The Spellcraft Manuscript

First Year Boys' Dormitory, Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts. September 1, 1989.

The banquet was a feast unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

The food was succulent, rich with flavor, and so diverse that I didn't know where to begin. Whoever was running the kitchen clearly knew what they were doing.

Personally, though, I suspected house-elves had a hand in it. Probably several dozens of them.

Now, I wasn't exactly a fan of the whole house-elf situation, but I'd read enough to know better than to blindly apply my 21st-century Muggle moral compass here.

House-elves weren't human. The small, magical creatures had a long and complicated history with wizardkind—one built not only on servitude but on a bizarre form of mutual dependence. According to A History of Magic, it was considered deeply offensive to a house-elf to be denied the opportunity to serve.

So, no—I didn't approve of treating them like slaves. But I also wasn't arrogant enough to presume I knew better than a society with thousands of years of magical history and cultural nuance that I barely understood.

Sometimes, it's possible to have two truths at once.

After my little spat with the Sorting Hat, I'd been welcomed into the Ravenclaw house with only the most hesitant round of applause. Even a few of the teachers looked unsettled at how long I'd sat there under the Hat's brim, locked in a private interrogation with the ancient artefact.

Needless to say, I very deliberately avoided meeting Dumbledore's gaze.

I wasn't eager to have my thoughts laid bare a second time, after all.

Only Thalia looked genuinely pleased to have me at the Ravenclaw table and had remained rooted to my side throughout the rest of dinner.

As for Eveline Thorne? The Hat hadn't hesitated to send the nervous girl over to her cousin. The smile beaming on her face had been clearly shown for everyone to see. Thus, our original group and been severed in two: with one half in Hufflepuff and the other half in Ravenclaw.

To no one's surprise, Cassius Warrington—the wanna-be Malfoy who'd trash-talked Hufflepuff—had wound up in Slytherin. And Fred and George Weasley naturally joined their older siblings in Gryffindor, as was canon.

Overall, I counted eighteen new additions to Ravenclaw, twenty new additions to Gryffindor, twelve new members to Hufflepuff, and—surprisingly—twenty-three new addition to Slytherin.

Needless to say, the Slytherin students refused to shut up about it during the banquet.

During dinner, the Head of Ravenclaw House, Professor Flitwick, introduced himself to us first-years. The whimsical Charms professor gave off the impression of being both kind and incredibly capable. His introduction included a mention of his past as a duelling champion—a title unique to him among the Hogwarts faculty.

And while I doubted he could take Dumbledore in a duel, I was definitely looking forward to picking his brain about magic.

"Maybe I should ask him about duelling?" I mused. It didn't quite match my passion for research, but I had to admit—duelling intrigued me a lot more than something like Quidditch. Besides, considering what I knew about the future, I figured it wouldn't hurt to brush up on my combat proficiency.

I paused midway through unpacking my luggage, drawn to the small window beside my bed.

The Black Lake stretched out below, blanketed in silver moonlight and shimmering like a bed of dark crystals. Beyond the water, the Forbidden Forest loomed—its jagged silhouette crawling across the shoreline. They said all sorts of dark creatures and magical beasts dwelled within.

I couldn't wait to explore it all.

Next to my bed was my roommate's bunk. Roger Davies had introduced himself earlier—loud, confident, and quick to make friends. The more I talked to him, the more he reminded me of Rose from back home.

Loud and overconfident, but the heart was in the right place.

"There's no way I'm already missing those little critters," I muttered to myself, wrinkling my nose. I'll need to figure out how correspondence works here. Since I didn't own an owl, I could only hope Hogwarts had some kind of shared mail service. I mean, surely not every student brought a pet owl with them—what about those with rats or cats?

Classes started Monday morning, so Hogwarts wasn't wasting any time. Still, that left us with the rest of the weekend to settle in, explore, and meet with our new classmates and professors.

Thalia had been very pleased to learn our first class—Charms—was with the Hufflepuffs. We also had Herbology with Gryffindor, while Potions with the Slytherins wasn't scheduled to begin until Tuesday.

All in all, I was fairly content with our schedule. Every subject, except perhaps Astronomy, appealed to me at least a little. Hogwarts also seemed mercifully lenient with first-years—most of our days ended by 2:30 in the afternoon.

With dinner at 7 p.m., that left plenty of time for independent research, exploration, and—of course—magic.

