sticking Charm (Mildly Annoying),' definitely one I hadn't invested in yet.
As we waited for Mum to complete her vital pre-departure ritual – probably a last-minute inventory of the family vault or a quick check to ensure Father hadn't accidentally apparated to Tahiti again – I seized my moment. With a practiced, almost imperceptible flick of my wrist, I pulled up the System interface. It was always there, a translucent overlay visible only to me, shimmering faintly like heat haze over a summer road, or perhaps the subtle distortion caused by a particularly potent heat-related migraine. It was oddly comforting, like having a personal, incredibly efficient, and entirely silent butler who only offered advice on how to become overwhelmingly powerful.
The numbers on the screen glowed back at me:
2,500 System Points.
Still mostly untouched, a glistening treasure chest of pure potential, just waiting for my discerning eye. It was a staggering amount, a testament to six years of relentless, often bizarre, "tasks." Daily routines that would bore an ordinary wizard to tears – mastering advanced Muggle mathematics (still didn't get why, System, but okay!), memorizing every constellation in the night sky, perfecting my poker face during excruciatingly polite family dinners, even successfully sneaking second desserts without detection after the house-elves had already done their rounds – each trivial accomplishment had added to this glittering hoard. It felt less like a game and more like a secret, personalized inheritance, only better, because it came with statistics and a skill tree.
"So many options," I muttered.
The Skills tab pulsed, a beacon of tantalizing choices. My mind raced, each thought a fleeting spark igniting a new, wildly different potential path.
Do I blow all these points on something utterly wild, something that would make even the most seasoned Auror spit out their pumpkin juice?
Like 'Rubber Body (Elasticity)' – imagine, totally like Luffy from One Piece! Maximum flexibility, ultimate slapstick defense.
Or maybe 'Spiritual Pressure (Minor)' from Bleach, just enough to to make people really listen when I speak, subtly influencing them without a single spoken word.
What about 'Energy Blast (Small)' for some pure, unadulterated fun, a tiny, personal mini-Kamehameha from Dragon Ball?
Or perhaps something truly strategic, like 'Observation Haki (Basic)' to sense everything around me, or 'Instant Teleport (Short Range)' for quick escapes, much like Naruto's Body Flicker?
My mind boggled with the sheer absurdity and brilliance of it all.
I scrolled through the mental categories, my imagination running absolutely wild with all the powers I'd devoured in other lives, locked away in the memory banks of my previous existence.
Combat? I wasn't exactly planning on dueling trolls in the Hogwarts hallways just yet, but imagine having 'Super Speed (Short Burst)' to zip around the library, or 'Enhanced Strength (Temporary)' for one-punch solutions, Saitama-style from One-Punch Man, just in case a particularly stubborn door wouldn't open. Utility? Always, always a solid investment. Who wouldn't want 'Pocket Dimension (Minor)' for infinite storage, just like Doraemon's endlessly useful pouch, or 'Instant Item Summon' for anything I needed in a pinch, from a quill to a perfectly cooked steak? Knowledge? The System had already pushed me far in that direction, making me secretly smarter than most of the adults I knew. Social? Ah, the trickiest of all. 'Charisma (Minor)' or 'Lie Detection (Passive)'? Super tempting, honestly. Knowing what people really thought, or being able to subtly twist a conversation... the power! But for Hogwarts, especially first year, it felt less urgent. I already had a decent poker face and could usually tell when people were full of it. Besides, too much overt social manipulation might just make me look weird, and draw the wrong kind of attention.
Then there were the truly game-changing ones.
Could I gain something like 'Chakra Control (Basic)' to manipulate inner energy, just like Naruto and Sasuke from Naruto, making traditional wand magic feel a bit… limited?
Or an 'Eye of Insight (Beginner)' to see through illusions and secrets, like the Sharingan?
Maybe even a way to 'Summon Familiar (Random)' and get a powerful creature from another world, like a Pokémon? Oh, how I wanted a Pikachu or a Charizard to roast my marshmallows, but I knew the Ministry would probably freak out over an unregistered, fire-breathing creature that didn't come from their approved list of 'magical beasts.' Plus, the logistics of a Pokémon gym in Hogwarts seemed... complicated.
Oh, and there it was, 'Mana Affinity (Initial),' for tapping into raw magical energy, just like Arthur in The Beginning After The End. The sheer breadth of possibilities made my brain tingle.
Then, my gaze fell on one particular skill, glowing ominously at the very bottom of the seemingly endless list. It seemed to mock my meager savings.
'Arise (Summon Shadow)' – 500,000 SP.
"Are you kidding me, System?" I muttered, the perfect composure I'd cultivated for years cracking like a cheap teacup.
