Chapter Text
Trafalgar D. Water Law is six years old when he loses his biological family.
Dressed head-to-toe in black robes, they arrive in the middle of the night, seemingly appearing out of thin air, with appallment frozen on their stony faces—a considerably weak reaction to the horrifying sight that greets them. Countless motionless bodies litter the empty streets, as though these poor people died where they stood, simultaneously struck by powerful heart attacks. Being the sole survivor of what once was a peaceful village called Flevance, located some ways off civilization and surrounded by woods too dense and confusing to traverse if you weren’t a local, Law knows this statement is not too far from the truth. The village’s remote location is the sole reason it takes them two whole days to find out about Flevance’s tragic fate—the electricity lines were cut, communication devices ceased to work, and people couldn’t call out for help. Those who tried fell one by one, twitching and struggling to inhale their final breaths as death took them by the hand.
An unnatural stillness hangs over the village, broken only by the distant creak of warped wood and the faint rustle of wind threading through abandoned alleys. The air itself feels contaminated, as if the very atmosphere has been stripped of warmth. The dark windows of empty houses gape like hollow eyes, dust gradually settling on every surface as though the town has already begun to mourn itself.
By the end of what will soon be referred to as the White Plague tragedy, Trafalgar is the only one left somewhat mobile. Even so, he still has no physical or mental strength to leave his dying sister’s bedside, to look for some unlikely wanderers and beg them for help, ask them to notify the authorities, send people to check out the source of this mysterious disease, to do anything at all—save them, save him—
He resigns himself to death the moment his younger sister’s fingers slip out of his grasp, gradually cooling in temperature, her breathing dissolving into faint, broken gasps before falling silent altogether. His cries turn into unnatural wheezes, vision blurring and turning white around the edges, matching the pale blotches ever-growing in size, greedily eating away at the expanse of Law’s tan skin. The room feels impossibly small as little Lammy departs from the world of the living, its walls pressing inward as if trying to seal off the last remnant of life within it.
He keeps glancing at the mirror as he patiently waits for the blemishes to spread and kill him, to put him out of his misery. However, Law’s inevitable demise ends up dragging out—unlike the countless dead in the streets who have died in no more than the span of a few hours due to their ugly porcelain stains, Law’s blemishes barely spread, keeping him alive. Aware enough for him to fully comprehend the untimely deaths of his family members, unable to do anything to put a stop to it, powerless against the cruel twists of fate.
One could call Law special or lucky. After all, he managed to ride out Flevance’s tragedy without getting mentally scarred for life. Most important of all, he survived precisely because of that “special” part of him, whereas his fellow ordinary villagers were unable to.
When They begin roaming the eerie roads in organized groups of five, searching for survivors and intent on disposing of them, Law has enough common sense to escape the house through the back entrance and doesn’t dare to breathe until he’s inches away from the looming woods ahead. Thankfully, they fail to notice the short, scrawny kid cloaked in the elongated shadows cast by the tall pines. Law stifles his cries, terrified of the creepy, shapeless trees, but even more so of the cloaked figures, and it is more than enough for him to make a run for it, fearing the outcome should they find him. At that point, he knows that death is inevitable, but its concept is frightening nonetheless. The thoughts of his parents and Lammy waiting for him on the other side do nothing to soothe the towering fears pressing against his chest.
When he runs, tripping over stubborn roots, ripping his thin clothes in the process, his only thought is that he wants to live.
He makes noise, loud enough to rouse their suspicion. One of the figures separates from the group to check its source, moving toward Law’s home. The boy’s feet don’t carry him far or fast enough when the stranger appears before him, as if the space between them simply folds shut, successfully cutting off his only escape route. Thick, thorny bushes grow alongside the trail, tangled and unyielding, impossible to pass through. Law freezes, not daring to utter a single word.
The figure slowly approaches him, their face hidden in the inky shadow of a lowered hood. It towers over Law, swallowing the faint strip of moonlight seeping through the thick foliage overhead. When the cloaked figure steps even closer, Law takes a cautious step back, swallowing hard to steady the rising tremors. The movement makes his heartbeat thunder in his ears so loudly he fears it will split his skull open.
“What are you doing here? Are you a survivor from the village? Are there any more of you?” the figure demands. Law can make out the faint outlines of raised scars across the man’s face. His voice is rough. Law immediately distrusts him.
He says nothing, warily eyeing the stranger’s hand clutching some sort of object—a stick of sorts, sleek and black, rising with every inch of space closed between them. The stranger points it right between Law’s eyes, and although the boy knows that a stick cannot hurt him, the gesture alone makes him freeze, eyes widening in fright. His fight-or-flight instincts spiral into chaos when the stranger tells him, “It’s okay, it will only sting for a little bit.” All he wants is to scream, kick, and run—
Behind the figure, Law spots another tall silhouette approaching through the trees, moving with a quiet urgency. He gapes, startled to realize he cannot hear anything that would indicate someone drawing near, no crunch of leaves, nor snapping of twigs. The forest remains unnaturally silent. The boy forces himself to stay still, pretending not to notice, and it seems his captor has not noticed either.
If this new arrival means salvation, then Law is willing to bet everything on it.
