(Part 1 – Translated)
The stillness of that morning carried a different weight. It was as if the very walls of Hogwarts—always so vibrant with magic and whispers—were calling my name one last time. I got up early, even before sunrise, and watched the darkened sky through the windows of the Ravenclaw tower. The silence embraced me with unexpected nostalgia.
My trunk was already packed, but I wasn't in a hurry. Every corner of the room seemed to hold echoes of sleepless nights, books read by wandlight, frantic notes, and whispered plans shared with the handful of classmates who didn't know even half of what I did after hours.
Graduation would take place in a few hours, but for me, that collective ritual was merely symbolic. My real farewell had already begun—the moment I decided I no longer belonged to this world built on outdated rules, rigid traditions, and narrow minds. I had already gone further.
Still, I slowly descended the stairs of the tower, walking the corridors as if inside a living memory. I passed a few professors along the way—Flitwick waved at me with that ever-enthusiastic sparkle in his eyes, and McGonagall, strict as always, allowed herself the hint of a smile. But the most striking moment came in the gardens, beneath the shade of an old oak.
Dumbledore was waiting there, as if he knew I would come that way. His eyes—always penetrating and enigmatic—met mine for a long moment.
"You've learned more than any student I've had in years, Elliot," he said, his voice low and somewhat grave. "But you also carry questions this school can no longer answer."
I nodded. That was exactly it. Hogwarts had given me the tools. But it was time to build something of my own.
"I'm leaving today," I replied. "Not for the wizarding world. I need a place that is truly mine."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, as if he knew more than he let on.
"Then go. But remember: even the purest power needs boundaries. Arcadia might become your refuge—but it could just as easily become your prison, if you're not careful."
Arcadia... He said it as if he already knew the name, before I had even decided it myself.
"Good luck, Elliot Grey."
We parted with a slight nod. That was all.
I didn't attend the ceremony. I wanted no medals or hollow speeches. I chose instead to cross Hogwarts' gates at dusk, my trunk floating behind me, filled with hand-copied grimoires, personal notes, and fragments of ideas no one else had dared realize.
I had a destination now. A forgotten place, hidden somewhere in the Scottish wilds, where the ancient forest whispered in the dialects of wild magic.
The magical clearing where I settled didn't appear on any map. It was a living place, protected by a convergence of ancient enchantments—remnants of a civilization that vanished centuries before the Statute of Secrecy. There were stones covered in arcane moss, crystals buried in the ground that hummed with magical energy at sunset, and a spring whose waters shimmered with a bluish hue—saturated with natural mana.
I set up an expanded tent, reinforced with concealment charms and anti-intrusion wards. I spent weeks in this retreat, sleeping little, eating automatically, immersed in calculations, diagrams, and theory. The project I had conceived during my final years at Hogwarts was finally taking shape.
It was the first time I attempted to create a large-scale magical artifact—and not just any artifact. It would be a miniature world, isolated from real space yet fully functional. A portable universe.
I took a crystal of enchanted obsidian, shaped like a perfectly smooth egg, and began carving the first runes of spatial expansion. I worked with liquid silver ink and phoenix blood—a gift I had saved since third year, when I gained access to Professor Kettleburn's bestiary.
Containment runes, gravitational stabilization, atmospheric manipulation, and a dimensional convergence spell that took me five attempts to stabilize.
At one point, the artifact collapsed in on itself, nearly taking me with it.
That's when I realized theory wasn't enough—the Globe of Arcadia needed something more: intention. When magic is pushed to such extremes, it reacts to the soul of its creator. I had to strip away distractions, meditate for hours, and let my vision fully connect to what I wanted to build.
In the days that followed, the artifact took shape. A transparent sphere, like quartz crystal, floating a few inches above its magical base. Inside, the space slowly expanded, as if time itself were unfolding. At first, it was a gray void—a mist without form. Then, outlines began to appear: ground, terrain, sky.
The Globe of Arcadia expanded more with each spell I cast. Its internal limit was fixed at 50 square kilometers, divided into sectors I had carefully planned with meticulous calculations.
The first thing I did was stabilize the core—a small stone of liquid mana encased in ethereal gold. That ensured magical balance, preventing spatial collapse or climate instability.
I installed atmospheric runes in the four corners of the globe—invisible but incredibly powerful. Each one controlled an essential element: heat, humidity, wind circulation, and magical pressure.
After a few days, I began shaping the biomes.
In the southern portion, a green field with magical flowers resistant to all kinds of toxins.
To the north, a shadowy forest where the darkness moves with its own logic—but responds to my presence.
To the east, a deep lake with crystal-clear healing waters—fed by a spring I conjured with a three-day ritual.
And to the west… an artificial mountain made of enchanted stone, with veins of living silver, where I planned to build my castle.