Pushing aside all distractions, Noah focused on what he had really come here to do: burn everything down.
He pulled off his shirt, leaving only his trousers, but with a flick of his wand they shifted into more comfortable shorts.
"First, without the wand," he muttered, tucking it into his waistband before stretching.
Facing the wooden dummy, shaped roughly like a human, he launched his attack.
With a snap of his fingers, three fireballs spun into existence around him. A gesture, and they shot toward the target.
"Explode."
The first sphere detonated before impact, blooming into a curtain of flames. With another flick, the remaining two split into four, spreading fire over a wider area.
Though the target stood still, Noah fought as if against a living enemy.
The spheres—each about the size of a baby's head—slammed into the dummy and erupted. Fire spread naturally across the wood, until Noah's will bent it otherwise. The flames twisted and coiled, weaving themselves into a blazing cocoon around the figure.
If it had been a real foe, nothing would remain but charred remains.
Noah waved his hand, satisfied. The strike had been slower than he liked, but still acceptable after weeks without training. Even so, sweat beaded on his skin. Heat didn't bother him, but fatigue did.
If any professor had witnessed the scene, their jaw would've hit the floor.
Wandless magic, shifting seamlessly through stages: detonating midair, multiplying into new spheres, shaping itself into a prison of fire—all branching out from a single spell.
How many calculations did that take? How precise did one's magical control need to be to pull this off?
And at just eleven years old. A cruel joke to any adult watching.
But Noah wasn't satisfied. Deep down, he knew he could do much better with practice. More than that—if he mastered another element.
It was a difficult choice. The next step wouldn't be easy, so he had to choose carefully.
Fire was already his domain.
That left Water, Earth, and Air.
At least, among the basic elements.
He lay down on the floor, chuckling to himself.
"If I can control them all… maybe I'll crown myself with a new title."
Noah Gray, the Avatar.
His grin widened.
After a few quiet minutes, he came to his conclusion.
"Air."
If he could command the wind, he could feed his flames and make them grow even greater.
It was a clever thought—but far easier said than done. Sure, he could transfigure something into air and use it crudely, but shaping and steering currents of wind with the same precision as his fire? Not yet.
Without true control, it was useless in combat—let alone for fusing elements together.
For now, he shelved the idea.
When it came to imagination-based magic, fire was undeniably his strongest weapon: versatile and lethal.
Drawing his wand from his waistband, he aimed at a larger target. Traditionally, wandwork was simple: point, recite the incantation, make the correct motion.
But Noah had no interest in tradition.
He whipped the wand as if it were a lash. Flame extended outward, forming a blazing whip that cracked against the dummy.
There was no way to measure the temperature, but the near-clean cut along the wooden leg made the heat obvious.
Noah didn't stop. He launched into a creative flurry of attacks: smaller fireballs, flaming spears, variations of strikes—testing everything that came to mind. If it proved useless, he discarded it. But even "failed" spells taught him something. That was his philosophy.
"I wish I could fly…" he murmured later, lying on the ground, breathless.
It was his fifth straight day of training. Hours upon hours spent shaping fire—most of it deadly. A psychologist would've no doubt called it an overactive imagination dedicated to finding new ways to kill. How many different ways can I burn someone? That was the unconscious question he seemed to be chasing.
But right now, that wasn't what gnawed at him.
What he wanted was to fly.
He remembered Voldemort. He thought of broomsticks. Then, of his old world—where magic barely existed, and yet stories of wizards who could soar through the skies still thrived.
Voldemort, he knew, had his own way of flying.
Noah, on the other hand, had no control over wind.
But ever since he'd developed his personal variation of the Levitation Charm, he'd wondered—could he adapt it into flight?
In practice, nearly impossible.
Levitate an object, even another person? Easy. But himself? It felt like the universe conspired to keep wizards grounded.
Almost impossible—but not entirely.
Noah pushed to his feet and jumped. For a moment, it looked like a normal leap—until he didn't fall.
He floated twenty centimeters above the ground.
He tried to move, but the sensation was clumsy, unstable. It wasn't flight—not really. And certainly not the classic hero pose he imagined.
"Why isn't this working? Is it the way I'm trying? Or the spell itself?"
He paused. Then, as if a lightbulb switched on in his mind, he whispered:
"What spell am I using? Levitation. Not flight."
A smile tugged at his lips. Maybe that was the answer.
He didn't need to force levitation into becoming flight. He needed to craft a spell of his own—something inspired by levitation, but not bound to it.
"I have to invent a flight spell. Use levitation as the base, but break the pattern where it matters."
He already had an edge: his version of levitation worked perfectly on living beings. That alone simplified things.
The next step would be calculations, theory, and endless trial and error.
Still, combat came first. Flight would have to wait, something for his spare hours.
And so, every night, Noah returned to the Room of Requirement, never missing a single day of training.