He blanches when the cloaked figure sharply flicks the wrist holding the stick-like object, but before it can do anything, the “stick” is knocked clean out of his hand, spinning into the darkness. The attacker collapses to the ground as if every joint has been locked in place, arms pinned rigidly to his sides, glassy eyes wide and unblinking. Strangely, he does not scream or struggle.
Law stumbles backward, pressing himself hard against one of the trees. “What did you do to him?!” he gasps, breath ragged, not only from fear, but from the constant, unstable spiking of his body temperature and the strange, lingering relief of not being dead yet. He does not feel pity for the man who clearly had bad intentions, but the scene is still too unreal to process.
The newcomer who steps out of the shadows is twice the size of the immobilized figure lying on the forest floor. Beneath the lowered hood, Law catches sight of pale strands of hair, gleaming eyes, and lips painted a bright shade of red.
The man corners Law against the oak tree. After a tense pause, he presses a finger to his own lips, signaling for silence.
Needless to say, it does not sit well with the confused child. “What’s going on!?” Law yells, panic beginning to crack through his exhausted voice. The man clicks his tongue in irritation, casting a brief glance back toward the village. He rubs tiredly at the bridge of his nose. Before Law can ask anything further, he notices the man flick his wrist. The thin object—clearly not a stick—vanishes into the feathered sleeve of his cloak.
Suddenly, Law’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth. When he tries to speak again, no sound comes out, replaced by useless gaping.
Fear spikes sharply through him. He claws at his throat, stumbling backward, just as he notices the distant, faint blue lights, fast approaching in his periphery. A hand connects with the back of his neck.
The world tilts violently. Law barely has time to register the brief flash of red and the faint sparks scattering across his sight before everything goes dark, and he slips into unconsciousness.
Law wakes up cold and sore.
He is still lying on the forest floor, in the same place where he had been knocked unconscious. The autumn chill greedily seeps into his small, exhausted body, pushing out the last lingering traces of warmth. Damp earth clings to his clothes, the fallen leaves sticking to his splotchy skin, brittle and sharp against the ache in his limbs.
The petrified man is gone.
However, the fair-haired stranger remains, seated on a moss-covered tree stump, a lit cigarette dangling from his parted lips. He idly toys with something shiny wrapped in dirty rags. Even in the dim light filtering through the trees, Law can tell the man is contemplative. Unlike the cloaked figure who had chased him through the woods, this one carries no obvious malice. He is visibly tired, irritated in a quiet, restrained way, and he immediately notices when Law stirs.
“I know that you’re uninjured, kid. You need to get up so we can get a move on,” the man says, exhaling putrid smoke as he rises to his feet. His right leg shakes under the strain, then gives out slightly beneath him. He nearly trips, stumbling awkwardly before catching himself against the stump. The moment breaks his attempt at intimidation, as Law stares, a deep frown forming between his brows.
The stranger clears his throat and tries to, poorly, recover his composure.
“Get a move on where?” Law snaps, the weight of the last two days finally crashing down on him. Corpses still litter his birthplace. His family is gone. The village that once felt safe is now nothing but ruin. With difficulty, he rises. “I don’t even know who you are. I’m not going anywhere with you,” he states, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.
The man sighs, rubbing his face in visible frustration. Children are… not his forte, especially the less cooperative kind. He steps closer to Law, briefly considering whether it would simply be easier to grab the brat by the wrist and Disapparate them both out of there before any further trouble arrives.
“Now is really not the right time for this whole ‘my parents told me not to go anywhere with strangers’ shtick, child,” he groans, impatience cutting through the heavy exhaustion. “We have no time to waste—more will come. More will want to eradicate you.”
The pretty piece of jewelry repulses Law to the depths of his soul despite its eye-catching appearance. It is round, with a large amber-colored stone set in its center. Strange runes circle it in deliberate patterns, carved with obsessive precision. Law does not dare to touch it, and the stranger seems relieved that he does not.
“This,” he says, giving the wretched thing a shake, “is a hexed amulet that was dropped into Flevance’s water supply. It’s the sole reason everyone is dead. It’s been designed to kill Muggles—sorry, normal people. This kind of magic is banned under every known law, but its practitioners still exist. They experiment regardless. Your town just happened to be their latest target. For that…” His jaw tightens. “I am truly sorry, kid.”
The man looks like he means it. His gaze lingers on the amulet with open disgust before he carefully covers it again, as though even seeing it for too long leaves him unsettled. “It creates a high-concentration magical field, up to five kilometers in radius. Think of it like radiation from uranium. Muggle devices shut down because of its density, and the people…” His voice trails off for a moment. “Well, you’ve seen what it does.”
He readjusts his grip on the wrapped object, careful not to expose it again. “They were likely trying to harvest survivors to bring them back for further study and analysis of amber-lead poisoning effects.”
Law hears only fragments of it, words like magic. Experiment. Kill. They drift through his mind without fully settling, too unreal to comprehend. What remains is far simpler: this necklace killed everyone, and he somehow did not die.
The boy’s throat tightens.
This was too much to wrap his mind around, but somehow Law is not inclined to doubt the man’s words, because he has always been… different.