"Five hundred thousand?! That's... that's practically a god-tier power! I'd have to live another hundred lives just to dream of wielding Sung Jin-Woo's shadows! But do I need to kill anyone to raise them up like Death Eaters? Ahhh, I'll think about that when I actually have it."
"Anyway, System, You're a cruel, cruel mistress."
The System just pulsed, utterly unconcerned with my dramatic despair. It was probably calculating how many more daily tasks I'd need to complete to reach that staggering amount.
My eyes snapped back to the more attainable, yet equally intriguing, options. Time for a rapid-fire internal audit. What did I really need as a first-year wizard at Hogwart?
'Combat' skills, like 'Super Speed' or 'Enhanced Strength'? Nah, not really. I mean, sure, dodging a rogue bludger or punching a House-Elf (not that I would) sounds fun, but Hogwarts isn't exactly a battle royale... yet. And getting too strong too fast would draw way lots of unwanted attention.
'Social' skills like 'Charisma' or 'Lie Detection'? Super tempting, honestly. Knowing what people really thought, or being able to subtly twist a conversation... the power! But for Hogwarts, especially first year, it felt less urgent. I already had a decent poker face and could usually tell when people were full of it. Besides, too much overt social manipulation might just make me look weird, and draw the wrong kind of attention.
'Knowledge' and 'Utility' were where the real strategic gold lay for now. Hogwarts was a school, after all. Learning was key. And being able to pull off subtle, unexpected moves? Priceless.
My decision solidified. This wasn't about the biggest bang for my buck, not yet. This was about efficiency, versatility, and setting myself up for maximum, long-term advantage in this new, magical world. It was about becoming smart. And subtly prepared.
First, the cornerstone, the one I set my eye on for a long time, the absolute game-changer:
'Great Sage (Initial)' – 1800 SP.
This was the Rimuru-esque 'AI thing,' the ultimate learning hack. It promised instant understanding of anything I perceived. A glance at a book? Understood. A complex spell diagram? Analyzed. A hushed conversation across a crowded room? Processed, translated, and filed. This wasn't just smarts; this was supercharged smarts, a constant, effortless flow of insight that would elevate every other skill I might ever learn. Professor Binns wouldn't know what hit him, literally.
Then, for sheer utility and subtle mischief, something truly unique:
'Instant Object Manifestation (Minor)' – 700 SP.
This was Doraemon gadget, pure and simple. It wasn't some huge external pouch, but a subtle, internal ability, like a mental slot that could pull out small items from anywhere. With a thought, I could make a small, non-magical item I'd seen appear in my hand, usually with a faint pop or a shimmer. Forget a quill? Pop!! Need a specific biscuit? Flicker! Imagine the potential for pranks, for saving a situation (like accidentally forgetting my wand holster), or just for making life incredibly convenient. The thought of pulling a rubber chicken out of thin air during a particularly stuffy pure-blood tea party brought a slow, satisfied grin to my face. This was going to be so much fun.
Total System Points Spent: 1800 + 700 = 2500 SP.
All points gone. Zero balance. Perfect. A small, satisfied hum vibrated through me, a purely internal reaction from the System confirming the purchases.
The prompt from the System itself popped up, a small, polite notification in the corner of my vision:
'New Skills Acquired. Optimization Protocols Initiated.'
'New Environment Detected: Opportunities for Future Skill Acquisition Unlocked. Prepare for New Quests.'
It wasn't wrong. Diagon Alley was a labyrinth of arcane knowledge, strange enchantments, and enough unique personalities to practically scream 'skill point opportunity!' at every turn.
I pictured Ollivanders, the ancient wand shop. Now, with 'Great Sage (Initial),' would I instantly understand wand allegiances? Would my 'Instant Object Manifestation' help me choose the perfect wand, maybe by summoning a miniature model of a future powerful one? The mundane suddenly transformed into a dynamic canvas for strategic advancement.
I paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer weight of optimized possibility. This wasn't just about learning spells; this was about optimizing my entire existence in this new, magical world, with powers beyond what ordinary wizards even dreamed of. Every choice had consequences. Did I want to be the prodigy who aced every class without even trying, the hidden powerhouse who could subtly influence major events, or the charming rogue who could get away with absolutely anything? Why not all three, eventually? But for now, first impressions mattered. And so did making the absolute best use of these precious System Points.
Suddenly, Mum's voice, now much closer, snapped me back to the present.
"Alright, darlings! Floo powder at the ready! First stop, Gringotts. Then, robes and wands!"
Her voice was filled with that particular blend of maternal efficiency and underlying excitement that always precedes a major, world-altering event.
My heart did another little leap, a rather undignified skip. Gringotts. Wands. The true adventure was just beginning. This was going to be great.