Harry Potter: The Soldier of Hogwarts

Ryan sat in the first row of the Charms classroom, a patch of bright morning sun falling across his desk. His wand rested on the polished wood in front of him, and a blank sheet of parchment lay beside it. Quills scratched lightly around him as students settled in—Hufflepuffs to his right, Slytherins to his left. The room buzzed with low conversation, but Ryan barely heard it.

He was lost in thought.

Dumbledore's words from earlier still echoed in his mind. "Magic is a conversation."

The idea had struck something deep in him. He'd come into this world expecting rules—predictable laws, mechanics like physics. But this… this felt more personal. Like magic was alive, or at least responsive in a way he hadn't anticipated. And now he sat in his first lesson, not just to learn how to cast spells, but to understand what they meant.

"Alright, everyone!" came a bright, high-pitched voice from the front of the room. Professor Flitwick—barely tall enough to see over the teacher's desk—stood on a stacked pile of thick books. His robes were a little too long and his smile beamed with excitement. "Welcome to your very first Charms class! I am Professor Flitwick, and today we begin with something quite basic—yet extremely useful."

He clapped his hands, and a gentle breeze rustled the parchment on the desks. "The Wand-Lighting Charm! A simple but essential spell. You may have heard of it already—Lumos!"

With a quick flick of his wand, the tip glowed brightly, casting a soft white light across the classroom. A few gasps and murmurs rippled through the students. Ryan leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp with interest.

"Now then," Flitwick continued, pacing slowly along the row of desks, "this charm is an excellent exercise in precision and intent. You must focus not just on the incantation and the wand movement, but on the why—the reason you are calling the light."

He stopped in front of Ryan's desk, his head barely reaching above the surface. His bright eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles. "And you, Mr. Ryan, you look as though you have a question itching to be asked."

Ryan blinked, caught off guard. Around him, students turned curiously.

"I do, sir. If that's alright."

"Of course, of course," Flitwick said, clapping his small hands together. "Go ahead."

Ryan hesitated only a moment. "Earlier this morning, I asked the Headmaster what magic really is. Not how it works, but what it is at its core. He said magic is a conversation—between the caster and the world."

Flitwick gave a pleased nod, rocking slightly on his heels. "A very wise answer. Dumbledore always did have a poetic touch."

Ryan continued, "So I wanted to ask your perspective. As someone who teaches the structure of spells… what is magic to you? When you teach something like Lumos, what are we really doing?"

The class went silent. Even the quills stopped.

Flitwick smiled, slowly and warmly. "What an excellent question."

He turned and hopped down from the stack of books with practiced ease, pacing gently between the rows of desks as he spoke. "Magic, to me, is focus made manifest. It is the power of thought and feeling, shaped by discipline. Magic exists everywhere—raw and formless—but you, young witches and wizards, give it shape."

He raised his wand. The light glowed again. "Take Lumos, for example. It is not just a lightbulb switch. When you cast it, you are asking the magic around you to shine—not just because you want it to, but because you understand how and why it must."

He turned to the class again, eyes twinkling. "You channel that understanding through the wand—your conductor's baton—and the magic listens."

Ryan nodded slowly. "So it's not just words and motion. It's… conviction?"

"Indeed," Flitwick said brightly. "Conviction, clarity, and practice. The three pillars of successful spellwork."

The professor turned back toward the front of the class and pointed his wand upward once more. "Now then! The incantation is simple: Lumos. Emphasis on the first syllable. The wand movement is equally simple—a small upward flick, like so."

He demonstrated, his wand's tip flaring with light again.

"I want you all to try it. No need to rush. Feel the intent. Imagine the light—not just as brightness, but as clarity."

The room filled with soft murmurs of "Lumos", the rustle of robes, and the flick of wands. Sparks sputtered, a few glows flared, and several students frowned in frustration.

Ryan stared at his wand for a long moment.

Light. Not just brightness. Clarity.

He closed his eyes. Focused. I want to see clearly. I want the shadows gone.

"Lumos," he whispered.

A spark ignited.

He opened his eyes and watched the wand-tip shine. Not blinding, but steady and real. The same as before, but this time, it came easier. As if the wand responded more willingly.

A few students nearby noticed. A Hufflepuff boy beside him leaned over slightly, whispering, "Hey, nice one. You got it already?"

Ryan nodded, distracted. "Yeah. Thanks."

From the front of the classroom, Professor Flitwick's voice chimed like a bell. "Very good! I see some early success! Don't worry if yours hasn't worked yet—remember, magic responds best when you believe in what you're casting. Not just know it, but mean it."

Ryan tilted his head, his light still shining at the tip of his wand. Believe in what you're casting? The words echoed in his thoughts, and something about it… intrigued him.

He raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Ryan?" Flitwick asked, perking up with interest.

"I have a question, Professor," Ryan said, carefully choosing his words. "Is magic… limited by the caster's imagination?"