He would be willing to chalk up the strange happenings around him to coincidence, but even Law could not deny them anymore, and, in truth, he was almost relieved no one else had been there to witness this disaster.
If Law wanted to be left alone, circumstances would mysteriously align so that he achieved it without effort. If he wanted to reach for something just beyond his grasp or easily escape a place, he could. It was as though the world itself subtly adjusted to accommodate his innermost wants and needs, as though objects bent to his will. He even recalls tearing frogs apart without leaving much of a mess, then putting them back together, only for them to hop away as though nothing had ever happened.
“Why did no one else make it? I can’t be the only one in the entire village who is… like this, right?” he asks.
The man pauses, visibly thinking it over, uncertainty flickering across his expression.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” he admits. “Amber lead affects those without magic, or those with extremely weak magical levels. This could mean you are the sole wizard in a village of Muggles—Flevance is widely known as a haven for retired wizards, largely populated by non-magicals—or it could mean that the other wizards in the area had their magic suppressed beforehand. Perhaps they were weak to begin with.”
“But there are more people like me somewhere out there, right?” Law asks, desperately clinging to that tidbit of information. The idea that he is alone is unbearable. He has no one left, no anchor, no place that feels like home.
The stranger gives a short, incredulous laugh. “There are plenty of us. There are even schools for young wizards to learn how to rein in their magic, and—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this right now. We really need to move. I’ve already done enough Obliviating for one evening.”
He shifts his weight, glancing toward the direction of the village with clear impatience. “Besides, I’ve got places to be in about half an hour, so unless you intend to kick me for taking your hand, I suggest you stop arguing and come with me.”
The unspoken I’ll keep you safe for now hangs heavy in the air between them. Law still does not want to trust a stranger spinning what might be tall tales, but he has no other choice. After a moment of stiff hesitation, he takes the offered hand.
The world suddenly collapses.
It is not movement so much as disintegration and reformation all at once, like what he imagines to be the sensation of being squeezed through the eye of a needle. Law has no time to scream before reality snaps back into place. When it does, he immediately doubles over and gags, the world spinning violently around him. The ground is no longer forest floor, but he hardly notices it, legs threatening to give out at a moment's notice.
Corazon exhales cigarette smoke beside him like this is perfectly normal, routine occurrence.
“Get used to it,” he dismisses. “We’re going to be doing a lot more of that ‘warping’ in the near future.”
Trafalgar grows up surrounded by various criminals and wizards of dubious backgrounds.
Corazon takes him to a mansion on the other side of the country, then straight to his older brother, whom Law despises on sight. The man is nothing short of lecherous, everything that he says seems to carry a double meaning, mocking and invasive. Still, Law decides to cooperate, even as he constantly teeters on the edge of rebellion, doing whatever he can to inconvenience the head of the Donquixote household.
There is nothing unusual about children of various ages randomly appearing at the looming, baroque-style mansion. Doflamingo likes to collect those with troubled backgrounds, adults and children alike that he intends to shape into a future army of talented dark wizards. They are all expected to serve him in their own ways, some eagerly and loyally, others more reluctantly, clinging to the hope of simply having a place to stay until they come of age.
Those belonging to the latter group are usually executed upon leaving. After all, how dare they turn their backs on the family that so generously took them in? How dare they reject the blood oath, or act as though such kindness came without obligation?
Corazon pleads Law to not get on his brother’s bad side. The twisted man has no qualms with booting out the less agreeable kids, and that’s the best-case scenario. He’d make Law disappear in the blink of an eye if he wanted to and no one would ever know what happened to him.
A few months filled with visits to countless healers—most of whom wanted nothing to do with his disease, but still performed their work after Doflamingo’s men threatened them into compliance—later, Law is introduced to Baby and Buffalo, who are to be his “playmates” in training and guides through any obstacles he might encounter in the future.
Rather unhappily, the two children cover the basics of their new family member’s heritage and give Law a rundown of the wizarding world’s rules. Law refuses further tutelage after he finally understands the meaning of the word “Mudblood”, a slur the older children never hesitate to use, most of them having come from pure-blooded families swollen with a false sense of pride and superiority. Instead, he takes up reading.
He devours everything he can find about this hidden world: cursed artifacts, hexed necklaces, rare diseases, and their various cures. His interest in dissection grows to the point where Law decides he will become a healer—or, as he still calls it, a doctor. A surgeon, to be exact. To make that dream a reality, he begins practicing magic in earnest, achieving impressive results that even Doflamingo acknowledges.
Law extensively researches the Donquixote family’s background and discovers they are part of one of the Seven Ancient Wizard Bloodlines—a fact they seem to take great pride in, judging by the abundance of their family sigil stamped across nearly every surface. He also begins quietly observing Doflamingo’s private “conferences,” quickly piecing together what they truly are: the head of the family is running something far more illegal than he publicly admits.
“Joker” is a name whispered in the underground, one that strikes fear into lesser dark wizards, so Law decides to use it to his advantage, and find the bastard who was careless enough to lose his cursed amulet, foolish enough to believe there would be no consequences.
Law knows that whoever did this sleeps peacefully at night. After all, the reports on Flevance’s tragedy and the White Plague are grim—the Daily Prophet has reported no survivors.
