Jake woke slowly, pulled from the depths of a profound and dreamless sleep by a gentle, silvery light filtering through the hangings of his bed. For a moment, he was completely disoriented. The bed was too soft, the air too cool and clean, a stark contrast to the familiar stuffiness of his university dorm. He blinked, pushing aside the heavy blue curtain.
He wasn't in Bristol.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows of the circular dormitory, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Below, the Hogwarts grounds were bathed in the crisp, golden light of a September morning. The Forbidden Forest was a dark, brooding sea of green, and the surface of the Black Lake shimmered like a sheet of hammered silver. It was breathtaking.
The other four boys in his dormitory were already awake. Stewart Ackerley was meticulously making his bed, tucking the corners with a precision that spoke of a well-practised routine. Two other boys were already dressed in their black robes, comparing the bronze and blue ties to see who had knotted theirs more neatly. The reality of it all crashed down on him again, a wave of mingled fear and exhilaration. This was real. This was his life now.
He got dressed, fumbling with the unfamiliar robes. His body felt strange—smaller, lighter, a decade and a half younger than the mind inhabiting it. It was a disconnect he was still struggling to get used to. He followed his new roommates down the spiral staircase and into the common room. It was already bustling with activity. Older students were gathered around tables, comparing notes or reading, while a few were helping other first-years figure out their ties. The massive statue of Rowena Ravenclaw seemed to watch over them all with a serene, intellectual air.
"What's the riddle this morning?" Stewart asked Robert Hilliard, the prefect, who was standing near the door.
Robert smiled. "A good one. 'What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?'"
Jake's mind, still fuzzy with sleep, churned. It was a classic. He knew the answer, but he held back, curious to see how his housemates would approach it. A third-year girl with her hair in a long plait tapped her chin thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "A river."
"Well spoken," the eagle knocker intoned, and the door swung open.
Navigating the castle was even more confusing than it had been the night before. Without Robert to lead them, the small group of first-year Ravenclaws got lost twice. One staircase decided to lead them down to the Entrance Hall, and they had to hastily backtrack when they heard the echoing laughter of Slytherins. They only found their way to the Great Hall after a friendly portrait of a wizard in a ruff pointed them in the right direction.
The hall was bright and filled with the cheerful noise of hundreds of students having breakfast. Jake slid into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, piling a plate with toast and bacon as he looked towards the staff table. Most of the teachers were there, but Jake's eyes were drawn to the empty seat beside Professor Quirrell, who was wearing his ridiculous purple turban even at breakfast. Professor Snape's seat.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, the man himself swept into the hall, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. He moved with a silent, predatory grace that commanded attention, his sallow face set in its customary sneer. He took his seat and immediately began a low, intense conversation with Professor Quirrell, who looked even more nervous than usual.
A sudden hooting sound filled the hall, and a great swarm of owls swept in through the high windows, circling above the tables and dropping letters and parcels to their owners. It was the morning post. A large barn owl landed in front of Robert Hilliard with a copy of the Daily Prophet, while smaller owls delivered letters to students all around Jake. He received nothing, of course, but he watched the spectacle with fascination.
A moment later, Professor Flitwick, the diminutive Charms master and Head of Ravenclaw House, came trotting down the table, handing out timetables. He smiled up at Jake as he handed him his.
"Here you are, Mr. Bloom. I trust you slept well?"
"Yes, Professor, thank you," Jake managed to say.
He looked down at the parchment in his hand. His first day of magical education, mapped out in neat, black ink.
Monday9:00am: Charms (with Hufflepuff)10:30am: Transfiguration (with Gryffindor)12:00pm: Lunch1:00pm: Herbology (with Hufflepuff)2:30pm: Defence Against the Dark Arts (with Slytherin)
A thrill shot through him as he read the list. This was it. No more theory, no more reading about it in books from another world. Today, he would learn to cast spells. He would learn magic.
Finding the Charms classroom took a certain amount of teamwork and asking a ghost for directions, but eventually, the Ravenclaw first-years found their way to a classroom on the second floor. The Hufflepuffs were already there, a cluster of cheerful-looking children in black and yellow who offered them friendly smiles. Jake found a seat next to Stewart Ackerley, pulling out his wand, a roll of parchment, and an inkpot.
Professor Flitwick was standing on a large stack of books at the front of the classroom, allowing him to see over the desk. He beamed at them all as the last student settled.
"Good morning, everyone!" he squeaked in his high-pitched voice. "Welcome to Charms! Now, Charms is one of the most fundamental branches of magic. It is the art of changing what an object does, without changing what the object is. You might make it fly, or dance, or sing, but it will still be the same object."
He took the register, his voice lilting as he called out their names. When he got to Jake's, he gave an extra little smile. Then, the lesson began in earnest.
"We shall start with the absolute basics," Professor Flitwick said. "Wand movements. The flick, the swish, the jab. Each must be precise. Please take out your wands."
For the next hour, they didn't utter a single spell. Instead, they practised. "Swish and flick," Professor Flitwick would squeak, demonstrating with his own wand. "Remember, a nice, clean movement. Don't be clumsy!"
