'Gosh. Why does elemental magic have to be so complicated?' Harry wondered while walking away from the Gryffindor common room.
Lost in thought and trying to come up with a way to bend air as the tome he was reading suggested, he didn't notice where he was heading.
He only realised he wasn't heading to his desired destination—the nearest school exit—when he found himself back where he started.
"Isn't that the portrait of Barnabas teaching trolls ballet? What the hell am I doing here?" he muttered, feeling profoundly confused.
He continued staring at the absurd picture, noticing the peculiar sensation his senses detected.
'Huh. Something definitely feels off about that spot,' Harry thought and turned to examine the blank wall opposite the portrait.
As he stepped closer to the wall, his suspicion was confirmed.
There was a distinct magical signature emanating from the stone surface… The wall seemed to pulse with magic, beckoning him to walk closer.
Just as Harry reached out to touch the wall, another sensation surged through his awareness.
'What the hell is Dumbledore doing here?'
His magical awareness—stretched to almost full capacity now—detected the headmaster's magical signature approaching the seventh floor.
'Bloody Merlin,' he cursed and immediately started walking in the opposite direction, planning to take another staircase and exit the castle. 'What does the old man want? He never comes to the Gryffindor common room.'
Harry hastened his steps, ducking down a nearby corridor before Dumbledore could get any closer.
He didn't know how good the headmaster was at sensing magic—Harry was sure he had the ability—and he didn't want to find how their senses' ranges compared.
'One mystery at a time,' he thought to himself, remembering the curious ripple of magic near the stark wall.
He reached his staircase, heading downwards two steps at a time, intent on leaving the castle as quickly as possible.
Moments later, Harry emerged onto the grounds, the mid-afternoon sun gleaming across Hogwarts' expansive lawns.
He took a breath, savouring the crisp air as it filled his lungs, pushing aside any lingering anxieties about Dumbledore.
Harry scanned the horizon and decided on a quiet stretch of land near the edge of the Forbidden Forest—not too close, mind, but far enough that he'd be out of sight and earshot of prying eyes.
As he strolled through the grounds, he focused on the feel of the wind against his skin. The tome he'd been reading emphasised the importance of attuning one's senses to the element's natural ebb and flow. Before now, his attempts at air manipulation had felt clumsy and frustrating, especially when he tried to wield it with pure force of will. But the text spoke of harmony, not dominance—of guiding rather than commanding.
However, he could wield the element well enough; it just felt awkward to do so.
Harry reached a discreet patch of grass, partially shielded by a tall oak, and drew his wand, though he wasn't strictly sure he'd need it; the book didn't specify how the author cast the spell.
From Salazar's books and the tomes he had snatched from the restricted section, he gathered that there wasn't a universally agreed way of controlling elemental magic.
For example, in the book where Harry learned Lux Sanctus Tempestatis, the author suggested that using a wand allowed finer control of the elements. However, Salazar's notes firmly stated that wandless control of such magic was easier.
"Right," he mumbled, inhaling deeply. "Feel the current in the air, sense its movement... let it flow through you, then grasp it."
Harry closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sunlight brush across his face. He breathed in, imagining the current of air swirling around him.
For a moment, he could almost feel invisible strands—thin, delicate pathways—gliding over his skin.
He steadied his breathing and tried to attune his senses to the air, to guide it and not dominate it.
Harry tried, but he still felt a familiar stumbling block. Each time he attempted to shape the breeze, it responded with reluctant, jittery shifts—more like a chaotic gust than a smooth flow.
A trace of frustration seeped into his thoughts. 'Why can't I get this right?'
He inhaled deeply, seeking calm.
Salazar's notes insisted that elemental magic was more about one's mindset than it was about incantations and wandwork. Yet Harry's mind often leapt straight to controlling rather than merging, or flowing, with the magic.
His extraordinary ability to sense and see magic around him only reinforced that habit—formed through years of wand spells where intent and willpower took precedence.
He let out a slow breath, reaching into that space within him where magic felt most alive—where he could sense the swirl of energies in his core.
The tome had insisted that each element possessed its own subtle pulse, separate from the others.
The key to controlling air is harmony, not force, the author had said.
That notion clashed with his instincts; typically, if something wasn't working, he pushed harder, saw what he did wrong, and fixed it.
This time, however, pushing seemed to make the wind buck and scatter.