Corazon successfully pulled off a staged attack, stole the amulet for Doflamingo to pawn off, and then rewrote the memories of those who had caught a glimpse of Law during their clash.
Trafalgar D. Water Law died at the age of six. Nowadays, he is just Law. Sometimes Trafalgar, depending on his mood and the people he is speaking to.
The more time Law spends in Mariejois, the remote resort town housing the Donquixote family’s main base, the more warped he becomes, his sense of morality bending with every “mission” Corazon or Doflamingo take him on. Doflamingo’s most trusted men mercilessly crush any lingering hesitation he shows toward morally questionable tasks, sometimes threatening him outright. Law feels bad for the men they “visit,” but he feels worse for himself whenever he thinks about Doflamingo’s punishments—the “timeout room,” the quiet implication of what disobedience costs—and so he complies, losing empathy in the process.
When Doflamingo tortures one of his men for disobeying direct orders and makes Law watch, he feels no pity, no shock, only a dull, distant awareness of screaming and movement. By his side, Baby even begins to laugh, mocking the man’s contorted expressions as though they are nothing more than entertainment.
Corazon, sheet-white and visibly shaken by what he has seen, takes him back to his room afterward. He sits Law down on the wide bed and informs him that, starting September 1st, he will attend a wizarding school alongside his peers.
Law only nods, keeping his expression carefully neutral, though something in him tightens at the word school—not fear, but something closer to anticipation. Finally, a place outside Doflamingo’s reach. Finally, a space where things might be different.
As if reading his thoughts, Corazon adds that it is still a school, and that Hogwarts’ current headmaster does not tolerate casual violence. Law is to keep a low profile, lest he compromise Corazon’s cover—under Doflamingo’s orders, he has been posing as a teacher for eight years, gathering intel, monitoring the Donquixote orphans, and ensuring they behave just enough not to attract suspicion.
Doflamingo does not care how well they perform there, who they befriend, or what they do at Hogwarts, so long as it does not threaten the family, and no one gets any “funny ideas.”
Law goes to sleep with a faint hope flickering in his chest. None of Doflamingo’s men will ever be able to take that small ray away, no matter the threats of violence or the brutal punishments.
Lao G is an old fart with poor hearing and even poorer eyesight, posing as their babysitter for the day only because he knows more than half the people working in Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. It is not difficult for Law and his companions to orchestrate a brief escape.
Buffalo threatens to tell on him—he never fails to bring up the blood oath nonsense whenever Law shows even the slightest hint of rebellion—but Law shuts that greedy mouth with two-scoop raspberry ice cream, and settles into the bustle of the colorful alley, immediately beelining for the nearest apothecary.
He does not care that Baby and Buffalo keep complaining behind him, whining for him to hurry up so they can visit more “interesting” places before Lao G inevitably notices their absence. Who cares about dried bat turds anyway? Still, they never actually leave his side.
Law has grown used to having these two idiots for lackeys, people who are easy to steer and manipulate, easy to blame when things go wrong. Whenever they get caught, he simply tells Doflamingo’s men that everyone was at fault and that they are just foolish children who did not know any better. Placing the blame on Baby is almost effortless, as she is far too scared of Law to contradict him, and too trusting to suspect him of anything worse, while Buffalo does not mind helping out so long as he gets something out of it.
Just to stop their incessant whining, Law purchases the ingredients a tad faster than he normally would, and they barrel through the front door, with Buffalo ramming straight into some poor kid in the process. He does not apologize—Law doubts he even noticed the boy, let alone felt the collision. Baby simply hops over the child’s thin legs, while Law receives the brunt of the kid's older brother’s wrath, the teen angrily shouting at him to watch where he is going, glaring through a thick curtain of dark, curly hair.
The younger boy quickly insists that he is fine, brushing dust off his shorts and trying to smooth over the situation, not noticing the faint streaks of blood on his palms that only smear further as he wipes at his clothes.
Law watches as the older boy carefully takes his brother by the less injured hand, guiding him through the thick crowd of young witches, wizards, and their parents happily purchasing school supplies. The sight unsettles Law in a quiet, unfamiliar way. So he forces his attention elsewhere, letting his gaze drift over the surrounding shops simply to occupy himself, pointedly ignoring the fact that he has just been separated from his own “family.”
By the end of the day, Law feels content, satisfied with his purchases and having bought far more than what was listed on his acceptance letter. He is sitting in his cramped room, reading a book on rare potions when Corazon comes in to check on him. Law does not set the book down, preferring to maintain appearances, but he still listens as Corazon rambles about Law’s new books and having been forced to read similar ones in the past, eventually having grown to like some of the authors. Their names mean nothing to Law, but so far he is enjoying the thick tome, and he has no doubt the rest will be just as good.
Law likes Corazon’s wit because the man always manages to charm the guards patrolling the halls, usually stationed just outside Law’s door. The fair-haired man is a master of silence spells, Muffliato being his favorite. Corazon is not cruel or irritating like Trebol or Vergo, he is simple, easygoing, and while Law enjoys provoking him, the man’s presence also provides a sense of comfort Law has long since forgotten.
