The elation of success was a fleeting thing. When Jake woke on Monday morning, the triumphant memory of the shimmering, magical shield was buried under a profound, crushing exhaustion. It was a sensation that had become his new normal, an ache so deep in his bones it felt as though his very marrow was tired. Every muscle protested as he forced himself out of bed and into his running clothes, the pre-dawn air outside the castle window looking less like an opportunity and more like a punishment.
He was running on a knife's edge, and he knew it. His meticulous training regimen was yielding incredible results, but the cost was becoming harder to ignore. He felt perpetually foggy, a low-grade headache a constant companion behind his eyes. The world seemed muted, his focus narrowed to his classes, his training, and the precious, dreamless sleep he collapsed into each night.
The first public consequence of his private war came, unsurprisingly, in History of Magic.
The classroom was perpetually chilly, and Professor Binns's voice was a monotonous, ghostly drone that could lull even the most attentive student into a stupor. For Jake, running on less than five hours of sleep and having already completed a gruelling two-lap run around the lake, it was a battle he was destined to lose. He fought valiantly for the first ten minutes, his quill scratching nonsensical notes about the 1875 Ban on Experimental Breeding, but his eyelids felt like they had lead weights attached. His head drooped once, then twice. He jerked awake, blinking furiously, but the tide of exhaustion was relentless. He slumped forward, his cheek coming to rest on the cool, smooth wood of the desk, and sleep claimed him.
He was awoken by a sudden, sharp silence. Binns had stopped speaking. Jake's head snapped up, a thin line of drool on his cheek, his eyes wide and disoriented. Every student in the classroom was staring at him.
Professor Binns floated at the front of the room, his form translucent against the blackboard. His voice, when it came, was as dry and emotionless as ever, yet it carried an undeniable weight of authority.
"It would appear, Mr Bloom, that the nuances of inter-species magical legislation are not to your liking," the ghost droned. "Perhaps you believe you can absorb such knowledge through osmosis. You cannot. Ten points from Ravenclaw for your blatant disrespect."
A ripple of snickers went through the Slytherins in the class, and even some of his fellow Ravenclaws shot him annoyed looks. Jake felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. It wasn't the point loss that bothered him, but the public failure. He had lost control. He had let his exhaustion make him sloppy. He spent the rest of the lesson sitting ramrod straight, his back aching, forcing his eyes to stay open.
The incident left him rattled and on high alert. He walked to his afternoon Transfiguration lesson feeling nothing but exhaustion and shame.
Professor McGonagall had set them a deceptively simple task: transfiguring a beetle into a button. It was a step up from inanimate-to-inanimate objects, requiring a more delicate touch to manipulate a once-living thing.
Jake stared at the beetle scuttling around his desk, trying to build the wall of conviction in his mind. But his focus, already strained, felt frayed and thin. He visualised the button—its shape, its four holes, the glossy texture—but the image kept blurring at the edges. He raised his wand, his hand not quite steady, and performed the incantation.
The beetle stopped scuttling and began to shimmer. Its legs curled in, its carapace hardened and flattened, but it retained a faint, iridescent sheen, and instead of four neat holes, there were only two, jaggedly formed. It was a button, but a sloppy, misshapen one. A clear failure.
He tried again, and then a third time, but the result was the same. He could feel Professor McGonagall's sharp eyes on him from the front of the classroom. At the end of the lesson, as the other students began to pack their bags, her crisp voice cut through the noise.
"The class is dismissed. Mr Bloom, a moment of your time."
Jake's heart sank. He waited as the last student filed out, the heavy classroom door clicking shut behind them, leaving him alone with the stern Head of Gryffindor. The silence in the room felt heavy, amplifying the sound of his own nervous breathing. He walked slowly to her desk, feeling like a defendant approaching the judge's bench.
Professor McGonagall finished making a note on a piece of parchment before she looked up, her piercing eyes fixing him with an unreadable expression. She wasn't angry; her face was a mask of stern neutrality, which was somehow more intimidating.
"Mr Bloom," she began, her voice crisp and precise. "At the beginning of this term, you submitted an essay on the principles of object-to-object transformation that was, and I do not say this lightly, one of the finest theoretical pieces I have ever received from a first-year. It was insightful, well-structured, and demonstrated a profound grasp of the subject."
She paused, letting the praise hang in the air before continuing, her tone shifting slightly. "And yet, for the past several weeks, your practical work has been... deteriorating. Today, you failed to properly transfigure a simple beetle. You appear distracted. You appear exhausted. Furthermore, I was made aware of an incident in your History of Magic lesson this morning."