Harry opened his eyes, letting them drift towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Leaves at the treetops quivered with the breeze, and he wondered how they stayed so perfectly in tune with the wind's shifts.
'They don't try to control it at all; they simply move with it.'
Yet when he reached out with a soft pulse of magic, the wind sprang to life in a disordered flurry, slapping stray leaves against his robes. A few scattered against his ankles in a clumsy swirl, then dropped with a listless thud.
Harry frowned, the prickle of frustration creeping up his neck. "Come on," he muttered, trying again.
This time, he attempted a gentler touch—imagining the breeze as a willing partner rather than a stubborn force. But the air simply twitched and sputtered, blowing an erratic gust into his face before settling.
A third attempt felt close to success: the wind stirred in a small, hopeful circle at his feet. But his excitement sparked too soon, causing the breeze to snap free of his guidance and collapse altogether.
He let out a huff of annoyance, raking a hand through his hair.
Glancing down at his wand, he thought again about the elementalists' contradictory remarks.
Perhaps that was his stumbling point. 'Maybe the authors that suggested the use of wands simply lacked the skill in wandless magic to do it properly. And just maybe, they were too prideful to admit it, even to themselves.' Harry thought, tucking his wand back into his robes.
He closed his eyes once more, this time focusing first on the stillness inside himself. Like sinking into calm waters, he gradually let tension slide away and pictured the wind brushing his robes, tousling his hair, carrying faint echoes of the forest's hush. Let it flow… The line from the tome repeated in his mind, urging patience.
Tentatively, Harry reached out—less a grasp, more a gentle invitation. He felt a faint tug in his chest, as though wind currents were flowing inside him.
The air around him began to swirl, almost playfully, and for once, he guided it with a light touch, letting himself be carried by the currents.
To his surprise, when he opened his eyes, leaves fluttered in a gradual circle, dancing on a breeze of his own making. A jolt of excitement flared in his chest—he'd done it! The swirl wavered momentarily as his excitement became too forceful, but he caught himself just in time, reining in the urge to seize control again.
A grin spread across Harry's face. 'Holy fuck, I did it!'
"Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, my dear boy. It seems you've grasped the essence of air—an element which most elementalists fail at or abandon trying to master."
His excitement vanished instantly, replaced by an icy mask that settled over his features.
Harry spun around, wand hand flexing involuntarily—though his wand remained tucked in his robes. He could summon it at a moment's notice.
Dumbledore stood at the edge of the tall oak's shadow, half in light, half in shade. His expression was kindly, with that unmistakable twinkle in his blue eyes, but Harry detected the slightest quirk of curiosity tugging at the corners of the old wizard's mouth.
'How in Merlin's name did he manage to approach without me noticing?' Harry wondered, steadying his breathing.
How had Dumbledore approached so silently? He didn't know. He thought he'd be able to sense the man's magic from well off.
Perhaps the headmaster had masked his magical signature—though could he really be that skilled?—or perhaps Harry had been too absorbed in channelling the breeze to notice. He decided it must have been the latter.
Whichever the case, he schooled his features into something neutral, refusing to betray any hint of emotion.
"Professor," he said politely, dipping his head in greeting. "I wasn't expecting… anyone, here." Which was absolutely true—Harry had been fairly certain he'd managed to slip away unnoticed.
Dumbledore inclined his head. "A delightful spring day for some fresh air, wouldn't you agree?" His gaze swept over the slight swirl of leaves still dancing around Harry's feet, as though the breeze refused to settle entirely. "I'm pleased to see you exploring realms of magic many would deem too esoteric to bother with."
Harry shrugged lightly. "I've… been doing some reading."
Dumbledore allowed a soft, knowing chuckle. "Quite so. I daresay you've uncovered more than a few interesting tidbits in your reading of late."
There was a pause, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of grass beneath their shoes. A subtle tension lingered, as though each was waiting for the other to speak next. Harry wondered if Dumbledore would probe him with questions about his newfound abilities.
Instead, the headmaster let out a weary sigh and settled into his familiar, grandfatherly look of disappointment.
"Let's not beat around the bush, my boy. We need to talk," Dumbledore said, making Harry suppress a sigh.
'Just great!'
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Chapter 101: Confrontation
Chapter 102: Last Task
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Chapter 109: The Dead