Reluctantly, Law shows him his wand—hawthorn, with unicorn hair in its core—and sighs in resignation when Corazon becomes far too excited. He attempts to cast a spell with it and promptly sets his own shoulder on fire in the process. The wand makes a graceful arc through the air before landing neatly in Law’s lap, as though it already knows who its rightful owner is. The absurdity of Corazon flailing to extinguish the blue flames, combined with his unusually particular wand, makes Law burst out laughing for what feels like the first time in years.
He nearly doubles over, cackling, tears springing to his eyes. For a moment, he cannot stop, nor does he not want to. He wants to hold onto this feeling, this lightness, while Corazon falls silent, watching him with wide-eyed surprise. Law would refuse to smile, let alone laugh, so this is… unexpected.
The sight makes Corazon smirk, fond.
This is exactly what he wants for Law. He hopes the boy will get to experience many more moments like this at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Law begins making enemies on his train trip to school.
He is forced to board the Hogwarts Express with Bellamy and his lackeys, then share a compartment per Doflamingo’s orders—“the boss” wants the other students to know exactly who they will be dealing with. Teenagers avoid meeting Law’s eyes when he decided to stretch his legs, going for a little walk, and even the kind lunch lady who visits midway through the journey hesitates before stepping inside. Law stares at the unfamiliar sweets and refuses to buy anything, suddenly aware of the suspicious movements inside some of the boxes wrapped in colorful foil. Buffalo says, “Don’t mind if I do,” and buys a bit of everything, nearly getting sick when the train hits turbulence.
Pissed off beyond belief, Bellamy unceremoniously banishes the newcomers to a different compartment that certainly was not empty before, but who is Law to question Bellamy’s temper, knowing perfectly well the other boy would be more than capable of clearing out a carriage without any backup.
For that, they get into trouble with an irritated prefect already dressed in his school uniform. Law tries very hard to remember which house had the color yellow and comes up blank. He simply gestures toward Bellamy’s group instead, rolling his eyes at the teen's unnecessary theatrics. The prefect calls him rude, but thanks him for cooperating anyway, while Buffalo is far too nauseated to ask for any bribes, a hand clutching his mouth.
Either way, Law’s “snitching” goes unnoticed, and the hex battle breaking out in the corridor is stopped before it can escalate. In the end, it works out. Not that he cares in the slightest.
It takes just a few hours for his reputation to go completely to shit, and the moment the first-years board the small boats meant to carry them across the vast lake toward the imposing castle, Law can already hear poisonous whispers behind his back, heated discussions about his supposed ties to the troublemakers. It is annoying, to say the least, souring his mood to the point where the ride is no longer enjoyable. Even the initial excitement at seeing the self-propelled boats Corazon had mentioned does nothing to lift his spirits. Instead, he curls into his seat, tries to warm his palms, fails, and focuses on Baby’s awe to drown out the toxic whispers around him.
While he waits in line to place the ragged Sorting Hat upon his head—the object that will decide his future—he nearly decks some kid standing to his right. The boy is spreading lies about him, Baby, and Buffalo in a low but urgent whisper: I heard they’re Bellamy’s adoptive siblings. They’re evil to the bone. That short kid threatened me just for being in his way. Look at them—they’re twisted. Bellamy broke my brother’s nose last year for no reason at all, and they’ll probably do worse if you even glance at them. Mark my words, they’ll end up in Slytherin.
Law forces himself to look away, focusing instead on the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, tilting his head as he studies the illusion of the night sky stretched above them. From the teachers’ table, Corazon catches his wandering gaze and discreetly gives him a thumbs-up. Law acknowledges it with a small, stiff nod.
If he were a believer, he would thank whatever higher power exists for his surname. Baby and Buffalo are both bound to “Donquixote,” immediately singling them out the moment their names are called. Both are sorted into Slytherin—Bellamy’s house—without hesitation.
The lying kid beside him falls silent in stunned disbelief the moment Law’s name is called to the platform. Law flips him off before stepping forward and placing the Sorting Hat on his head, grateful for the brief, blissful silence it provides.
He is a hat stall.
It whispers confusing sentences into Law’s ears, weighing him, turning his fate over in its proverbial hands. “You’re brave and bold, yet you rarely take risks, often choosing the safe, secure route… No, this lifestyle is not truly meant for you. You believe in hard work, effort, and helping those in need, though you live in a state of denial… But do you truly think effort outweighs raw talent and luck? You are clever—clever beyond your years—and you know it. You nurture an ever-present thirst for knowledge to achieve your goals, which brings me to your more ambitious side. You have no qualms about using others for your gain, and have little regard for those who stand in your way. It would be interesting to see your growth in Slytherin—the house of the cunning.”
The final statement lands like a verdict to Law’s ears, as though the Hat is already sealing him into a life he has not chosen, binding him again after he has only just begun to feel free. He does not want Slytherin. He does not want its colors on his robes. He does not want Bellamy controlling the next five years of what is supposed to be his freedom—something Doflamingo has “graciously” granted him for being a good brat who knows his place.
He is not here to make friends, but he is not here to make enemies with the entire school either. While he has grown used to being hated and hating in return, the idea of being alone—adrift without anything to hold onto, without a hand to steady him if he ever slips—sits heavier than he expects.