Jake stared at the polished surface of her desk, unable to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry, Professor. I... I haven't been sleeping well."
It was a flimsy excuse, and they both knew it.
"Indeed," she said, her lips thinning into a severe line. "I have also received a report from Madam Hooch regarding your unusual aptitude on a broomstick. A curious pattern is forming, Mr Bloom. Exceptional talent in some areas, and a worrying decline in others."
She leaned forward slightly, her gaze intensifying. "Ambition is a commendable trait, particularly in a Ravenclaw. But there is a difference between diligence and self-destruction. The magic we practise in this castle is demanding. It requires not just a sharp mind, but a healthy one. Even the most powerful wizards require rest. Pushing your limits is how you grow, but ignoring them is how you break."
Her words hit him with the force of a physical blow. She saw everything. She had pieced together the disparate parts of his life—the private training, the academic struggles, the exhaustion—and had come to a startlingly accurate conclusion.
"Whatever it is you are pursuing with such... vigour," she concluded, standing up to signal the end of their conversation, "I would advise you to moderate your efforts. Do not let the pursuit of one goal lead to the failure of all others. You have a great deal of potential. It would be a shame to see it burn out before it has a chance to truly shine. That will be all."
Jake mumbled a "Yes, Professor," and practically fled the classroom, his cheeks burning with a fresh wave of shame. Her words echoed in his mind. Ignoring your limits is how you break.
He walked numbly through the crowded corridors, his mind a whirl of embarrassment and grudging respect. He had been so focused on his thesis, on the numbers, on increasing his capacity, that he had ignored the most obvious variable: his own well-being. He was treating his body and mind like a machine, a resource to be exploited, and the machine was starting to break down. The point loss was embarrassing, but McGonagall's stern, quiet concern was a far more potent wake-up call.
His current path was unsustainable. The maths of it was simple: his rate of recovery was lower than his rate of exertion. He was running a deficit, and the bill had finally come due.
But what was the solution? Quitting was not an option. His training was the only thing that gave him a sense of control, of tangible progress in this chaotic new world. The answer, he realised as he dodged a pair of chattering Hufflepuffs, wasn't to stop, but to adapt. Just as he had planned his exertions, he now needed to plan his recovery.
A new section began to form in his mental notebook, right next to his Stamina and Focus charts: Recovery and Consolidation. He would add a rest day. Two, maybe. Sunday would be a day of no running, no magical sets. It would be a day for catching up on homework, for reading ahead, and for sleeping. His weekly progress might be slower, but it would be steadier. Sustainable. It was a strategic retreat, not a surrender.
His new, more balanced approach paid immediate dividends. For the first time in weeks, he walked into his Charms lesson on Wednesday feeling clear-headed and alert. Professor Flitwick, standing on his customary stack of books, was introducing them to a new spell.
"Now, the Severing Charm, Diffindo, is a wonderfully practical piece of magic!" the tiny professor squeaked, his voice full of excitement. "But it requires a delicate touch! This is not about power; it is about precision!"
He demonstrated the wand movement—a sharp, clean slash—and with a cry of "Diffindo!", a neat incision appeared on a leaf he had placed on his desk. The charm required very little power, but a great deal of control. It was a test of finesse, not strength.
Jake watched, his mind making a crucial connection. He had been so obsessed with increasing his raw power, his Stamina, that he had neglected the other side of the magical equation. Control. Finesse. Efficiency. McGonagall's words came back to him: diligence, not self-destruction.
When it was their turn to practise on their own leaves, Jake took a deep, calming breath. He didn't try to force the magic. He focused on the clean, precise wand movement and the simple, clear intent to cut. "Diffindo!"
A perfect, clean slice appeared across the surface of his leaf. Professor Flitwick, who was trotting past at that moment, let out a delighted squeak. "Oho! Excellent, Mr Bloom! A perfect first attempt! Five points to Ravenclaw!"
The praise felt different from McGonagall's. It was warm and genuine, a reward not for brute force or intense study, but for simple, focused competence. It felt... good. He spent the rest of the lesson happily practising, feeling the subtle nuances of the spell, a pleasant mental exercise that left him energised rather than drained.
The experience crystallised his new strategy. His physical and magical training would continue, but at a more sustainable pace. The real frontier for growth now lay elsewhere. If he couldn't simply increase his power exponentially, he had to find a way to make the power he had more efficient and to recover it faster.
His mind immediately turned to the bubbling cauldrons and mysterious ingredients of the dungeons. Potions. It was a completely different discipline, a scientific art of tangible, repeatable results. It was the perfect new avenue for his research.
