The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the pages of Magical Theory as Harry traced the flowing script with his fingers. The words felt foreign yet strangely familiar, as if they had always been waiting for him to uncover them. He had never been one for studying—mostly because the Dursleys made sure he never had the chance—but this was different. This was magic.
At first, it was frustrating. The descriptions of spellcasting were clear, but when he tried even the simplest wand movement, nothing happened. The book explained that magic required intent, proper pronunciation, and exact motion, but it seemed like some invisible wall was keeping him from grasping it.
"A simple Lumos charm is the foundation of all light-producing spells. By channeling magic through the wand with a clear intent and a controlled flick of the wrist, one can conjure illumination at will. The incantation, however, is vital—improper pronunciation may result in unintended effects."
Harry frowned, gripping his wand tightly. "Lumos."
Nothing.
His frustration built. He had seen what magic could do. He had felt its call. It wouldn't elude him.
He inhaled, shutting out everything—the distant chatter of the inn, the weight of his failures, the nagging doubts whispering that he wasn't special. He wanted light. He willed it.
"Lumos."
A faint glow flickered at the tip of his wand before sputtering out. Harry's lips curled into a grin.
"Got you now."
The following days were a whirlwind of discovery. His routine became a strict cycle of reading, practicing, training, and eating properly—a stark contrast to the malnourished existence he had endured with the Dursleys.
He dove into spellwork with renewed vigor. First-year spells were simple, mostly basic transfigurations and charms, but Harry soon realized that spellcasting was an art. It wasn't just waving a wand and saying words; it was an intricate dance of will, focus, and movement.
From The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1):
"Levitation spells require precise intent and clear enunciation. The correct movement—swish and flick—is designed to direct magical energy into the object you wish to levitate. Without this precision, the spell will fail or behave unpredictably."
Harry practiced the Wingardium Leviosa charm on every object he could find. The first few tries ended in pathetic twitches, but by the end of the week, he could make his quill float effortlessly.
His progress accelerated, something inside him clicking into place. Spells that should have taken weeks took him days. His Lumos became blindingly bright. His Nox snuffed out candle flames entirely. His Levitation spells grew refined—he could guide objects through the air with practiced ease.
But spellwork alone wasn't enough.
While flipping through Dueling: An Introduction to the Art of Spell Combat, something ignited in Harry. The book spoke of movement, footwork, quick reflexes—things that weren't just about magic but how a wizard fought.
"A wizard who relies solely on spells is a dead wizard. Magic must be fluid, adaptable—your wand is an extension of yourself, but so is your body. Do not neglect either."
Harry took those words to heart. He started training not just his magic but his body.
Mornings began with exercises—push-ups, squats, running laps in the hidden alleys behind the Leaky Cauldron. The first few days left him sore, but he adapted quickly. His once scrawny frame started to change, muscle replacing weakness.
The few young wizards he saw in Diagon Alley had soft frames, unused to physical exertion. Magic made them complacent. Harry had no such luxury.
He also practiced dodging—rolling, shifting his weight, imagining spells flying at him. His movements became sharper, instincts keener.
Magic alone wouldn't be enough.
Potions were another unexpected fascination. At first, the instructions seemed tedious—exact measurements, delicate stirring, ingredient interactions—but the more he read, the more he saw its intricacy.
"A true Potioneer understands that ingredients alone do not make the potion—their sequence, timing, and intent do. The difference between a healing draught and a deadly poison can be a single clockwise stir too many."
He didn't just stop at first-year material. He devoured everything up to seventh-year Potions. Advanced books on the properties of magical ingredients, the effects of time and heat, the philosophy behind alchemical transformations.
His hands itched to start brewing.
One afternoon, he picked up Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. He had expected a dry catalog, but instead, he found a world of wonder. Creatures that defied logic, that wielded magic as naturally as breathing.
"A wizard who understands magical creatures does not fear them. The Basilisk may kill with its gaze, but knowledge allows one to counter it. The Griffin may be powerful, but respect and proper care can turn it into a formidable ally."
Harry wasn't sure why, but something about that fascinated him. Magic was more than just spells—it was an entire world, alive and breathing.
Weeks passed. Harry's days were filled with reading, training, and practice. His meals were balanced, his body growing stronger, his magic more refined.
One night, as he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he realized something.
He wasn't just learning magic.
He was mastering it.
He grinned lazily as he fell asleep, blissful and unbothered by anything.