He gains nothing from Slytherin, no safety, no real connection, only a repetition of his life in Mariejois, with Doflamingo’s shadow pressing down from afar and Bellamy ready to report every mistake. Consequences wait for him the moment he returns to that accursed mansion.
A hat has no place to tell him how to live his life, much less judge his fate like this.
“I don’t want to be in Slytherin,” Law mumbles, hearing a quizzical hum in response. “Put me anywhere, I don’t care, just not Slytherin.”
“Ah,” the Hat replies. “But you could grow so much more there. It is the fastest way for you to reach your innermost goals, and deep down, you know it is true.”
“I don’t care,” Law nearly begs. Please. Anywhere but there. “I’d rather drop out right now than end up in that place.”
“You have made your resolve very clear,” the Hat says after what feels like hours. The silence stretches so long Law almost thinks it has abandoned him entirely. “Very well then. I shall look forward to witnessing your endless pursuit of knowledge in—” The fabric stretches as the Hat opens its formless mouth, projecting his fate across the Great Hall. “RAVENCLAW!”
The table adorned in blue and bronze bursts into polite applause as Law slides off the three-legged stool on unsteady legs, still reeling from the experience. He does not need to turn around to feel the Donquixote family’s stunned silence behind him, almost offended.
As the older students make space for him to sit, their smiles slightly forced, Law feels a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest, as if he has just proved something to everyone without saying a word.
Corazon is clapping enthusiastically, his chair nearly toppling over. When their eyes meet, he waves at Law. Law hesitates, then shyly returns the gesture, flushing slightly. Corazon mouths, I’m proud of you, before finally righting his chair under the bemused stares of the other professors and turning back to the rest of the sorting with an almost bored expression.
Law, for his part, just wants this to be over.
He is weak with hunger, having spent the entire day fighting it down. It is not as though Doflamingo’s maids ever bothered packing them lunches.
His teachers praise his seemingly bottomless innate talent and practically place him on a pedestal, often asking him to demonstrate how to properly charm objects, brew potions, and perform other basic spells. Law is well aware that the other students resent him for it. They call him a know-it-all behind his back whenever he answers correctly or completes even the smallest tasks without error.
The only class he struggles with is the compulsory flying lessons. The broom stubbornly refuses to obey him, no matter how authoritative or confident he tries to sound while ordering it into his open palm. The more it resists, the more frustrated he becomes—and that alone is enough to make him a target for teasing from the magical world’s equivalent of jocks. They boast loudly about securing spots on their house Quidditch teams the following year, as if it is already guaranteed. Law, for his part, sees no appeal in hurtling through the air on unstable broomsticks, chasing balls through hoops while constantly at risk of being knocked unconscious by a Bludger. He has no intention of associating himself with such a rough, senseless sport.
A few months into the school year, the Slytherins finally take notice of Law’s detached, unyielding demeanor and begin searching for flaws, eventually settling on the most obvious one.
While Law does not make friends, he is not entirely alone. Corazon—who insists on being called Professor Donquixote or Rocinante in public, though he tolerates the occasional Mr. Cora—makes a consistent effort to bring Law outside on weekends for fresh air and breakfast. He shows him around the school grounds, and they often end up sitting on a stone bench tucked away from the castle, shaded by overgrown trees. Law enjoys the quiet there. He feeds the creatures lurking beneath the lake’s dark surface while Corazon skips stones across the water, occasionally asking about his studies.
On days when Corazon is too busy with his teaching duties, he still finds time to stop by the library. They do not always speak. More often than not, Corazon simply sits nearby, reading through books in search of ways to make his lessons more engaging, content to share the silence with him.
They get spotted in the hallway when Corazon hands Law a bundle of potion ingredients he had asked for, and it goes downhill from there.
Law is waiting for his Charms class when a group of boys Buffalo often hangs around with roughly shoulder past him, making him stumble forward and nearly drop his schoolbag. He considers letting it go—class is about to start, and he has no interest in causing a scene—but the moment passes when the biggest, dumbest-looking one of the group saunters back up to him and seals his own fate.
“What are you gonna do about it?” the boy sneers. “Run to that freakshow Rocinante like the good little pet you are and tell on us?”
Law’s wand is in his hand before the boy can shove him again.
In a blind rage, he casts the first spell that comes to mind, intent on forcing the words back down the other’s throat. Horrified screams erupt in the hallway as Law watches with a sick fascination the boy’s face flush an ugly purple before draining into a sickly parchment white. Angry rashes bloom across his skin, rapidly spreading and swelling as pain overtakes him.
Afterward, no one dares come within a three-meter radius of him.
Law calmly approaches the moaning boy, his face now ugly and twisted, skin torn raw from his own frantic scratching—it is entirely his own fault for not staying still and riding out the hex. Without hesitation, Law lifts his foot and drives it straight into the boy’s solar plexus, knocking the remains of shuddering breath from his contracting lungs.
If he were even remotely serious, Law would grind his heel into the bully’s torso until the defiance drained out of him, until he was reduced to a sobbing, begging mess—but the morbid thought passes quickly. This is a school.
He pulls his leg back.