Jake, with his adult mind and a patient, analytical approach, found he had a knack for it. He broke down the movements, feeling the slight weight shift, the way his wrist had to turn at the exact right moment. He ignored the sniggers from a few Hufflepuffs when his first few attempts were awkward and stiff, and focused entirely on the instruction. By the end of the hour, his 'swish and flick' was earning him nods of approval from Flitwick.
"Excellent, Mr. Bloom, excellent! A natural!"
Finally, in the last fifteen minutes of the lesson, they were taught their first incantation.
"The Levitation Charm," Flitwick announced. "One of the most elementary yet useful spells in a wizard's arsenal. The incantation is Wingardium Leviosa."
He demonstrated, pointing his wand at a feather on his desk. "Wingardium Leviosa!" The feather gracefully lifted into the air and hovered a few feet above the wood. A wave of oohs and aahs went through the classroom.
"Now, you try," Flitwick said, magically distributing a single feather to each student. "Together now: swish and flick, and Wingardium Leviosa."
The classroom descended into a chaotic chorus of "Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa" and frantic wand-waving. Nothing happened. Feathers remained stubbornly inert on desks across the room. Jake took a deep breath, picturing the feather lifting in his mind. He recalled the exact motion Flitwick had used. He raised his wand.
"Swish and flick," he murmured, performing the movement cleanly. "Wingardium Leviosa."
For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened. Then, the little feather on his desk trembled. It wobbled, then slowly, unsteadily, lifted an inch into the air before falling back down with a soft puff.
It wasn't much. But it was more than anyone else had managed. A grin spread across Jake's face. It was real. He could do magic.
Riding the high of his small success, Jake walked with the other Ravenclaws to Transfiguration. The classroom had a much more serious atmosphere than the Charms classroom. It was large, surrounded by high windows, and had a feeling of scientific precision. When they entered, they found the Gryffindor first-years already seated, and a tabby cat was sitting perfectly still on the teacher's desk, watching them with unnervingly intelligent eyes.
Jake recognised the cat instantly and felt a jolt of nervous respect. He found a seat and watched the cat, which didn't so much as twitch a whisker. As the bell rang, the students who had been chattering fell silent. In one fluid movement, the cat leapt from the desk and seemed to expand and reshape in mid-air, landing on the floor not as a cat, but as the tall, stern figure of Professor McGonagall.
The effect on the eleven-year-olds was immediate. Jaws dropped, and a few students let out gasps of amazement. Jake, who had been expecting it, was still deeply impressed by the seamlessness of the transformation.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said, her voice crisp and commanding as she surveyed the class with her piercing gaze. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
Unlike Flitwick's cheerful welcome, this was a clear, no-nonsense statement of intent. The mood in the room shifted from wonder to nervous tension.
"Transfiguration is a science," she continued, "a discipline that will not tolerate foolishness. It is about changing the very form and substance of an object. There are formulas, laws. You will learn them. Today, we are attempting a very basic transformation. You will turn a matchstick into a needle."
With a flick of her wand, a single matchstick appeared on every student's desk. Then, with another precise wave, she transfigured her own matchstick. In an instant, the wood paled, shrank, and hardened into a sharp, silver needle.
"You will focus your mind on the object you wish to create," she instructed. "Visualise the needle. Sharp, pointed, metallic. Feel its properties. Then, perform a firm tap with your wand and say the incantation." She wrote the single, complex-looking word on the blackboard: Acus.
Jake studied the matchstick on his desk. This seemed more difficult than levitation. That was making something do something. This was making it be something else entirely. He thought back to his psychology lectures on perception and visualisation. He closed his eyes, picturing a needle with perfect clarity: the glint of light off its surface, the tiny, smooth hole of the eye, the dangerous sharpness of its point.
He opened his eyes, feeling a sense of mental readiness. He raised his wand, gave the matchstick a firm tap, and said, "Acus!"
The matchstick vibrated. The wood turned a pale, silvery grey, and the end sharpened to a definite point. But it was still wood. It hadn't become metal. It was a pointed, silver-coloured matchstick.
He tried again. And again. Each time, the result was the same. He could change its colour and shape it slightly, but he couldn't force it to make the fundamental leap from wood to metal. Looking around, he saw he wasn't alone. Most students' matchsticks were completely unchanged. A few had managed to make theirs pointy, and one Gryffindor boy had accidentally set his on fire.
Frustration began to bubble in his chest. In Charms, his patience and analytical mind had given him an edge. Here, it felt like he was hitting a solid wall. He understood the theory, he could visualise the end result perfectly, but the magic itself, the raw power to enforce his will upon reality, wasn't quite there. It was a humbling, infuriating experience. The bell signalling the end of the lesson rang, making him jump.
Professor McGonagall gave the class a thin-lipped, unimpressed look. "No one has succeeded, which is not unexpected. Practice is required. You will read the first chapter of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration and submit a foot of parchment on the principles of object-to-object transformation for Thursday. You are dismissed."
Jake packed his bag, staring at the failed matchstick on his desk. His first real taste of magical failure. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Magic, he was learning, was not just about knowing what to do. It was about having the ability to do it.