Muggleborn Wizard

October 23, 2000
Lives in
London, England
Significant other
No Information

Last Active: 10 minutes ago
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These days when his parents sadly recall his birth, they shake their heads and say they should’ve known, should’ve noticed - a snowstorm in October, birds taking flight, the Black Forest glistening white and the fields of Schiltach barren and bare (...probably because there was a snowstorm in October). To be entirely truthful, Valentin’s birth was not considered a bad omen until many years later. In fact, to parents who had been trying and failing to conceive for years, he was a late October blessing, the continuation of an old family line that had inhabited their small village for centuries. They gave him a heavy name to prove it, ancestral and pulled straight from a moth-eaten family tree. But Valentin Hans Dietrich Bauer would be their ruin in ways they could never expect.

At the age of five, he returned from a lazy summer afternoon spent playing in the Black Forest, green eyes bright and wide with wonder - did they know that he’d seen a fairy, and that a proud creature that was half-man and half-horse had watched him from the trees? His father swore and his mother made a pious sign of the cross, casting her eyes towards the heavens beseechingly as if to ask for help. They were simple people - they owned a farm, they lived in their little old house, they took advantage of tourist season like everybody else, and on New Year’s Eve they wandered through the snowy village streets holding their flaming torches and singing hymns for the year to come.

They were not the kind of parents who believed in fairytales.


But some terrified part of them had to, when something inside of him awakened very suddenly indeed. It was as simple as wanting an extra slice of cake (Black Forest, of course) on his sixth birthday badly enough that it rose from its plate and crossed the room to his waiting hands. There was no pretending after that. Instead, there was a triple-locked door, and behind it, a little boy - nobody in the town was ever to know, ever to suspect, that the Bauer family had produced something so unnatural and monstrous.

For years there was no childhood. There was no laughter. There was a boy with dark circles beneath his eyes and burns on his hands whenever the magic that he couldn’t get rid of, couldn’t control, sparked out of nowhere with the force of his frustration and took a part of him with it. His mother with her now-perpetually red-rimmed eyes homeschooled him and fed him, and his father couldn’t bear the sight of him. The people of the village heard of how suddenly he’d fallen ill, and they thought it was quite a shame indeed - a strong boy like that, the only son and only child, suddenly laid low. His poor parents.

But how long could a boy who held magic beneath his ribs, in the steady thrum of his veins, heavy in his mouth, tingling in his fingertips - how long could a boy who was so full of so much keep it all contained in such a small body?

He was eleven when he finally spilled over. There was a freak snowstorm a door accidentally left slightly ajar, and a boy vanished into the swirling white eddies.


Valentin’s instinct told him to go to Berlin - big, bustling Berlin, where he had never been, because surely in a city that size someone was bound to know what he was, to be able to help him. He hitchhiked the whole way, short and grim-faced, pale but lying smoothly about going to visit a cousin for his birthday. And when he arrived? He didn’t stop to take in the sights, didn’t gawp at the giant Grecian columns that formed the facade of the Pergamonmuseum or at the sprawling grounds of the zoo, wasn’t even fazed for more than a few minutes by the sheer number of people. He simply asked for directions, in his rough rural accent, to the closest place where he was sure he would find help: a magic shop, almost empty except for a bored teenage shop assistant and a man in strange, dingy…robes…who was perusing a row of fake light-up noses.

The assistant almost laughed him out of the store - what fantastic tales! What a vivid imagination for a boy so young! But maybe Valentin was not such an unlucky omen after all, because as he sat disheartened on the curb outside, the robed man approached, told him that he could help him with his magic, that he was a wizard.

Valentin listened, greedy and hungry-eyed, as the other wizard - wizard! - painted a picture of a world that was full of colour and power. He mentioned a secretive and ancient school that was bursting at the seams with magic, his alma mater, and described it in wondrous detail. He paused, corrected himself and said it was not for “muggleborns”, and told Valentin that he ought to find a wand and some other way to learn control and mastery of his gift.

The boy nodded, already too good at lying - good, because he would surely need it - and, at the next intersection, with its crush of people scurrying to make it across the road in time, he took advantage of the confusion, slipped a small hand into the older wizard’s jacket pocket, and relieved him of his wand. Complete. A complete wizard. Now it was just a matter of getting to the school.


By the time he made it to Durmstrang, another lie was already prepared. Of course he came from a good, proper wizarding family - his name wasn’t enrolled? Didn’t they see his wand? A family heirloom! When faced with a tight-lipped, determined boy with a strange zeal in his eyes, a sycamore wand clenched tightly in his white-knuckled fist, and a convincing backstory, the authorities made the decision to believe him. Maybe a boy who burned so bright and loud already would amount to something great.

He had to work twice as hard as everyone else. During the day, to not just learn how to do magic alongside the rest of his cohort, but to stand out among them - them, all from magical stock, all privileged, all comfortable in the knowledge that they belonged. He felt the need to rise above them like a savage, dead weight in the pit of his stomach, always spurring him on. During evenings, he pored over magical history, playing catch-up on all of the things that everyone else at Durmstrang took for granted so that he could lie through his teeth and pretend to be just like them. He needed to - he needed this, the magic. When others transfigured mice he asked for a rabbit, when they had snowball fights he acquired his first pair of reading glasses and stayed up the whole night with his nose pressed against the pages of tiny-print technical spells, when they played Quidditch he threw everything into hitting the Bludger harder, more accurately, the most savagely.

He lied, he survived, eventually he thrived - and then it was all pulled out from under him at graduation, a freewill, a dead weight of what next?


In the end, it was as simple as packing up and moving back to Berlin. Berlin, now not so big and scary, not now that he had grown up bigger and scarier. But he was tired of living a seven-years-long lie, worn out from having to pretend to be the most magical - he had stolen magic from a place that didn’t think a person like him should have it, and now he wanted to be himself. Or, at the very least, to try to work out what exactly “himself” happened to be. A handy Confundus spell saw him enrolled in the Technical University of Berlin, and the next few years passed in a strange and simple, uncomplicated bliss filled with late nights poring over a different kind of magic entirely at the computer labs, Oktoberfests, the occasional night out at Berghain and cheering himself hoarse for Bayern Munich at Bundesliga finals. It was good, he thought - necessary, he decided - to experience the life as a muggle that he would’ve had if he were normal. After all, his parents had deprived him of the chance to have even something as simple as that.

But he didn’t forget the magic, and nor did it forget him. It was there on the evenings that he found himself with unexpected downtime, spent poring over textbooks of magical technology, reconciling the magical theory with the science of what he was learning by day. It was a fascination.


He decided to move to the United Kingdom not long after the completion of his degree - there was little except for history tying him to Berlin. It was a choice made partly out of the growing number of magitechnological opportunities there, but mostly because he wanted a clean slate of a place, unsullied by memories, where he didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than what he was, magical or muggle. Something in between, uniquely his.

He wondered what it would feel like to just be Valentin Bauer.

If it's true that some part of him thought that London would miraculously solve all of his problems, he was proven quite wrong by the reality of the situation. He began his plan to establish himself as a capable magitechnician - he had ambitions for a start-up, a lucrative deal, to leave his mark on the modern wizarding world, and all as a proud and unrepentant muggleborn for the first time, a reclamation of who he was. To say that discrimination followed would be an understatement, and he watches grimly and fumes as anti-muggle sentiments and hate crimes rage on, but then again, adversity has only ever been fuel for his ruthless, relentless drive - and he will not make a liar of himself again.
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