That said, the prefect had warned us first-years against doing magic outside of class or without adult supervision, but I was more likely to grow a second head than heed that advice.

It was difficult to write a comparative analysis on wandless and wand magic without experimenting, after all.

The last thing I did before going to bed was write down all the discoveries and progress that I'd made today. As I looked at my comments, the edges of my lips curved upwards.

"I have my work spelled out ahead of me."

And so, after some evening rituals, I said goodnight to Roger and went to sleep.

…

The next morning, I woke up far earlier than necessary.

"I guess my biological clock is still set to orphanage time…" I mused. Over the past year, I'd grown used to rising early to make breakfast for everyone. Honestly, it was an easy chore—certainly better than laundry duty.

And it had the added benefit of producing decent food.

Still, once I opened my eyes in the first-year dormitory, the thrill of waking up in Hogwarts banished any thoughts of going back to sleep. Quietly, I dressed in my school attire and slipped out into the common room.

Ravenclaw's common room was markedly different from what I remembered of Gryffindor's or Slytherin's. Dressed in vivid blue and bronze, the space was vast and airy, with tall arched windows that flooded the room with soft morning light.

At this hour, it was utterly silent. I seemed to be the only one awake.

"Let's see…" I glanced around, quickly spotting the grandfather clock nestled between two bookcases. "Two hours until I meet up with Thalia."

Last night, before we'd parted ways, Cedric, Eveline, Thalia, and I had agreed to explore the castle together in the morning. A part of me would've preferred wandering around solo, but I figured I could always do that later.

After confirming I was alone, I drew my wand from my sleeve.

As always, the sight of the burnished-chestnut wand stirred something warm in my chest. It didn't feel like holding a tool—it felt like holding the hand of someone dear. At first, the intimacy had unsettled me. Now, I couldn't go an hour without it before feeling… incomplete.

No, I definitely wasn't addicted.

With a flick of my wrist, I summoned my ever-faithful ten-pence coin into the air. Tweaking the levitation spell slightly, I focused on the emotional catalyst while strengthening my intent.

Immediately, the coin spiralled around my torso, looping playfully around my head. When these motions no longer tested my limits, I sent it higher—toward the ceiling.

Thud.

"Okay…" I muttered, catching the coin as it fell back into my hand. "I either need a new target… or a bigger room."

The latter decidedly appealed more. I'd grown far too attached to this blue ten-pence coin. Besides, the common room wasn't exactly ideal for magic practice. Too many windows. Too public.

Shifting focus, I moved on to transfiguration. At first, I changed the coin's colour—red, then yellow. Then came shape: a smooth black cube, then a white cylinder.

Compared to levitation, transfiguration demanded more precision and concentration. Soon enough, my spark waned, refusing to channel more magic.

I could've forced it—pushed through with a stronger emotional catalyst—but the price would be a sharp headache that'd last the rest of the day.

Not worth it.

With my spark depleted, I wandered the room until I found something to pass the time. A worn volume on the history of transfiguration caught my interest, so I settled into a plush chair and opened the first chapter.

The book wouldn't teach me any new, groundbreaking spells, but it was interesting, nonetheless.

Especially the section on the Animagus transformation—a highly specialized branch of Transfiguration. According to the author, the first recorded Animagus was a wizard afflicted with lycanthropy. Allegedly, in his desperate attempt to cure the condition, he accidentally discovered the transformation process. Still, the sources naming this so-called "birthfather of Animagi" were vague at best and questionably mythic at worst.

What was well-established, however, was that Animagus magic was relatively recent—having only existed for about five centuries.

"If five hundred years is considered new, I don't want to know what qualifies as old." I thought, flipping to the next page.

While the book offered some clues about the Animagus process, it was maddeningly vague on specifics. Instead, it focused on the dangers: the immense difficulty, the irreversible commitment, and the strict Ministry oversight. Apparently, if someone failed the transformation, they were magically and legally barred from ever attempting it again.

Still… I couldn't help but ponder the potential. Depending on the form, Animagi were naturals at covert operations.

Take Wormtail, for instance. Peter Pettigrew had evaded capture for over a decade by masquerading as Ron Weasley's pet rat—right under Dumbledore's nose, no less.

"If I remember correctly…" My brow furrowed. "The Marauders pulled it off while still students. If a group of mischief-makers could figure it out without modern textbooks or formal guidance, it can't be impossibly complex."

The thought lit a fire in my brain.

