Quirks in Wizarding World

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- Carter Residence, Chelsea -

- June 22, 1991 – Evening -

The late afternoon sun cast long golden streaks across the quiet neighborhood as Arthav and his mother walked up the familiar stone path to his grandparents' house. The day had been a whirlwind—Diagon Alley, Gringotts, the wand, the books—but now, with the excitement settling, reality was sinking in.

He was going to Hogwarts.

Emily unlocked the door with a practiced motion, stepping inside with a sigh of quiet relief. "Mum, Dad! We're back," she called out, setting down her bag near the doorway.

His grandmother, a petite woman with sharp eyes and an ever-present warmth, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Ah, finally! How was it?" she asked, her gaze flicking immediately to Arthav.

His grandfather, a tall man with a dignified air, looked up from his chair in the sitting room. "Got everything you need, lad?"

Arthav nodded, gripping the handle of his wand case a little tighter. "More than that," he admitted, still feeling the weight of Ollivander's words from earlier. "It was… amazing."

His grandmother's sharp eyes softened. "I imagine so," she said, her voice carrying the unspoken pride of someone who had always known her grandson was special. "Dinner will be ready soon. Go put your things away and wash up."

Emily ruffled Arthav's hair before making her way to the kitchen, already slipping back into the familiarity of home.

Arthav didn't waste any time. He climbed the stairs, pushing open the door to his small but cozy room. His trunk, freshly packed with school supplies, sat at the foot of his bed. He placed his wand case on the desk, running his fingers over the smooth wood for a moment before turning his attention to the stack of books beside it.

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.

His fingers traced the embossed title.

Hogwarts was still months away, but he wasn't going to wait. He needed to be prepared. Magic wasn't just something he wanted to learn—it was something he had to understand.

Flipping open the book, he scanned the first few pages. The basic spells—Lumos, Nox, Wingardium Leviosa—were laid out with simple instructions. Theory, wand movement, pronunciation. He studied each one carefully, memorizing the motions, the intent behind them.

His heart pounded with anticipation as he reached for his wand. The Bodhi wood felt cool against his skin, familiar yet foreign. He took a slow breath.

"Lumos."

Nothing.

He frowned, adjusting his grip.

"Lumos."

A faint flicker. A thread of warmth. Encouraging, but not enough.

Arthav exhaled sharply, thinking back to the way his magic had resonated with the wand in Ollivander's shop. This wasn't about force—it was about connection.

Closing his eyes, he focused. He pictured the threads of light he had seen before, imagined them responding to his call, bending to his will.

"Lumos."

This time, the tip of his wand glowed softly, a small but steady light.

A slow smile crept onto his face.

He had done it. His first spell.

Excitement surged through him, but he forced himself to stay focused. One spell wasn't enough. He needed control, consistency.

For the next hour, he practiced. Lumos. Nox. Over and over until the movement felt natural, until the magic answered him without hesitation.

When he finally set his wand down, his body was buzzing with exhaustion, but his mind raced with possibilities.

Arthav leaned back against his pillows, staring at the ceiling, the faint afterglow of magic still lingering in the air.

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After some time relaxing his mind he again sat cross-legged on his bed, his wand resting on his lap as he turned the ideas over in his mind.

Magic had a rhythm, a flow—something he had seen the moment he had touched his wand in Ollivander's shop. Now, as he practiced, he could see how the spell worked, how the magic moved.

Each time he cast Lumos, he noticed how the spell responded to the movement of his wand, how it shaped the magic in the air, guiding it like a sculptor shaping clay. When he spoke the incantation, it acted like a trigger, sending his intent rippling through the energy around him. But what caught his attention the most was the reaction of magic itself—the way it wanted to move, to respond, to obey.

He furrowed his brows, considering. If magic was already moving in the direction his intent dictated, then did he really need the external movements?

Carefully, he set his wand aside and closed his eyes. He focused on the residual energy in the air, the way it pulsed, waiting for direction. Then, without a word, he called upon it.

Lumos.

The response was immediate. A flicker of light sparked into existence, hovering unsteadily before fading. He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing in concentration. It wasn't about forcing it—it was about guiding it.

He tried again, this time paying attention to how his magic interacted with the environment. Instead of letting it disperse, he held it steady, adjusting his will, shaping it.

A small, steady glow illuminated the space before him.