The following week, during his Potions lesson with the Slytherins, he worked with a renewed, intense focus. He followed the instructions for a simple Cure for Boils with a level of precision that bordered on obsessive, his knife-work clean, his ingredients measured to the milligram. But his mind was on a much more complex problem.
As the lesson drew to a close and students began to bottle their samples, he felt a knot of nervous energy tighten in his stomach. This was it. It was a calculated risk, but a necessary one. He waited, packing his bag with deliberate slowness, until he was the last student left in the gloomy, dungeon classroom with Professor Snape.
Snape was at his desk, making notes on a student's essay with a savagely sharp quill. He didn't look up, though Jake was certain he was aware of his lingering presence. The air was thick with the smell of pickled newts and something vaguely acrid.
"Is there a reason you are polluting my classroom with your continued presence, Mr Bloom?" Snape asked without raising his head, his voice a low, dangerous drawl.
Jake took a steadying breath. "Professor," he began, his own voice sounding small in the cavernous room. "I had a question. A theoretical one."
Snape finally looked up, his black eyes cold and devoid of any warmth. "I am not here to entertain the theoretical fantasies of first-years. State your business or be gone."
"It's about the potential of Potions," Jake pressed on, forcing himself to hold the man's gaze. "I was wondering... are there potions that can permanently enhance a wizard's natural magical reserves? Their power?"
For a moment, Snape simply stared at him, his expression unreadable. A flicker of something—surprise? suspicion?—crossed his features before being buried under his usual mask of disdain. "Such potions," he said slowly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "are the territory of Masters. They are incredibly rare, fantastically complex, and so far beyond your insignificant abilities that the question itself is an absurdity."
It wasn't a "no." Jake's heart beat a little faster. That was the opening he needed.
"I see," he said, changing tactics. "Then what about potions for recovery? Things that help restore a wizard's magical stamina? Not the Pepperup Potion, but something more... substantial."
Snape sneered. "The Wiggenweld Potion and its variants are taught in the fifth year. I would advise you to focus on not blowing up your cauldron in the first, before you begin daydreaming about N.E.W.T.-level draughts."
He had been shut down twice. This was the final, most dangerous part of his plan. Pushing his luck.
"I understand, Professor," Jake said, his tone carefully respectful. "It's just... the theory is fascinating. If a student wanted to practise brewing more basic potions, for extra credit, where would they acquire the ingredients for private work?"
Snape's eyes narrowed into slits. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. He rose slowly from his chair, a dark, looming figure, and glided towards Jake until he was standing directly in front of him. He was close enough that Jake could see the faint lines of contempt etched around his mouth.
"The student stores," Snape said, his voice a soft, sibilant hiss that was more menacing than any shout, "are for the precise, measured, and supervised execution of the school curriculum. They are not a personal sweet shop for arrogant first-years who believe they are above the rules."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping even further. "You will brew what you are assigned, when you are assigned it. Any attempt to access those stores outside of my direct supervision will not just result in your expulsion, but will make me question the very judgment of the Sorting Hat in placing such a reckless individual in the House of wit. Do I make myself... perfectly clear?"
"Yes, Professor," Jake said, his throat suddenly dry.
"Then get out of my sight."
Jake didn't need to be told twice. He turned and walked out of the dungeon, his back ramrod straight, not allowing himself to hurry. But the moment the heavy door closed behind him, he leaned against the cold stone wall of the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He hadn't failed, not really. He had been comprehensively shut down, but in doing so, Snape had confirmed everything. Permanent enhancement potions weren't a fantasy. Powerful recovery draughts were real. The path to a sustainable training regimen existed.
But Snape had also made the challenge terrifyingly clear. The ingredients and the knowledge were locked away, guarded by his own paranoid authority. Stealing them was out of the question; that was a fool's game, a path that led to immediate expulsion and the end of his journey. He was a researcher, not a thief.
The problem, then, was not one of access, but of merit and resources. He had to become so undeniably proficient, so skilled in the art of potion-making, that he could no longer be dismissed as a novice. He had to earn the right to ask those questions. And if that failed... were there other ways? Could ingredients be ordered by owl? Did students on a N.E.W.T.-track have access to private supplies?
A slow, determined smile touched his lips, but it was not one of triumph. It was a smile of grim understanding. The long, gruelling work of building his magical reserves had just become infinitely more complex. He now had to master an entirely new discipline, not with brute force, but with a subtlety and skill that would one day force the most hostile man in the castle to take him seriously.