I began to wonder what my Animagus form might be. According to the book, one couldn't consciously choose the animal—the form was supposedly a manifestation of the wizard's innate nature.

Whatever that meant.

"Hello?" Thalia's hand waved centimetres from my face. "Anyone home?"

"Thalia," I sighed. "Did no one teach you it's rude to sneak up on people?"

"Sneak?" Her eyes widened. "I called your name like three times. I thought you'd fallen asleep sitting up."

Glancing around the common room, I realized a number of Ravenclaws were already up and frolicking about.

"Whoops."

"Sorry." I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "I must've been lost in thought."

"Riiiight," Thalia's gaze drifted down to the open book in my lap. "Thinking about becoming an Animagus, are we?"

"I mean, it would be kind of cool though, wouldn't it?" I admitted, turning back to look at the page. "Imagine transforming into a bird—or maybe a fish. How incredible wouldn't it be to see the world from their perspective?"

Thalia stared at me for a moment before breaking into a soft snicker.

"What?" I quipped back at the laughing girl.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head. "Nothing at all."

Naturally, I didn't trust the girl as far as I could throw her. But I wasn't about to beg for an explanation either.

"You ready to go?" I asked instead, closing the book.

"Yeah," Thalia smiled, already skipping a few paces ahead of me.

…

The more I wandered around the countless corridors, stairways, and halls of Hogwarts, the more I realised how little I actually knew about the castle's sheer scope.

Sure, I already knew—both from experience and memory—that Hogwarts was enormous, but seriously, what was the pointof building something needlessly vast?

I mean, even after three whole hours of exploration, Cedric, Eveline, Thalia, and I barely mapped a fraction of the massive castle.

There was absolutely no way all these facilities were in daily use.

So far, though, my favourite location had been the library. Madame Pinch—who, as it turned out, was the stern-looking woman from last night's banquet—was a total wet blanket, but she did an excellent job keeping the space immaculate and silent.

Exactly how a library was supposed to be.

Ravenclaw might value intelligence and a love of learning, but its common room wasn't exactly ideal for studying—at least not after everyone woke up. Still, to be fair, the common room wasn't meant for quiet reflection; it was designed for socializing.

Regardless, it was really nice to find a place where I could study in peace.

At nine o'clock, we decided to temporarily pause our exploration to grab breakfast in the Great Hall.

Unfortunately, after nearly twenty minutes of wandering, I had to bite the bullet and ask an older student for directions.

My so-called friends—Cedric, Thalia, and Eveline—were too embarrassed to say anything.

"Kids." I sighed, watching them devour their breakfast. By now, I knew I liked the trio, but it was hard to see them as equals.

Shockingly, it wasn't because they were childish or anything like that. Sure, they had their immature habits—let's face it, what eleven-year-old didn't?—but I didn't necessarily mind that in a friend. Life would be insufferably dull if everyone were serious all the time.

In fact, I found I genuinely enjoyed their occasional spats and wisecracks.

Even the ones the girls made on my and Cedric's expense.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling there was a fundamental difference in how we viewed the world. My thoughts were tempered by a lifetime's worth of growth and reflection, while Cedric, Thalia, and Eveline were only just beginning their journeys of self-discovery.

Even so, calling them "acquaintances" at this point would've been both inaccurate and dishonest.

After breakfast, the girls wanted to continue their exploration of the castle, while Cedric preferred heading outside. As a compromise, we stayed in the Great Hall and played a few rounds of Wizard Chess.

Naturally, I wiped the floor with them.

Holding back would've felt more insulting than kind—especially now that I'd decided to consider them friends. Apart from a single misstep against Thalia, it hadn't been much of a challenge.

Not that I was proud of myself for beating a bunch of children at chess.

No, that would've been incredibly childish of me.

I was also pleasantly surprised when none of my new friends sulked or otherwise held their losses against me—barring maybe Thalia.

While the two Hufflepuffs took their defeat in stride, a competitive flicker ignited behind Thalia's eyes. Judging by the daggered glances she kept throwing my way, I knew I'd have to bring my A-game next time.

I couldn't help myself from teasing her a little. Making the little raven rile up in indignant anger.

…

A couple of hours before dinner, everyone decided to go their separate ways, with the agreement that we would meet up again in the Great Hall when it was time to eat again.

The girls ambled off together, snickering and giggling like only girls know how to do. Cedric, meanwhile, had already made several acquaintances and friends in Hufflepuff and beyond, leaving me on my own—which, frankly, suited me just fine.