His pulse quickened.

It had worked.

It wasn't just the spell—it was the understanding behind it. The wand and words weren't necessary, just tools to refine the process. Now that he grasped the core of how the magic functioned, replicating it without external guidance became easier.

Encouraged, he went further.

Wandless casting required precision, control. He took a deep breath, reaching inward. His magic wasn't separate from the world around him—it was connected, part of something greater. He reached out with that awareness, drawing his magic forth without the usual crutch of movement or incantation.

A silent Lumos.

A steady glow manifested, bright and controlled. No spoken word. No wand movement. Just pure intent.

Arthav stared at the light in fascination, watching how the strands of energy wove together, responding to his will alone.

Then, just as quickly, he let it fade.

He exhaled, mind racing.

This wasn't just a trick—it was a fundamental truth about magic.

Western magic, from what he had seen so far, relied on external control—wand movements, incantations, arithmancy—all structured methods to impose the caster's will on the environment. It was about shaping magic outside of oneself, commanding it to act according to rules set by spells and theory.

But Prana…

Prana was different.

Even with his limited exposure, he could sense the contrast. While Western magic projected will onto the external world, Prana focused inward first—achieving harmony within, aligning the caster's energy with the natural world. Through meditation, mudras, and yoga, practitioners didn't force change upon the environment but rather became one with it, allowing their intent to flow naturally, shaping reality as an extension of their balance.

Both forms of magic sought to change the world through intent, but the approach was different. One sought to command, the other to harmonize.

He flexed his fingers, considering.

If he could understand both, master both, then…

His lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

Arthav's fingers traced the spine of the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 as he flipped through its pages, eyes scanning the text with sharp focus. He had confirmed his ability to cast spells without a wand, but now he wanted to go through every spell systematically—first following the book's precise instructions and then breaking them down to their raw essence.

He started with the Levitation Charm—Wingardium Leviosa. With his wand in hand, he pronounced the incantation carefully, ensuring his wand movements matched the diagrams. A nearby quill lifted smoothly into the air, floating effortlessly.

He observed the reaction of magic, how the wand's movement dictated the spell's stability, how his intent shaped its strength. The flow of energy was visible to him—shimmering strands weaving between the object and his own magic.

Setting his wand aside, he repeated the process, this time relying only on his will.

The quill trembled, lifted slightly, then settled back down. He adjusted his focus, refined the way he directed his magic—less force, more guidance.

The quill floated again, this time steady.

A grin formed on his lips.

Encouraged, he moved through the spells one by one. The Unlocking Charm—Alohomora, The Locking Charm—Colloportus, The Mending Charm—Reparo. Each spell followed the same pattern—wand first, to understand; wandless after, to master.

He noted the difference between spells that affected objects and those that interacted directly with the environment, adjusting his technique accordingly. He practiced until his movements were second nature, until he could replicate every spell without a second thought.

Time slipped away unnoticed.

Then—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Arthav!" His mother's voice rang from the other side of his door. "How many times do I have to call you for dinner? Are you even listening?"

Arthav blinked, glancing at the clock. He had been practicing for hours.

Shaking off his surprise, he stood and opened the door, meeting his mother's mildly exasperated expression.

"What were you doing?" she asked, arms crossed. "I called you so many times!"

Instead of answering, Arthav simply raised his hand.

He didn't need to say anything.

With a small flick of his fingers, his bed straightened itself. Another movement, and the open book on his desk gently closed. He reached out to the lamp beside him, and with a thought, it flickered off before glowing again.

His mother's eyes widened.

"You—" She paused, staring at him, then at the room. "Arthav… you just got your wand today."

He met her gaze, calm, waiting.

"This is—" She stopped herself, exhaling in disbelief. "This is too fast. Even the brightest Ravenclaws take time to master spells before attempting wandless magic."

For a moment, she simply stared at him, caught between shock and something else—something softer.

Then, just as quickly as the surprise came, it faded, replaced by a warm, radiant smile.

She stepped forward and cupped his face gently. "My son is amazing," she murmured, her voice filled with quiet pride. "I knew you were special, but you keep proving it again and again."

Arthav felt a warmth spread through his chest—not from his magic, but from her happiness.

"Now," she added, lightly tugging him forward, "before you decide to make the house float next, come and eat."

Arthav chuckled, following her out of the room.

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