Instead, he raises his wand, face stone-like and eyes cold as he quietly warns, “Don’t you ever touch me again. Do I make myself clear?”
The mess on the floor whimpers pathetically. Law is tempted to cast another spell, still furious that the other dared bring Corazon into this, but a firm hand closes around his wrist. He does not need to turn to know it's the Charms professor.
Ms. Tashigi wastes no time. She orders a group of Slytherins to take their injured housemate to the healing ward immediately, then instructs the rest of the students to return to the classroom and wait for her. Her voice leaves no room for argument.
She has to deal with Law’s punishment first.
At the word punishment, Law knows he has royally fucked up. His gaze snaps toward the lingering Ravenclaw students, vicious and accusatory, silently urging them to speak up, to tell her that it was the Slytherin who provoked him and that he only drew his wand in self-defense.
No one does.
His offense is considered severe and costs him a significant number of house points, but Law manages to get away with only a few weeks of detention and three essays. If Tashigi had not intervened when she did, that Slytherin boy might have ended up dead.
Not that Law particularly cares. If anything, he is quietly disappointed that he did not get to deal more damage. His tormentor gets away with skipping homework by claiming phantom pains, while Law is the one who gets stuck with polishing house trophies and Quidditch cups dating back to the 1800s. With every engraved nameplate that he is forced to scrub, his dislike for the sport only grows.
People begin avoiding him as though he is diseased, while whispers follow him through the corridors, discussing his offense, his temper, violence, and lack of restraint. They call him insane for what he did, resent him for selfishly dragging Ravenclaw down in the house rankings. At least Doflamingo does not send him a howler—that would have only solidified his reputation as misplaced Slytherin scum.
Corazon is very disappointed in him, but once he hears the full story from Law's perspective, he relents, almost understanding, touched by the boy's protectiveness. He still reminds Law not to endanger other students, but the warning doesn't stick. Right after Easter, Trafalgar poisons his Potions partner’s cauldron for talking smack about Professor Rocinante—the weird, eccentric man who dresses like a Muggle and is widely assumed to be a half-giant, given his absurd height.
Law does not even try to hide it.
When they rush the gagging student to the infirmary, he calmly fesses up to his crime.
This earns him a serious one-on-one talk with Hogwarts’ headmaster, Edward Newgate. The man does not yell or threaten the young first-year in any way, but he makes his disappointment clear, expressing concern over Law’s socially questionable behavior. After all, Hogwarts prides itself on being a welcoming, friendly environment.
Law merely rolls his eyes at the reprimand at first, unimpressed by the old man’s measured tone—but the moment Rocinante gets brought into the conversation, his posture shifts. His shoulders sag once Newgate mentions that Corazon is not handling Law’s behavior well, and that he has been dealing with a flood of angry letters from the parents of injured students. Law averts his gaze, a rare flicker of shame settling in his chest.
When he finally looks up and meets the headmaster’s dark eyes, his voice is steady. “I apologize. I won’t do it again.”
This time, he means it.
Newgate seems to sense the sincerity behind the words. Law notices the faintest upward twitch of the man’s massive mustache, just enough to suggest a smile, an unspoken acknowledgment that they have reached an understanding.
Law’s first year ends with him at the top of his entire year, grade-wise. While Ravenclaw fails to win the House Cup, no one blames him too much for it. Most of his peers are simply relieved that it went to the ecstatic Hufflepuffs that managed to snatch it from Slytherin by a mere three points.
Corazon still has work to finish but comes to see him off at Hogsmeade Station regardless, reminding Law to mind his tone around Vergo, who is supposed to pick them up at King’s Cross. Then he hands Law his lunch and presses a small box into his hands.
“Promise to only open it once you’re fully settled in your compartment, alright?” he requests.
At Law’s stiff nod, he ruffles the boy’s fluffy hair, making him squawk indignantly. His cheeks grow uncomfortably warm when he notices a few students staring their way, eyebrows raised, clearly surprised to see the school’s supposed menace treated so familiarly by a teacher. Law shoots them a glare and swats at Corazon’s broad hand.
“Not in public,” he hisses, flushing even more when the man laughs at his weak attempt at a threat. Quieter, he adds, “I promise.”
Corazon smiles and nods, satisfied.
Law fidgets with the gift, holding it close to his chest. It is light, wrapped poorly in brown paper and tied together with a simple white string. He lingers awkwardly, reluctant to part with Rocinante just yet, dreading the return to Mariejois, to Doflamingo’s mansion, and the long wait for Corazon to come back to a place Law still refuses to call home.
Yet Corazon does not leave, which confuses Law, because they have already said their goodbyes. There is no reason for him to stay while Law drags his suitcase toward the towering red train, its engine already hissing and rumbling, a clear signal for the remaining students to board.
Corazon places his hands on his hips, straightening up to tower over the students, then nudges Law lightly with the tip of his boot.
“Alright then, now that that’s settled, be on your way. Go!” he shooes him forward with both hands. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Law. Try not to burn down the mansion by then.”
“We’ll see about that,” Law huffs, lightly kicking at Corazon’s leg before finally boarding the Express, sticking out his tongue at the man lingering on the platform. He is only a little upset about the abrupt dismissal, pride bruised at being treated like a small child, but who is he to question Rocinante’s decisions?
