The Boy Who Came Back from the Dead

There was an unwritten rule in the Soman family: don't talk to Mr. Soman unless absolutely necessary.

This sounds like some kind of aristocratic vice that would make enlightened parents frown: in order to cultivate an excellent yet ruthless heir, we must first balabala, then balaba, and then bala...

But the reality was quite different. Since the accident five years ago, the Soman family had been mostly occupied by the young master, while the old master was rarely home. The father and son were practically strangers, and their relationship could hardly be described as that of a biological father and son. If it weren't for Mrs. Soman connecting the two, the family might have fallen apart long ago.

Sigh, there's nothing we can do about it.

After all, just five years ago, a brutal massacre took place in this summer house in England. A madman obsessed with immortality, power, and authority broke in, stole a magical artifact that did not belong to him, and turned Edmund, the only son of Mr. Soman, who was stirring up trouble in Germany and was at the height of his power, into a pale and stiff corpse.

……

Now, Edmund Soman, who has been dead for five years, is pacing back and forth with great interest, his hands behind his back.

"So you've made up your mind, Mother. Are you sure you want me to go to Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang?"

The beautiful Mrs. Soman remained silent for a moment. She was indecisive by nature, and the more important the matter, the more indecisive she became.

On the contrary, she would never obediently follow the rule of "don't talk to Mr. Soman".

After all, she loved her son more than her husband.

Even though it's hard to say... he's still considered her son.

"You... ever since you woke up..."

Mrs. Soman carefully chose her words, trying her best to avoid mentioning the painful memory from the past.

"Your name has been added to the Hogwarts new student list. Although I still want you to study at Durmstrang, your father... your father may find it difficult to withstand the pressure from that person."

The mother spoke weakly, as if swallowing some kind of humiliation. Where did the pressure come from? Ironically, the pressure almost came from her own family.

But for Mrs. Soman, that man was more like a scar than a powerful patron. Although she was fortunate enough to meet a husband who truly loved her because of her background, behind this lay another sordid debt that no one dared to mention.

Fortunately, Edmund had no interest in the past. The 11-year-old gave a strange smile. He exclaimed childishly, "Great!" "Edmund is free—" and then burst into laughter.

The more he acted like an eleven or twelve-year-old, spoiled boy, the more incongruous the subtle mockery on his face became. At these moments, Mrs. Soman felt a pang of panic, but the red-haired beauty was already used to this kind of life; she had long since pondered the question:

If, I mean if,

Of the creature standing before you, only half out of ten can be considered your son.

...Then is he still considered your son?

Without a doubt, Mrs. Soman had already made her choice.

"I will write back to... to Albus Dumbledore," his mother murmured. "And you, Ed, you must promise me that you will never hurt your classmates unless they intend to harm you. You must be a good, obedient person."

It was something that was roughly Edmund Soman, or at least something that was dominated by her son's memories. He looked up at his mother, smiled, and obediently replied, "Okay."

Three days later, in August 1971, in Diagon Alley, England.

Ollivander's Wand Shop was a mess, with more than half of the wand cases blackened by smoke. A figure slightly taller than his peers, dressed in a very presentable new wizard's robe, impatiently urged Mr. Ollivander on.

"You know very well that your behavior makes you more like a rambling recorder, a charlatan who believes in divination and is confused than a reliable craftsman."

You know this will make your guests both respectful and suspicious of you, and thus hesitant to say much, only wasting time trying everything out of exhaustive methods—and that's the effect you want, isn't it?

Edmund Soman said rudely, sighing as he picked up another wand as a candidate. Ten and a quarter inches, willow wood, a fine wand for casting spells.

The poor little thing had barely been held in Edmund's hand when it began to spew out puffs of damp, black mist from the tip of its staff, causing Mr. Ollivander to sneeze and give Edmund a reproachful glare.

"How unbelievable! You're even more picky than your mouth!"

The old cane maker spoke these words with rare force, then sighed softly, his tone returning to gentleness.

"Take a look at this one, Mr. Soman. I must admit you're practically draining my inventory. What a picky young man, really..."

Edmund was amused by the complaint, and he smiled smugly. He then tried five or six more wands, the worst of which was made of holly wood. It was flexible and supple, but it almost set Mr. Ollivander's beard on fire.

Ollivander murmured.

"You give me a bad feeling."

Edmund clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

"I've been here for almost half an hour, sir. If you're only now telling me there's no wand that suits me, I—"

Before he could finish speaking, his mother, who had accompanied him to buy the numerous items on the school admission list, nudged him on the back. Edmund swallowed the rest of his sentence, simply staring reproachfully at the slow-moving Ollivander.

Mr. Ollivander, with his ethereal and mysterious demeanor, was quite embarrassed by the brat in front of him, but he still sighed again with good temper and reluctantly pulled out an inconspicuous fourteen-inch wand from a wand box that was very close to him.

"Cornelian, phoenix tail feathers, 14 inches... This is not an easy wand to wield. In fact, it was just a whim of mine when I was young. Ah, a strange idea, a mischievous child who has been lonely for a long time..."

Edmund felt a chill run down his spine from Ollivander's rambling tone. He found it hard to believe that someone could be even more mysterious and talkative than himself. To interrupt Ollivander's rather pointless wand introduction, Edmund reached out and pinched the wand that was supposedly "very naughty."

Then, several magical sparks burst forth, intertwining and swirling around the three wizards present, circling three times before disappearing.

Edmund then felt a weight in his pocket, as if something had been added, which made him raise an eyebrow.

Mr. Ollivander did not notice anything amiss. The old man finally breathed a sigh of relief and gave a kind smile:

"It seems this is the good partner you deserve. I must say, it is indeed very suitable for you, Mr. Soman."

Ollivander blinked, swallowing the rest of his sentence: "I really feel sorry for the young wizards who will be your classmates." Clearly, with the most mischievous staff wood paired with the most free-spirited core, heaven knows what surprises and frights this little Soman with his slight German accent will bring to his classmates.

Edmund, finally free, merely smiled upon hearing this, reverting to the polite noble young master he had been when he entered. After his mother paid, he left the wand shop, humming a strange little tune, and pulled three silver shicos from his pocket.

"Let me treat you to ice cream, Mother."

Edmund said politely.

His mother paused, then said, puzzled:

"...Ed, where did you get the money?"

Edmund chuckled twice in a low voice, but did not answer. A moment later, a gasp came from Ollivander's wand shop. Old Ollivander pushed open the door and looked at Soman and his mother, who had not gone far.

The old wizard looked extremely embarrassed, and after realizing what had happened, the embarrassment shifted from Ollivander's face to Mrs. Soman's.

"What a mischievous wand."

Edmund chuckled and cast a levitation spell, sending Silver Sickle flying toward Ollivander.

"I admit it's really suitable for me—"

"And Britain is actually more interesting than I thought, Mom. I'm even looking forward to the start of school."