I needed the time.

During our inspection of the castle, I'd memorized the locations of several potential hideouts—quiet, neglected rooms perfect for research and practice. So, after collecting my research journal, a ballpoint pen, and The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) from the dormitory, I made my way to one such abandoned classroom. Based on the route, I was fairly confident I was on the fourth floor, one staircase down from Ravenclaw Tower.

Opening The Standard Book of Spells, I turned to perhaps the most basic charm of all: Lumos, the Wand-Lighting Charm, and its counter-spell, Nox, the Wand-Extinguishing Charm.

I skimmed past the historical trivial—I'd already memorized that Levina Monstanley invented the Wand-Lighting Charm in 1772 to retrieve a dropped quill—and focused instead on the spell's mechanics.

The incantation was simple—so simple, in fact, that even an eleven-year-old unfamiliar with magic could easily pronounce it. I surmised that was one of the reasons why the charm was one of the first spells covered in the first year's spellbook.

According to the pictures and diagrams in the book, the wand-movement was pretty straight forward as well.

Thus, without further ado, I tried casting my first real spell.

"Lumos." I said clearly, following the instructions precisely.

Immediately, a soft red light appeared on the tip of my wand.

Furrowing my brows, I flicked my wand. "Nox." Summarily, the light vanished.

"…"

I looked at my wand suspiciously. The pronunciation had been perfect. And as far as I could tell, so had my wand-movement been.

So why had the light been red, and not a pale-yellow, like I'd intended?

"How curious…" I thought to myself. After checking the state of my spark, I noted that the spell hadn't cost much of energy either.

Instead of casting the spell again, I pulled out my journal and documented the results in painstaking detail. I'd learned long ago that proper notes often made the difference when trying to replicate a result or test a new hypothesis.

Apart from my regular comments, I also wrote down the main difference between so-called wand magic and wandless—or free form—magic: organized versus spontaneous, objective versus subjective.

Call the two magic disciplines whatever you want.

As far as I could tell, the incantation, the wand, and the subsequent wand-movement served as a way to replicate and replace the emotional concoction that I usually used to manifest my magic. If I was right, then theoretically speaking, under the correct circumstances, with a wand, even an emotionless robot could presumably cast spells; as long as it possessed intent and a spark of magic, of course.

"I wonder if that means I can create golems capable of magic?" It was an interesting thought, one that I would explore further later.

Once I was finished with my notes, I lifted my wand again.

Back to the test.

"Lumos." I said, shifting my intent slightly without changing anything else. This time, the light—albeit still red—possessed a shade closer to what I'd intended.

"Nox." I nodded to myself. At least the Wand-Extinguishing Charm functioned like it was supposed to.

Five iterations later, I finally produced the pale-yellow light that indicated a successful cast, according to the book.

During the process, I'd made another discover, which I naturally wrote down in my journal.

"Wand magic does not require a domineering intent, or at least not all spells do."

Naturally, just like with emotions, there existed different kinds of intent. When using free form magic, I'd found that a domineering intent typically came with the best results. But apparently, when casting the Lumos charm, my wand didn't appreciate being strong armed.

"Very interesting." I smiled.

Now that I'd successfully cast the Lumos charm, I continued to develop it.

First was figuring out how to deliberately elicit different colours, while still using the same incantation and wand-movement. Fortunately, the answer to this question wasn't difficult to ascertain.

The answer was ostensibly intent. By switching through different kinds of intents—domineering, pleading, inquiring, etcetera—I managed to evoke a variety of different colours.

After writing down my riveting findings, I flipped ahead to the next page of my spellbook and looked for the charm I really wanted to try: Lumos Maxima.

I couldn't find it, at least not in the first year spellbook.

Clearing my throat, I decided to enunciate the incantation anyway, as clearly as I could.

"Lumos Maxima."

Pale white light sputtered from my wand—barely brighter than a regular Lumos. Not a success, but not a total failure either.

Thoughtfully, I extinguished the failed attempt with a flick of my wand.

"Wait a minute—" I stared at the wand in surprise. "I forgot to say Nox."

Yet the Wand-Extinguishing Charm had manifested anyway—seamlessly, and without a single spoken word.

After a moment of reflection, I came to a hypothesis. The failed Lumos Maxima had left me mildly frustrated and disappointed. And in that moment of emotional agitation, I had instinctively reverted to my usual method—using emotions as catalysts to manipulate magic, rather than relying on the incantation.