Thanks to his less-than-ideal reputation, Law manages to secure an entire compartment all to himself. He settles by the window, leaning against it as the train begins to move. The early summer sun cuts through the glass in blinding rays, and he squints as he watches Rocinante gradually turn into a tall silhouette, still waving without pause until the train pulls too far away to make out his figure properly. Seeing him like family would. It makes something unfamiliar tighten uncomfortably in Law’s chest.
To distract himself from the odd feeling, Law looks down at the package resting on his lap. He loosens the string, carefully peeling away the crumpled wrapping paper, and opens the small green box inside.
In it, he finds a white, fluffy hat with dark spots along its sides.
Law’s breath catches.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifts it up to inspect it up close. The fluffy texture is soft beneath his fingers, familiar in a way that makes his throat close up before he can understand why. It resembles the hat that he used to own, now too worn and ragged to be worn in public, its fur thinning and falling out in patches. The difference is in the shape, though: this one is styled like a cap.
Law hardly hesitates before placing it on his head, turning toward the window to inspect his misty reflection in the glass. It fits perfectly, as though tailored for him specifically.
Corazon gifted him a hat.
Feeling as though he is lost in a pleasant dream, Law unfolds the note that was placed beneath the present, eyes flying over the neatly woven words, hands clenching and unclenching on the parchment. The message is rather lengthy. Law places the parchment aside upon reaching the most important, life-changing sentences of Corazon’s heartwarming letter.
“I’ll pick you up from the mansion once I finally purchase the house in Dressrosa and move my office there. It’ll be just you and me, Law.”
Law curls up on the plush bench and breathes for what seems to be the first time in years, unwilling to believe his luck just yet.
Corazon has set them free.
Dressrosa is a port city of flourish and entertainment, but their house is located far from the constant noise and glamour, in a neighborhood filled with more than enough wizard families living in disguise. Everyone seems kind, open, and accepting. Corazon ends up loving it even more than Law does, still not quite accustomed to the normalcy of it all, to the sudden, drastic change of scenery.
He does not miss the comfort of Doflamingo’s blasted mansion, far more content with the small suburban house instead—sunflowers growing in the backyard, lawns smelling of dry grass and summer heat. He helps Corazon around the house in a Muggle fashion, because his “guardian” insists on keeping a low profile, and using magic for simple, mundane tasks would be the opposite of that. For the first time, Law actually feels his age, no longer forced into places he despises or made to do things against his will.
Corazon has fully convinced his brother to let them go, lying through his teeth about Law’s supposed instability and problematic behavior affecting his magic. He promises Doflamingo that he will break down the boy’s rebellious spirit and return him a fully formed weapon, ready to obey Joker’s orders on command. Doflamingo, for his part, shows little interest in Law’s current potential, but considers the boy worth the trouble anyway—an acceptable investment for a loyal follower in the making.
Without much deliberation, he agrees to the arrangement: Corazon may keep Law in relative freedom, so long as the boy returns to Mariejois at least three times a year for the larger “family events.” In exchange, he expects Rocinante to visit more frequently, a condition that Corazon accepts without hesitation.
He thinks only of Law’s childhood, of what the boy was robbed of in Flevance—the normal life is something Law was never given the chance to have.
Their next-door neighbors are kind and helpful in every way imaginable. Law somehow ends up roped into weekly dinners at the Dolds’—probably a good thing, since Corazon is an awful cook at best and they can only handle so many Chinese takeaways—and gradually becomes an unlikely friend with the Dolds’ girls. Viola is a few years older than him and studies at a different wizarding school called Beauxbatons, located somewhere in Europe. While she and Law are not especially close, there is at least no hostility between them, and their conversations are generally fine despite the occasional awkward silence. Viola’s presence does not necessarily make Law any more sociable, but it does at least begin to convince him that not all children automatically view him as a threat.
Her niece Rebecca is three years younger than Law and the original reason why he and Viola ever started speaking in the first place. The pink-haired girl is bubbly and relentlessly curious, often ending up in unsafe situations and forcing her elders to look out for her—in Law's case, unwillingly.
The moment Rebecca slipped from a tree branch dividing their backyards and Law dove to catch her at the same time as Viola, his fate was effectively sealed.
Rebecca often asks Law about Hogwarts and its different system. It seems that there are no houses at Beauxbatons, at least not in the same way. From the sound of it, the place seems more like a Muggle boarding school than a magical one—she always insists that she will attend Hogwarts someday, finding Beauxbatons far too boring in comparison.
After all, it does not have moving staircases, ghosts, or talking portraits demanding passwords and waiting to be tickled in just the right spots before granting entry to common rooms.
When both families—family, Law thinks, the word still unfamiliar and strangely difficult to apply, especially when Corazon is technically only his benefactor, despite acting as his legal guardian—visit Diagon Alley to purchase supplies for the new school year, Law concludes that his current life is not so terrible.
The thought gets interrupted when he notices Corazon about to lose his balance on the uneven cobblestones. Instinctively, he grabs the back of his benefactor’s extravagant feathered coat, steadying him before he can topple forward and kiss the street.