The snow outside Ravenclaw Tower had not yet begun to melt, and the thick frost that clung to the glass panes reminded me each morning that winter's grip had not loosened. But for me, the cold mattered little. February would be a month of fire and light—of Charms.
I had planned it precisely. January had been a relentless climb through the intricacies of Transfiguration, and now I stood at the base of another peak: the vast and varied discipline of Charms. Professor Beery had always said that Charms was the most expressive branch of magic, the one that defined the wizard's intent more than the wand's craftsmanship. I believed him more and more with every spell I cast. This month, I would not only learn the theory but internalize every nuance, every flick and incantation that made up the fifth-year O.W.L. syllabus and beyond.
Each morning began early. I awoke before sunrise, letting the frost-silvered sky be the first thing I saw as I brewed myself a simple tea using a warming charm, followed by the meticulous drawing of practice diagrams on the back of enchanted parchment that erased itself each evening. The classroom material wasn't enough. I'd sourced additional books from the Hogwarts library—Practical Charms for the Advancing Student, The Articulation of Magical Intent, The Patronus: Light Against the Dark, and an obscure one I found tucked behind dusty volumes in the Restricted Section, Charmed Realities: An Examination of Advanced Magical Effects on Consciousness. The latter had cost me a favor to Madam Pince, but it was worth it.
Each day I set goals: a set of spells, a theory topic, and a self-test before dinner. One week was devoted to general utility charms—Summoning, Banishing, Levitation, Mending, and Locking spells. I practiced casting them in succession, without pause, and using only my intent to vary their strength and range. I experimented with non-verbal casting, forcing the wand to obey through will alone. There was beauty in the repetition, in the sense of growing precision and confidence.
The second week, I turned to defensive and counteractive charms—Shield Charms, Counter-jinxes, and the various ways to interrupt magical effects mid-cast. I simulated duels in the Room of Requirement, programming it to hurl imaginary attackers at me in sequences designed to test my reflexes. I transfigured training dummies and set them up to explode in weak Stunning Spells if I didn't deflect quickly enough. By the end of that week, my robes were scorched, my fingers singed, and my nerves sharper than ever.
It was the third week that challenged me most. That was when I began studying the Patronus Charm.
I had read about it long before—how advanced it was, how emotionally demanding. It was more than a spell; it was a declaration of will and memory against despair itself. And yet, for all its difficulty, something about it called to me. Perhaps it was because I understood darkness—not just the literal kind, but the weight of legacy, the burden of expectation, and the isolation of power. In many ways, I knew I would need a Patronus one day—not just to ward off Dementors, but to remind myself who I was when everything else threatened to consume me.
I practiced in the Room Of Requirements late at night, long after others had gone to bed. I'd pace along the stone floor, wand at the ready, whispering the incantation. "Expecto Patronum." At first, only wisps of silver came. It was like breathing into cold air—mist, no form, no protection.
Beery had warned us that the spell was tied directly to one's strongest memories of happiness. But what was mine? My memories from previous life from which I could draw such events were already almost gone from memory and in this life I never got to know my parents. Yet, I remembered Eleanor's laugh echoing through the Ravenclaw common room, Edgar's ridiculous jokes, Elizabeth's relentless optimism, and Henry's fierce loyalty. I let those memories bloom in my mind, one by one, until the laughter and warmth filled me like a fire against the cold.
When the silvery phoenix finally leapt from my wand—its plume fiery and feathers sharp—I knew I had touched something ancient and pure. I stood there in awe, watching it float in place, its gaze wise and knowing. It did not speak, but I understood it. I belonged to the light, even if I walked through shadows.
The fourth week of February, I turned to creative charmwork. This was beyond the curriculum, but necessary. I read about linguistic charms that modified the way sound carried through air, ones that enhanced vision, that modified weight, density, and temperature. These were the kinds of charms that would be useful in battle, subtle manipulations that didn't draw attention like a spell might in a duel. I practiced modifying Lumos to create varying levels of light—dim candlelight for stealth, intense flashes to blind. I charmed stones to float, then dance in midair to classical rhythm. It wasn't just study; it was artistry.
That Sunday evening, near the end of the month, I sat by the enchanted window of the Ravenclaw common room, watching the snow melt from the highest towers of the castle. My books were closed, quills still. My fingers were sore from practice, and my magic felt like it pulsed under my skin.
Had I achieved mastery? Perhaps not by the standards of the greats, but I had gained control, understanding, and depth. I could perform fifth-year Charms with the fluidity of breath. More than that—I had a Patronus. A part of me thought, somewhere deep inside, that if my mother or father could see me now, they would be proud.