"Lumos." I said aloud once more. Then, with a flick of my wand and a focused emotional intent, I extinguished it—nonverbally again.

"Oh…" I breathed, a smile curling across my face. "Please, let this be real."

Opening my journal, I wrote.

"Based on recent observations, I hypothesize that the incantation functions primarily as a crutch—a catalytic scaffolding designed to bypass the need for an emotional anchor when conjuring spark energy. However, if a witch or wizard can deliberately summon a properly resonating emotional state and fuse it with the spark, then in theory, any charm can be cast nonverbally."

To call this discovery significant felt like an understatement. If correct, then I had just uncovered the foundations of nonverbal casting—on my very first day at Hogwarts.

Of course, the hypothesis hadn't come out of nowhere. The process of casting Nox without speaking had still taken me roughly an hour to get right, and only because it built on years of gruelling self-training—honing my ability to intentionally summon and channel emotional catalysts.

Furthermore, I doubted my discovery was in any way original.

Still, in order to test my hypothesis, I needed more data.

Moving my wand with deliberate movements, I tried to cast Lumos nonverbally.

When a tiny spark of light flickered before extinguishing, I felt the edges of my lips curl upwards.

"Again."

…

"Michael!" Cedric's voice called from the entrance to the Great Hall. Standing beside him were Eveline and Thalia.

"I'm so sorry," I said, slightly out of breath as I jogged over. "I lost track of time."

"No worries," Cedric said with a grin, waving it off. "Come on, let's eat."

Saturday supper turned out to be grilled chicken marinated in Indian spices, served with fragrant saffron rice and a spoonful of fruity chutney. Hogwarts meals continued to impress.

"So?" Eveline asked once we were seated. Despite being in different houses, we'd made a conscious choice to sit together anyway. Traditions be damned.

"What?" I asked between bites of chicken. "You're wondering why I was late?"

"That too." Eveline gave me a look. The slight crease between her brows made it clear I was being difficult.

I relented with a shrug. "I was practicing magic."

That caught their attention. All three paused mid-meal to look at me.

"In one of the old, unused classrooms," I clarified. "Up on the fourth floor."

Thalia leaned in slightly, her voice low. "Isn't that where the Restricted Section is?"

"I mean maybe it's nearby…" I replied, frowning slightly at Thalia's exaggerated reaction. "But it's not like the classroom is part of the Restricted Section."

Still, despite my words, all three of them looked visibly unsettled by my chosen place of practice.

"Hopefully, that means other students are less likely to go there too." I smiled at my own thoughts.

"Still, Michael…" Eveline said, clearly uneasy. "Didn't that corridor give you the shivers?"

Thalia nodded in firm agreement, eyes slightly narrowed. "It felt off. I don't know how to explain it. Like someone was watching us."

"Not really?" I raised an eyebrow. "Did I miss something?"

But my friends just shook their heads in exasperation, like I was the weird one for not being disturbed by disused classrooms.

"And?" Cedric cut in, leaning across the table as he tore into a golden-baked roll. "Did you make any progress?"

"Some." I hedged. Unwilling to reveal the true extent of my findings. I doubted they'd believe me if I told them the whole truth anyway. "I learnt how to cast the Wand-Lighting and Wand-Extinguishing Charms."

"…"

"…"

The three of them exchanged glances before turning back toward me with synchronized suspicion.

"There's no way you guys didn't practice that beforehand." I narrowed my eyes at them.

"What?"

"You mean, you practiced how to cast the Wand-Lighting and Wand-Extinguishing Charms?" Eveline asked, looking for clarification.

"I meant what I said," I replied, defiantly chewing on another piece of chicken. Bad table manners in public? If the Matron only knew what manner of mischief I was up to, I almost grinned imagining the horrified look she and Sister White would make.

"You're telling me," Cedric said slowly, "you learned to successfully cast two brand new charms, on your own, in what—two hours?"

"I mean, depending on how you define success, it was closer to half an hour…" I thought to privately. The rest of the time I'd spent taking notes, refining intent, exploring emotional modifiers, and—most exciting of all—testing nonverbal wand magic.

To be completely honest, I wasn't sure what all the fuss was about. The Wand-Lighting and Wand-Extinguishing Charms were literally among the first spells we would cover in our curriculum this year. They were practically designed to be foolproof. For all I knew, they'd be taught in Monday's class.

