Term was fast approaching.
At the orphanage, laughter and carefree chatter had faded, replaced by a creeping dread.
After tasting the sweetness of holiday freedom, returning to the daily grind of school felt especially cruel.
The worst off were the crammers, those brave souls attempting to finish an entire holiday’s worth of written assignments in the final few days.
They were extraordinarily busy.
Soren, being a model student, naturally had no part in that crowd.
He was still swamped though.
Inside his room, the Hogwarts first-year textbooks lay spread across the bed in a neat row.
Ayla sat barefoot on the mattress in an adorable duck-legged pose, pulling a book at random, flipping to a page, reading the first few words of a key concept, then waiting for Soren to finish it from memory.
Every single time, sitting at his desk with his back to her, he recited the answer perfectly.
The occasional stumble was quickly resolved by context alone.
Just as he’d resolved back then, he’d memorized every textbook.
Including the mind-numbing History of Magic.
The I Love Reading achievement tracked his progress at 8/100, proof of the grind.
That wasn’t all.
Every spell a first-year needed to master, he’d drilled until it was second nature, ready for a final exam on the spot.
Only Potions remained the exception.
Theory?
Flawless, no doubt in his mind.
He just needed hands-on practice to confirm the results.
Once the daily review session wrapped up, spell practice began.
Normally Soren practiced alone in his room, avoiding any risk of startling the oblivious orphans and causing a magical incident.
Lately though, circumstances had changed.
His room had sprouted an Ayla.
That part genuinely caught him off guard.
Ever since he’d told her about magic and handed over the prestigious job of walking the owl, their relationship had advanced by leaps and bounds.
If they’d been good friends before, now they’d reached a level that…
invited certain colorful assumptions from onlookers.
Because of this, Director Brent, who never used to bother him, now dropped by two or three times a day.
First, to drag Ayla back to the girls’ dormitory for bed.
Second, to keep an eye on them, terrified they might do something foolish.
The first time the director offered a delicate hint about boundaries, Soren nearly choked on his own spit.
For heaven’s sake.
He was eleven.
Ayla was ten.
Britain might be progressive, but surely not that progressive.
The thought made him glance back at her.
She was already watching him, face crumpled into an expression of pure grievance, eyes rimmed red.
Ever since the seven-day countdown to term began, her emotions had spiraled completely out of control.
“Ah…”
Even with a mind as mature as his, sometimes a sigh escaped anyway.
A beautiful girl’s affection is truly the hardest burden to bear.
The ancients didn’t lie about that one.
“Ayla…” he called.
“…”
She said nothing.
Just stared at him.
“It’s eight o’clock.
Time to go back to bed.”
“…”
Still silent.
She looked away, burrowed under his blanket, and lay down to sleep.
In his bed.
Soren was speechless.
Just as he opened his mouth to lecture the girl, a knock came at the door.
Knock knock knock.
After hearing it every day for the better part of a week, he could identify the knocker by sound alone.
Ayla knew too.
She bolted upright, shoved her feet into her shoes, and went to answer it with visible reluctance.
On the other side stood Director Brent, naturally.
The pre-term chaos with the children had clearly been getting to her.
A cold sore had bloomed on her lip.
The moment she stepped inside, her gaze swept over Ayla from head to toe, then took in the rumpled bed, and finally landed on Soren’s thoroughly innocent face.
In the end she said nothing.
Just pointed at the door.
Ayla, who had no problem throwing tantrums at Soren, shrank into herself like a baby quail and shuffled out with her neck tucked in.
The door closed again, leaving behind a spiritually wounded Soren to sigh in the dark.
A short rest later, the next item on his daily agenda got underway.
Wand in right hand.
Levitation Charm.
Unlocking Charm.
Wand-Lighting and Extinguishing Charms.
Mending Charm.
Scouring Charm.
Summoning Charm.
Every spell recorded in the first-year curriculum flowed out in smooth succession.
After dozens of cycles, a dull ache crept into his right arm.
His stamina and mental focus had taken a noticeable toll.
So the wand switched to his left hand, and the cycle began anew.
He’d told Mr.
Ollivander that his dominant hand was the right. Get faster updates on g.com.
That had been the truth.
But that didn’t mean his left hand couldn’t cast.
To borrow a classic line from a certain beloved RPG: heaven gave him two hands, so why shouldn’t he dual-wield?
This wasn’t some impulsive fantasy.
The achievement system itself had whispered the possibility.
Metamagic Specialty: Dual-Wand Casting.
Metamagic Specialty: Multi-Casting.
Never mind the insane unlock requirements.
The system had confirmed it: these were achievable goals.
Since that discovery, Soren had trained his left-hand casting with deliberate focus, and beyond that, the more advanced art of wandless magic.
After several dozen rounds with his left hand, he set the wand aside and practiced barehanded.
Spell difficulty spiked this way, and the failure rate climbed sharply.
But he understood clearly that in real combat, these techniques could save his life.
Proper academy-trained wizards tended to assume that disarming an opponent meant victory.
Pit them against Soren, though, and they’d be in for a nasty surprise.
Picture it: they successfully hit him with a Disarming Charm, drop their guard to savor the win, and he flicks his middle finger to fire off a Killing Curse.
Who in the world could defend against that?
How could they?
Chasing that beautiful vision, Soren pushed himself until dizziness blurred his thoughts, his mood flatlined, and his concentration frayed beyond repair.
Only then did he stop to rest.
Up to this point, his understanding of the fundamental nature of magic in the Harry Potter world remained sketchy at best.
A Theory of Magic barely scratched the surface, which was fair enough for a beginner’s primer.
The truly deep knowledge probably waited in the library, or perhaps the Restricted Section.
From personal experience, he could at least conclude that while wizards in this world had no mana bar and could theoretically cast indefinitely, limits still existed.
Take himself as proof.
Every spell drained stamina, mental focus, and emotional energy.
True perpetual motion was impossible.
By the time this entire ordeal wrapped up, it was deep into the night.
Soren rubbed his temples and ran through a few sets of eye exercises.
The quiet routine was about to end.
Once at Hogwarts, he’d need to find a new secluded practice spot away from the crowds.
Another headache to deal with.
The Room of Requirement.
The Forbidden Forest.
Or maybe…
the abandoned bathroom where Myrtle haunted?
Before the Chamber of Secrets opened, that place was safe enough.
Eyes closed, mind still turning, the long and fulfilling day finally slipped away…