That quieted the room. Even students who had been flicking their wands lazily now looked toward the first row where Ryan sat. 

Professor Flitwick blinked. "Er—well, that's… that's a good question. Magic certainly draws from intent and imagination. It's not entirely limited to it, of course. Magical law, magical theory, tradition—all play a role. But yes, imagination is a powerful component."

Ryan nodded thoughtfully, and followed up almost immediately, his tone more probing now.

"So," he began, pacing the thought, "if I wanted to change the form of a basic Lumos—say, alter its color, or mold its shape then I'd only need a solid grasp of the underlying magical principle and a clear conceptual model in my mind? A kind of... scientific understanding of light, perhaps, and a will strong enough to reshape it?"

Flitwick looked slightly taken aback. "Well, I—yes, in theory, that's correct. But such control typically comes with years of advanced training. It's difficult to apply theoretical modulation without first mastering the basic—"

But Ryan was already trying.

He turned back to his desk and lifted his wand.

Lumos.

The tip of his wand lit up again. But this time, he didn't stop there.

He closed his eyes, channeling his will. He imagined a blade—a solid, narrow shaft of light, concentrated and edged like tempered steel. He imagined its refraction, how light might condense and harden if it were dense enough. He pictured how the photons might align like particles in a laser—coherent, sharp.

The wand's light flared.

Gasps rippled through the classroom.

The glowing orb at the tip didn't remain a sphere. It elongated, stretched, and curved. The white light morphed, shimmering and condensing into a flat, razor-edged shape.

A blade of light, as long as a dagger, extended from Ryan's wand hovering like it were made of crystalized sunlight.

"Bloody hell…" someone whispered. Even the Slytherins at the back were silent, watching.

Professor Flitwick stepped down from his podium, his eyes wide and sparkling. "Remarkable! I've never seen such fine light-shaping from a first-year! Ten points to Slytherin for innovation and spell control!"

Across the room, Draco glared daggers at him. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged grunts, clearly unhappy that a Muggle-born was earning points. Pansy Parkinson leaned closer to Daphne and whispered behind her hand, eyes flicking toward Ryan with thinly-veiled distaste.

Ryan wasn't done.

Still holding the blade of light, he angled it downward—and without hesitation, drove it straight into the center of his own palm.

Gasps erupted. A few students screamed.

Particularly from the Hufflepuff and Slytherin tables, several girls clutched at their desks in horror.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" shrieked Professor Flitwick, his high-pitched voice cracking like glass.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, the wand flew out of Ryan's grasp, disarmed by an invisible force and clattering against the far wall.

"Wh—?" Ryan started, confused.

"Mr. Ryan!" Flitwick barked, his voice unusually forceful. "What in the name of goblin gods do you think you're doing?! Show me your hand now!"

Ryan raised his hand calmly, palm open.

There wasn't a scratch. No blood. No blister. The skin was perfectly intact, as if the glowing blade had passed through mist rather than flesh.

"It's fine, Professor," Ryan said coolly. "I just needed to confirm that the Lumos construct wasn't harmful. To me or to anyone else."

Flitwick's mouth opened, then closed again. His round face had gone pale. He looked like he couldn't decide whether to scold him or drag him to the hospital wing himself.

"By stabbing it into your palm!?" he finally managed, breathing heavily. "Are you completely out of your mind, child?! That is not how we test spells! That is not how anyone tests spells!"

The classroom remained dead silent, every student watching the scene unfold like a slow-moving magical explosion.

Ryan's expression didn't change. "Hypothetical testing has limits. Observation can only go so far. I needed to know if it could cut living matter. And since it's my spell, my wand, and my light construct it made sense to test it on myself first."

There was a flicker of something in Flitwick's eyes. Not just anger. Something more complicated. He recognized the logic. The raw, clinical reasoning behind it.

But it didn't make it right.

Flitwick's wand twitched in his hand, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. "Magic isn't just about results, Mr. Ryan. It's about responsibility. You're eleven years old. I don't care how clever you are—you don't get to play with your life like it's a chess piece."

Ryan looked down at his hand again. "I didn't feel any pain. The spell's construct had no thermal edge, no mass density. More like… a solidified illusion. A hard-light projection without lethal intent."

"You shouldn't need to quantify pain by self-infliction," Flitwick said, almost pleading now. "What if you'd been wrong? What if it had cut you? What if the spell became unstable or reacted to your intent in a way you didn't predict?"

Ryan's eyes flicked up. "Then I would've learned something even more important."

Flitwick stared at the boy for a long moment. Then, quietly, he walked over and retrieved Ryan's wand. He held it for a second in his hand as if weighing something invisible, then returned it to him—but didn't let go immediately.

"Don't do it again," he said, voice quiet.

"No promise."

 a faint twitch passed over Flitwick's face.