"It's just Lumos and Nox." I said aloud, using the charms' colloquial names to help them understand. "They were both pretty straightforward, actually. Are you saying you don't know how to cast them?"

"Oh, we know how to cast them alright." Thalia quipped. "You forget—unlike you, we grew up in wizarding households."

"Nice jab at the orphan, Thalia." I thought, but no one else seemed to catch the unintentional slight.

"We all learned to cast those two charms over the summer," Eveline added.

"Then I don't see your point?"

"The point we're making, Michael." Cedric interjected, "is that it took most of us nearly two days to learn the Wand-Lighting and Wand-Extinguish Charms—and that's with wizard parents helping us. Are you sure you cast it properly? What colour was the light?"

I hesitated. I didn't want to lie—not this early, not to them. In my experience, starting a friendship on deception was a quick way to ruin it.

And to be honest, I was sick and tired of lying. I had been keeping my magic secret for six years.

"…Pale-yellow." I muttered, stabbing a piece of chicken with my fork.

"Pale-yellow, he says." Eveline threw her hands up. "Pretty straightforward, he says."

She clicked her tongue at me. "Some progress, he says."

"Okay, okay, I get it." I groaned. "I didn't mean to sound smug."

"That just makes it worse…" Eveline mumbled.

"Maybe he's just got a knack for charms?" Thalia offered, tapping her cheek thoughtfully. "Michael wouldn't be the first wizard to be naturally gifted in a particular branch of magic. And we all saw his nonverbal levitation spell on the train." Her voice trailed off, a hint of envy slipping in.

"How could we forget…" Eveline muttered.

Cedric nodded in agreement.

I guess this wasn't the time to tell them about my transfiguration proficiency.

"Maybe…" I hedged, wondering how they'd react if I told them I could already cast both spells nonverbally. "But seriously, you said it took you guys two days?"

Eveline and Cedric visibly flushed red.

Thalia just sighed. "Learning your first spell is notoriously difficult," she explained. "It's meant to be the first real hurdle for young witches or wizards to overcome."

"Oh…" I blinked, unsure how to respond. The textbooks had only mentioned that Lumos was one of the easiest beginner charms. They hadn't said anything about it being some rite of passage.

"But two hours…" Eveline muttered, barely audible.

I winced.

…

After dinner, my friends managed to coax me into showing them the charms. So, we headed back to my temporary workshop.

"Yeah, this place definitely gives me the creeps," Eveline muttered, hugging herself as she looked around the dark, disused classroom.

"It's not that bad," I replied. It wasn't like it was haunted. Probably.

"You were practicing here alone?" Thalia asked, looking a bit concerned. "In the dark? Doing spells?"

"Mhm," I replied non-committedly. Anything I said right now would just feed the narrative of the poor Muggle-born orphan playing wizard in the shadows.

Fortunately, Cedric must've picked up on my discomfort as he stepped in. "Alright, we're here. Now show us what you can do, Mr. Charms Savant."

Shaking my head at Cedric's attempt at humour, I reached into my sleeve and drew my wand.

"Lumos."

A soft, pale-yellow light bloomed at the tip of my wand. I waved it around a little, just to drive the point home.

"See?" I said. "Pale-yellow."

"You actually weren't lying." Eveline muttered; her eyes fixed on the glow as though hypnotized.

Feeling a little reckless—and just the tiniest bit proud—I decided to show off. I foucsed, letting my intent shift slightly.

"Ah." Thalia began, clearly ready to dismiss the change. "That's fine, sometimes it—"

The light turned red.

Then blue.

And then violet.

Finally, I manifested what I'd dubbed in my journal the aurora light—a shimmering, multi coloured glow that pulsed and shifted like sunlight filtered through stained glass.

In the dimness of the abandoned classroom, the light danced along the walls, bathing my friends in flickering hues like we were at some magical school disco.

"Nox."

The light vanished with a flick.

Silence.

Needless to say, my cute little friends stared at me in slack-jawed awe.

I tried to keep the grin from spreading across my face but failed. Six years of practice—and this was the first time I'd shown anyone my magic intentionally.

"So?" I asked, trying to sound casual despite the nerves fluttering in my chest. "What did you think?"

"W-What—?"

"That was..."

"What on earth was that, Michael?!" Thalia blurted, stepping closer and grabbing me by the shoulders. Her eyes were wide, practically glowing with fascination. "How did you switch colours like that? And that last light—it was so…"

I smiled a wide, toothy grin. "Cool, huh?"