March began with the crisp air of late winter clinging to the stone corridors of Hogwarts, and with it came a renewed intensity in my routine. After the month I had spent steeped in Charms, unraveling the elegance of incantations and mastering spells that danced at the edge of the impossible, I now turned my full focus to the art that often stood between life and death—Defence Against the Dark Arts.
The mornings started early, sometimes before the sun peeked over the horizon. My wand was a constant companion, and every free moment was claimed by theory and practice. The vast expanse of the Room of Requirement served as my dueling ground, shifting to my needs as I conjured dark creatures from illusions, animated training dummies, and replayed simulations of hostile encounters. I delved into shielding techniques with the same fervor I had once reserved for Transfiguration, perfecting layers of Protego and its advanced forms, testing their resilience against hexes, curses, and silent spells fired from different angles. I wanted to feel instinct in every countermeasure, not thought.
Sally Fairburn's teachings had always struck a balance between practicality and vigilance. Her lessons, though strict, had kindled in me a hunger for mastery—something far beyond the confines of the classroom. Now, in solitude, I pushed her methods further. I crafted counter-curses in rapid succession, responding not to the spell being cast, but to the wand movement and magical pressure in the air. I read through every volume she recommended and even pored through older tomes kept in the restricted section—books that warned of inferi, malevolent spirits, and forbidden rituals too dark for casual discussion.
Some nights, I even practiced wandless defence—not the ancient MAGICKS I had studied earlier in the Chamber, but the more practical modern applications of casting without a conduit. It required more effort, draining more magic than I liked, but the benefits were real. Against lesser threats, it would mean an edge, and against greater ones, a backup when all else failed.
By mid-March, I was running simulations of three-on-one duels, using enchanted projections to replicate multiple attackers. I studied classic battle strategies, like those used by the Aurors during the Goblin Rebellions and the dark conflicts in Eastern Europe. The more I learned, the more I realized that raw power was only part of the equation—anticipation, adaptability, and knowledge of enemy psychology mattered just as much.
The Patronus Charm, whichh I had finally perfected the previous month, found new applications. I began working on controlling its form at will, summoning not just a silvery beast of protection but a creature of guidance and focus—my Patronus felt increasingly like a guardian that responded to my mood, sharp and solid on my worst days, radiant and comforting on my better ones.
As the month neared its end, I felt something shift. I wasn't just studying defence anymore. I was embodying it. I could feel the contours of dark magic from the briefest of magical signatures. I could see the feints in a duelist's stance before the wand even rose. I knew, instinctively, how to respond—not because I had read it, but because I had drilled myself to the point where muscle memory and magical sense had fused.
Then came the 25th of March. My birthday. Fourteen years of life behind me. The morning was quiet, filled with a rare peace. For once, I didn't train. Instead, I joined Eleanor, Edgar, Henry, and Elizabeth at breakfast. They'd remembered. A small package of Honeydukes sweets and a card enchanted to sing (rather off-key) "Happy Birthday" sat waiting at my place. Henry grinned at the tune, while Eleanor rolled her eyes but smiled. Edgar had drawn something—a little sketch of a wand duel we'd had back in first year—and Elizabeth had charmed a parchment to show flickering images of our moments together: a snowball fight by the Great Lake, a tense match of Wizard's Chess, and a snapshot of us laughing after a particularly chaotic Herbology class.
We spent the day outside. The sky was brilliant blue, with just a touch of wind. We walked the grounds, climbed up by the Astronomy Tower, and lounged under the warm sun near the Black Lake. Henry and Edgar were tossing around a Quaffle, while Eleanor and Elizabeth lay in the grass discussing a book I'd recommended. I sat back, absorbing the moment.
It was strange. For all the darkness I had studied—the curses, the beasts, the twisted magicks—I still had this. Friends. Peace. A day without expectations. A part of me knew it wouldn't last. The war looming in the whispers of politics and bloodlines, the truths buried in Salazar's library, the weight of my legacy—they would all return soon. But for that moment, I allowed myself the luxury of youth, the joy of simplicity.
That night, back in Ravenclaw Tower, I lit a single candle and placed my wand beside it. I stared out the window at the stars.
Fourteen.
There was much to do. And I was ready.
April came with a strange stillness in the air, like the pause between lightning and thunder. My days were quieter, more controlled—no longer the wild scatter of learning new spells or deciphering forgotten arts. Now, it was about threading it all together: the precision of Charms, the force of Defence, and the subtle power of Transfiguration. Every evening, I poured over my notes and theory, but the weekends… the weekends belonged to fire and spellwork, to the sound of Dumbledore's boots on the ruin stones and the ever-present hum of magic ready to burst free from my fingertips.
