A hundred years had passed since Sagar last walked the streets of London, and the world had changed in ways both wondrous and strange. The city was now a tapestry of roaring motorcars, electric lights, and new ambitions. But beneath its modern veneer, the old magic still pulsed—hidden in alleyways, whispered in secret societies, and flickering in the eyes of those who remembered.
Sagar had seen empires rise and fall, had danced in the courts of pharaohs and kings, but the British wizarding world was a puzzle he had yet to solve. For decades, he had watched from the shadows—studying the Ministry of Magic, the families who ruled the magical aristocracy, and the curious traditions that bound them all together. He had seen the rise and fall of Grindelwald, the quiet power of Dumbledore, and the slow, inexorable tension building in the magical underworld.
Tonight, he stood before the unassuming brick façade of a building in Bloomsbury, invisible to Muggle eyes but alive with enchantment. This was the home of the Magic Circle, the most exclusive and ancient society of British wizards—a place where secrets were currency and the past was never truly past.
Sagar slipped inside, his presence cloaked in subtle spells of misdirection and charm. The antechamber was lined with portraits that watched him with wary curiosity. He moved through the halls, absorbing the atmosphere of velvet, mahogany, and whispered incantations. Wizards in midnight robes murmured over ancient tomes, while others debated the finer points of magical law beneath the flicker of floating candles.
He was greeted by a tall, silver-haired wizard whose eyes held both suspicion and respect. "We do not often receive visitors without introduction," the man said, his voice low and precise. "What brings you to the Circle?"
Sagar smiled, bowing with old-world grace. "Curiosity, and perhaps a desire to belong. I have traveled far, and seen much, but I find myself drawn to the traditions of this land."
The wizard studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Every tradition was once new. Come—let us see what you bring to the Circle."
Sagar was led into a chamber where the Circle's elders sat in a ring of firelight. He answered their questions with wit and candor, demonstrating spells both familiar and forgotten. He recited lines of magical theory in flawless Latin, and conjured a rose from thin air—a trick that made one of the elders gasp in recognition, though she could not say why.
By the end of the night, Sagar had woven himself into their good graces. He listened as they spoke of the old families—the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Potters—and the importance of blood and legacy. He learned of Hogwarts, the school that shaped the future of wizardkind, and the subtle rivalries that simmered beneath its hallowed halls.
When the meeting ended, Sagar lingered in the library, poring over genealogies and magical histories. He saw how power flowed through bloodlines, how the Ministry guarded its secrets, and how the world of wizards was both insular and fragile. He realized that, to truly understand this world—and to play his own game—he would need a place within it.
So Sagar began to craft a new identity. He conjured the Jadhav family into existence, weaving their story into the tapestry of magical Britain. He forged documents, enchanted portraits, and planted memories in the minds of those who mattered. The Jadhavs, he decided, were an old and respected family from the East—mysterious, wealthy, and rarely seen in public. Their ancestral home appeared overnight in the countryside, its wards ancient and unbreakable.
He created parents—kind, dignified, and conveniently absent on Ministry business. He filled the family vault at Gringotts with gold and artifacts from his own collection, ensuring no goblin would question their legitimacy. He even crafted a magical guardian, a spectral tiger that prowled the estate and answered only to the Jadhav heir.