Thalia's smirk mirrored my own, her eyes gleaming. "Very cool. Now teach me."

Needless to say, the rest of the evening turned into an impromptu lesson in charm manipulation. And honestly? I loved every second of it.

There was a reason I'd chosen to become a teacher in my past life—and it sure as hell hadn't been the pay.

Trying to explain to the kids how to "tweak the nature of intent" without sounding like a lunatic turned out to be harder than expected. But I gave it my best, relying on simple language and every analogy I could muster.

God, I love analogies.

By the end of the session, both Cedric and Thalia managed to coax a soft blue glow from the wands instead of the usual pale-yellow. Sure, they still needed the incantation and the wand movement—but the shift in colour was undeniable. And for first-years on the first day at Hogwarts.

It was nothing short of a triumph.

Eveline, however, had a harder time. The more abstract nature of modifying magical effects through emotional nuance seemed to frustrate her. Still, I didn't think any less of her for it. If anything, I was fairly confident Cedric and Thalia were the outliers—not the other way around.

Yet Eveline clearly didn't see things the same way as I did. In her eyes, all her friends had managed to learn something new, while only she struggled.

Noticing how distressed she was becoming with each subsequent failure; I decided to call it a night.

A strong emotional outburst might've changed the colour of Eveline's light easily enough—but without proper control, that same surge could just as well make flowers burst from the tip of her wand instead.

Naturally, she wasn't thrilled. But I had a feeling Cedric would keep helping her even after we wrapped up for the evening.

Unsurprisingly, the ancient stone castle grew cold after nightfall.

Thalia, however, practically skipped her wy back to the Ravenclaw Tower, positively glowing with excitement.

"At least now I get why they call her the Fawley Genius…" I mused to myself.

Cedric was canonically known to be a strong wizard. Heck, there was a reason why he was chosen to be the Hogwarts Champion in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. And had the tournament not been a rigged deathtrap from the start, the Hufflepuff champion would most likely have taken home the cup.

Instead, he died. Killed by Voldemort.

Thalia Fawley, though? She was a complete mystery. If she was mentioned in any of the books, I couldn't remember her. If she was in any of the films, she stuck to the background.

Yet here she was, a first-year who could match Cedric Diggory spell for spell. Her existence was a fascinating conundrum—one I intended to keep an eye on.

"You look smug." I noted, trailing behind her as a sixth-year led us back into the common room.

"Hard not to be," she muttered, barely suppressing a grin.

Then, after a quick glance my way, she suddenly darted for the girls' stairwell. "Thanks for teaching me today, Michael!"

Before I could say 'you're welcome', the girl disappeared into the girls' dormitory.

Shaking my head, I passed the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw on the way to my own dormitory, already wondering how I'd top this day tomorrow.

…

Later, as I lay in bed, I realised I was still smiling.

"Today's been very productive." I thought, replaying the events in my mind. I'd explored the castle I'd dreamt of since childhood, played Wizard Chess in the Great hall under its enchanted ceiling, and even managed to showcase and refine my magic in front of people I actually liled.

For someone who'd spent the last six years constantly hiding, constantly pretending to be less than what he was, it felt like I'd finally stepped into open air—like I could breathe again.

"If every day's like this, I think I'll enjoy my stay here." I thought smilingly.

Yet, as the castle quieted and my dormitory filled with the slow rhythm of sleeping breath, my thoughts inevitably turned forward.

To the Philosopher's Stone.

To the Chamber of Secrets.

To Peter Pettigrew.

To Lord Voldemort's return.

To the Triwizard Tournament.

And to the death of Cedric Diggory.

"That's not going to happen." My hand clenched beneath the covers. "Not while I'm here."

I had four—maybe five—people I considered friends in this world. One of them I hadn't seen in over a year, working as she was in London. The others—Cedric, Thalia, and Eveline—were newer additions, sure, but I already felt a tether to them. And whether that tether was born of affection of fear of loss, I couldn't say. Maybe both.

In the darkness, I saw it—Cedric's dead face. Then Eveline's. And then Thalia's. All wide-eyed and still. All gone.

"I can't let that happen."

"I won't."

"I mustn't become complacent." I realized. "Not even for a day."

So, instead of letting sleep take me, I pulled my wand and practiced transfiguration under the covers for another half-hour.

Just in case.

…