Saturday mornings began as they always had. I woke early in my dorm, moved to the common room and asked the elves to provide me tea and sunny side omelette for my breakfast, and reviewed my weekly notes while the toast floated itself from the rack to my plate. The fireplace glowed gently as I secured my wand to my side and shrugged on my cloak. Outside, spring was tentative—the grass hesitant, the trees unsure whether to bloom or sleep a little longer. After that I moved to the classroom we would train, me and Dumbledore that is, actually it would be more appropriate to say where Dumbledore will train me.
I arrived just after dawn. The morning mist clung low, drifting between the towers of Hogwarts and it's mossy stone walls. Dumbledore was already there, sitting cross-legged atop a table, gazing thoughtfully at the sun just beginning to crest over the treetops through the window on the wall. His hair and beard were auburn, not yet the iconic silver they would one day become, and his robes today were a deep blue with silvery thread that caught the morning light.
"You're early," he said without turning.
"So are you," I replied, stepping into the class room or hall if you would say, and stretching out my arms.
Dumbledore rose smoothly to his feet, brushing dust from his robes. "Today we test synthesis. Let's see if your studies in Charms and Transfiguration can dance with the rhythm of combat."
He raised his wand, and without another word, launched a shimmering Disarming Charm at me. I pivoted and parried with a *Protego*, the spell rebounding with just enough force to remind him I'd improved. He didn't pause. A *Pinching Hex* came fast behind it—stingingly sharp and well-aimed. I bent my knees, rolled, and fired back with my own disarming charm, transfiguring the rock beside me into a low wall as I retreated behind it.
I could feel the weeks of study coursing through me now. Each movement, each incantation, came cleaner, sharper, with far more control than even a month ago. I wasn't just reacting—I was choosing.
Dumbledore's spells came harder. *Expelliarmus* again, followed by a hex that forced my transfigured wall to buckle and hiss. I let it collapse, ducking beneath the stone and casting *Protego Totalum* to reinforce my position, then a silent *Avis* to send conjured birds into the air. While he batted them aside with a gust of wind, I launched a chain of spells—*Expelliarmus*, *Stupefy*, and a flicker of transfigured vines from the earth meant to ensnare his legs.
"Creative!" he called over the chaos. "But remember: coordination. Don't let flourish get in the way of function."
"I thought we were dancing," I shot back, deflecting another hex with a broad arc of my wand.
The training went on like this for nearly twenty minutes, but intensity like that could not be sustained. My final error was overextending a shield charm to block one of his more aggressive spells, which left my wand hand wide open. A swift *Expelliarmus* ripped the wand from my grip, and the duel was over.
Dumbledore smiled, breathing only slightly harder than usual. "Eleven minutes before you started slipping. That's not bad. You're integrating your knowledge well."
I bent down and retrieved my wand. "I could have held longer."
"You will," he said, and meant it. "But now, we revise. Sit."
I obeyed. We sat cross-legged in the class room, and I opened my notebook—one of several I carried with me these days. Dumbledore helped me dissect the choices I'd made in the fight, praising my timing on the transfigured vines and my reflexive defenses. Then he pointed out the moments where I could've tightened transitions—fewer wand movements, more silent casting, smoother blending between Charm and Curse.
He didn't mention the patronus today, though I'd worked on it obsessively in February. My corporeal form was still elusive while in combat, though I'd managed bright silvery wisps that hovered for more than a few seconds now. It would come.
When the sun rose higher and the last remnants of morning mist lifted, we concluded the session. Dumbledore patted me on the shoulder. "Same time tomorrow?"
I nodded, breathless. "Always."
Back in my house that evening, I lit a few candles and stretched across the floor with a book from Salazar Slytherin's private library opened in front of me. It was a thin, dark-bound tome written in a curving Parseltongue script. Not about curses this time—but wandless transmutations, the kind of raw change ancient wizards had coaxed from the world without using a wand. It was dangerous stuff—slow, demanding of focus, and difficult to control—but endlessly fascinating. I wouldn't go deeper into this right now. I remembered Salazar's advice too well: mastery in the current before delving further into the forgotten.
My fingers itched to experiment anyway. Just one try, I told myself, just to test the idea of shaping light itself with sheer magical will. I steadied my breathing and focused. No wand. Just intent. The light from the candle wavered. Bent. Curled like a ribbon.
It didn't last, but it happened.
I smiled, closed the book, and cleaned up. I had Transfiguration essays to finish before bed, and tomorrow, another round of spellwork that would demand every ounce of strength I had.
But tonight, I allowed myself a single moment of pride. I was weaving it together now—knowledge, skill, power. And I was only just beginning.
Under the warming skies of April 1934, as the last traces of winter faded from the Scottish highlands, I found myself standing again in the clearing by the ancient ruin near the Forbidden Forest's Hogsmeade-side edge, Dumbledore has gotten permission from headmaster for allowing this as we would need more open space than the castle could provide. The weekend air was crisp with dew and layered with birdsong, a deceptive calm considering what would soon follow. Across from me, his wand held lightly yet firmly in his hand, stood Professor Dumbledore—his auburn hair gleaming faintly in the morning light, a serene smile playing at his lips. We'd returned to our now-routine combat sessions, but this time, everything felt different.
