Magic, for most children, was a marvel.

  They waved their wands. Things fizzled. Sparks danced. Sometimes a cup exploded. Sometimes a quill floated a whole inch. They’d ugh. Cp. Celebrate mediocrity like it was a miracle.

  I didn’t.

  Magic, for me, wasn’t a show.

  It was a system.

  Jake had recently learned Lumos. The first time he cast it, he screamed, “I’M A HUMAN FLASHLIGHT!” and proceeded to blind half the common room.

  Nathaniel cpped.

  Desmond dropped his book in awe.

  I watched the wandlight—how it bent at the tip, the angle of release, the focus point behind his eyes—and made a quiet note in my book.

  Too wide. Too unstable. Too much wasted energy.

  Jake called it “fre.” I called it “inefficiency.”

  Professor McGonagall noticed.

  She didn’t say anything at first. But I could feel it—the sharpness in her eyes during Transfiguration, how she lingered a second longer on my spellcasting. The occasional pause when I transfigured an object faster and with less effort than she expected.

  It wasn’t about power. It was about control.

  When Jake performed a matchstick transfiguration, the result looked like a metal toothpick that had suffered in the war.

  When I did it, the object changed perfectly. Dimensionally correct. Banced. Mass-aligned.

  There was no cheering. No cpping.

  Just silence.

  I preferred it that way.

  After one such css, she called me aside.

  Her office was colder than expected—minimal, efficient, organized. A room built for thoughts, not emotions.

  She gestured for me to sit.

  I did.

  She studied me for a long moment before speaking.

  “Caelum,” she began, her voice even, “you have a remarkable grasp of practical spellwork for a first-year.”

  “Thank you,” I said ftly.

  “Your spells are precise. Consistent. Measured. But they’re also… surgical. As though you’re not learning them—so much as executing them.”

  I tilted my head. “And that’s a problem?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But it is unusual.”

  Her eyes softened, just slightly.

  “You remind me of someone. Someone trained not in a school—but in a battlefield.”

  I stayed silent.

  She folded her hands. “Why do you study like this? Your approach is methodical. Dispassionate. As though every charm is a weapon.”

  I met her eyes. “Because it might be.”

  That quieted the room.

  She didn’t interrupt, so I continued. “Magic is a tool. It can build, break, defend, destroy. Same as any bde or jutsu.”

  “Jutsu?” she asked quietly.

  I corrected myself. “Old word. Doesn’t matter.”

  “I disagree,” she said gently. “Your terminology, your posture—even your breathing when you cast—it’s trained. Not taught.”

  She was right, of course. Years of hand seals, chakra molding, battlefield reflexes—they didn’t disappear with rebirth. They simply adapted.

  “I don’t learn like the others,” I said. “They learn for fun. For pride. To impress. I learn because I need to understand this world.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was dropped into it without a map.”

  She went quiet at that.

  I let her sit in that silence. Let her wonder what kind of child used words like “execute” and “battlefield.”

  She leaned forward slightly.

  “Caelum… you are a child.”

  I nodded. “Technically.”

  “And children are meant to learn with wonder. With curiosity, yes—but also joy.”

  I said nothing.

  Her voice softened again. “Try, at least, to be eleven.”

  I considered that.

  Being eleven seemed exhausting.

  Later that day, we filed into Potions css. If Transfiguration was a craft, Potions was a negotiation—with the ingredients, the fme, and the professor.

  Horace Slughorn stood at the front like a jolly potion-goblin with a high society addiction.

  “Welcome, welcome, my eager young minds!” he beamed. “Today we brew the Cure for Boils. Simple—yet important!”

  His eyes swept the room.

  They lingered on names he recognized.

  “Ah, Mr. Rosier,” he said when he saw me. “A very respectable name. Old blood, very old. Your father’s side, I presume?”

  “Yes, Professor,” I said bndly.

  He looked me over, eyes glinting. “Let’s hope talent runs in the line, eh?”

  He didn’t say it cruelly. Slughorn didn’t need cruelty. His favoritism was sugar-coated—like chocote ced with arsenic.

  He passed by Jake with barely a gnce. Then he spotted Evie Lockhart.

  “Oh, Miss Lockhart! A pleasure. You wouldn’t happen to be reted to—ah, no, never mind, silly of me.”

  Jake stared at her like he’d just seen the sun in human form.

  Slughorn addressed the css.

  “Remember—potions are as much about finesse as they are about ingredients. Think of it as… brewing poetry.”

  Jake leaned over. “Can I blow this up?”

  I didn’t answer.

  During the lesson, I followed the instructions precisely: snake fangs crushed clockwise, porcupine quills added off-heat, careful stir before reapplying fme.

  My brew turned the correct shade of green in half the time. No bubbles. No smell. No acidic hiss of error.

  Jake’s cauldron let off purple smoke.

  Desmond’s spat foam like it was dying.

  Evie had a delicate swirl of steam and a smile that made Jake forget what boiling meant.

  Slughorn passed by again, peering into mine.

  “Excellent consistency. Hm. Very tidy work, Caelum. You’ve done this before?”

  “No, Professor.”

  “Well then! Natural instincts. Very promising.”

  He patted my shoulder and moved on.

  Jake scowled. “You get special praise from every teacher.”

  I added the final ingredient and leaned back. “Maybe they appreciate efficiency.”

  Desmond coughed. “Maybe they’re terrified of you.”

  Nathaniel ughed. “I mean, he does cast spells like a hit wizard.”

  I stirred once more and made a mental note.

  Potions were interesting—not because of ingredients, but because of variables. Timing. Temperature. Order. It was a thinking game. One I could win.

  Another system.

  Another weapon.

  I looked around the room—simmering cauldrons, frowning students, and Slughorn weaving between bloodlines and ambitions.

  This world ran on subtle rules.

  And I pnned to understand all of them.

  [End of Chapter 9]