Over the past three months, I had buried myself in study with near-maniacal focus. January was a blur of transfigured objects and self-corrected notes—every piece of the curriculum up to fifth year internalized through discipline and sheer determination. February was consumed by Charms, where I'd perfected not only the theoretical but also the intricacies of spellcasting techniques: from the simplest Hovering Charm to the shimmering silver force of the Patronus, which I'd conjured under the pale light of the Ravenclaw dorms, alone and trembling. March had been all about Defence—duels against enchanted dummies, wand movement drills in front of my bathroom mirror, theory scrawled out in journals with diagrams, notes, and thoughts on spell effectiveness, intent, and counter-responses.
And now in April, all of it was to be tested in fire—both metaphorically and literally.
"Ready, my boy?" Dumbledore asked gently, his blue eyes twinkling. "Remember—no more than three spells. Disarming, shield, and the pinching hex. Swift casting. Fluid movement. Adaptation."
I nodded, and the moment he raised his wand, the air snapped alive. The duel began.
I moved first—"Expelliarmus!"—but his shield charm was already shimmering. A crimson spark cut the air in response, forcing me to dive to the side and counter with "Protego!" in a tight, upward arc. The spell met his hex mid-air, creating a flash of violet light. My body moved on instinct, honed by countless hours of reading, theorizing, and practicing in corridors and empty classrooms.
Seconds stretched into minutes. I began weaving through his counters more fluidly, controlling my breathing, drawing not only from my recent months of study but also from the mental clarity I had started cultivating through early wandless meditations in the Chamber. I could feel the change in myself—a greater awareness of space, of energy, of the *flow* of magic.
Dumbledore's style was fluid, almost playful, but impossibly sharp. He never overcommitted, never allowed emotion to tip his control. He tested, prodded, and then punished when a gap presented itself. At the seven-minute mark, I felt sweat bead my brow. My shielding was holding, but only barely.
Eight minutes in, I caught him off guard—barely. I faked a hex to the left, rolled right, and snapped out "Expelliarmus!"—his wand jolted slightly in his grasp, not enough to disarm, but enough to widen his smile.
"Excellent feint, Marcus!"
The duel intensified. There was no time to think, only act. Fire and light and pressure. My knees ached. My arm burned. My wand felt heavier with each breath. But I kept pushing.
At the eleven-minute mark, I stumbled—not physically, but magically. My shield stuttered for a fraction of a second. That was all it took. His hex caught me square in the chest. It didn't hurt, but it pinched sharply enough to knock me back onto the dewy grass.
Dumbledore lowered his wand and walked over. "Eleven minutes. That is *impressive*. Truly." He extended a hand, and I took it, feeling the magical exhaustion settle deep in my limbs.
"You've come far in a short time, Marcus. I daresay few fifth-years could last that long under my fire."
I smiled, chest heaving. "It's starting to feel like it's all connecting, sir. Everything I've been studying—it's not just theory anymore."
"Indeed. I noticed how your defensive patterns evolved—very Ravenclaw of you. And your counter-attacks are more efficient than ever. I suspect your study regimen has been… rigorous?"
"Every day since January. I split the month for each major subject. I've held back from diving too deeply into obscure magicks as you advised, though I still experiment a bit at night."
"Balance is essential," Dumbledore said, patting my shoulder. "Push modern magic to its pinnacle, and the obscure will become easier to wield in time. Not because it is simpler—but because *you* will be stronger."
That evening, I returned to my small dorm. I asked out for some soup to the ever helpful House elves at Hogwarts, ate while reviewing notes I'd taken on advanced switching spells, then went to sit at my desk beneath the window. The stars above the many towers of Hogwarts twinkled faintly in the distance.
Opening a worn tome I'd brought from the Chamber, I re-read a section on proto-wandless invocation techniques—an arcane way of calling raw magic to the skin without the use of structured spells. It was fascinating but difficult, like trying to write poetry in a language I only half knew. I tried one invocation under my breath, hand outstretched, focusing entirely on intention and internal resonance.
Nothing happened.
I smiled. That was expected.
This was the long game. The winding, grueling path to mastery that most never attempted because it offered no easy victories. But I had time. And more importantly, I had resolve. The path of the Starborn line—of Salazar's legacy, of the weighty expectations of a magical world that didn't yet know what I was becoming—was not one I intended to walk half-heartedly.
And so I practiced for a few more hours, letting obscure magicks dance on the edge of my thoughts like half-remembered dreams, until my eyes grew heavy and the moon climbed high and I allowed Morpheus to claim me.