I stood facing a heavy oak desk designed for two people. First, I simply examined the table from all sides. The desk, meant for two people and made of oak, was heavier than the stones and other small objects I had thrown at Mr. Krieger using pure control, and those projectiles had flown at a decent speed. After studying the table from all sides — more of a whim than a necessity — I simply repeated to myself: don't pay attention to mass, to its weight, to the elastic force of gravity pulling it down.
Inhale. Exhale. Weight doesn't matter (lie!). My hands trembled slightly as I stretched them forward. The magic inside responded with a jolt, as if veins were tightening. My fingers tensed, muscles cramping. At first, the desk only shuddered, its legs screeching on the stone floor. But I didn't let go — I gathered my will.
"Up… up… up!" I whispered to myself, though the words had no meaning.
The desk, polished by hundreds of student elbows and palms who had studied sitting at these very tables, began to rise, as if by itself. Slowly, but without jerks. I felt blood rushing to my temples, a burning tension in my back. My arms were outstretched, my palms trembling, but the desk was lifting into the air, and I was sure I could lift it a bit more, as I had already tried to raise it a little.
It hovered half a meter off the floor not because I stopped straining the magic, but because I decided to stop at that height for my plan. My heart pounded in my chest, my breathing became ragged. I clenched my teeth, forcing the magic to hold the weight. But now, not just hold it, but move it. Today I was testing my limit, which I did once a month — maybe a bit sooner sometimes, if I couldn't wait. But after this, no strength remained for regular magic training.
I moved my hands to the right. The desk obediently slid through the air, along with my hands, which guided its rotation. Slowly shifting my feet, I occasionally lost a bit of control, causing the desk to wobble in the air at times. But with every second, I found it easier and freer to spin the heavy desk around me.
"Come on…" I growled.
The desk floated as if in thick, invisible syrup. It seemed on the verge of crashing down, but remained airborne. Every meter cost me sweat and tremors, but I was moving and controlling it without a wand! Without words, and only my hands were my guides, but even that was a crutch meant to direct the magic.
For a minute — maybe two — I held this weight and spun it as I pleased, and then finally let go. The desk crashed back down, sending vibrations through the floor and walls. I myself sank onto a chair, rubbing my temples. My palms were shaking, but there was a sweet taste of victory in my mouth — another step towards wandless magic.
I did it. And this isn't like lifting pebbles and books.
I sat for a couple more minutes, steadying my breathing. My heart was still pounding, my palms trembling — as if I'd been lifting weights, not straining magic. And I also felt how seriously I had exerted myself on such a trick. But it was too early to stop; there was still a lot to test. I pulled out my wand.
Now the same thing, but with a wand — and not using Wingardium Leviosa, because with Leviosa I could lift this desk last autumn, though I didn't spin it like that.
Lifting with pure magic is much harder than with a ready-made formula. Pure control, but with a wand, directing the flow of magic is easier — that's why the tool is called a focus.
The desk shuddered and almost immediately began to rise, much easier than without a wand. The focus served as a channel through which magic flowed more orderly, and part of that magic was drawn not from me, but from the surroundings — though not as much as when casting actual spells.
With a ready-made levitation charm, everything was much simpler, from the very low cost compared to my method, to the ease of application and requirements. Moreover, the spell had stored magic and took from the pre-invested power for the initial lift. That is, it formed a standard matrix: catch, hold, lift smoothly. It was like making a down payment in the amount you needed — and the object would lift itself, and you could move it until the invested energy ran out, after which the spell ended its action. Economical, easy, fast, convenient.
But it's just a crutch — a convenient one, meant to make things easier, but thereby limiting. You can't throw stones at great speed with Leviosa, you can't instantly lift a heavy object with Leviosa — first, the formula has to work, in which you or your subconscious initially has to invest enough energy, and it's all controlled by the wand.
But now… now I was holding the balance myself. Without a formula and without a safety net. And that was a completely different feeling. I could put more force into it at any second — and the desk would lurch upward at that very moment, and then even higher if I wanted. I could increase the pressure — and it would move in a circle faster, or weaken it — and it would almost freeze in the air, but then I would have to spend concentration just to hold it.
I walked around it, gently guiding it with the wand to the side. The desk obediently traced a circle, moving much faster and more obediently than a minute ago when I was working with bare hands. The desk lifted with a wand seemed about three times lighter. Yes, there was strain — my forehead was sweating again, and magic was draining at a furious rate, but it no longer felt like hauling an impossible weight.
"There it is," I exhaled, making the desk hover just above the floor and begin to flip in the air. "Real control. Just need to achieve this level without a wand."
Of course, I was spending many times more magic than with a simple Leviosa. The excess was wasted, spilling out like water from a poorly closed bottle. But that's already a matter of practice. If with a wand the bottle cap was poorly screwed on, then without a wand it was open and riddled with small holes.
I slowly lowered the desk back to the floor. The wood softly touched the stone, without a crash. I smiled, though I felt weak.
I paused, took a deeper breath, and instead of collapsing onto a bench to rest, raised both hands again. This time, once more without a wand. Magic flowed pliantly from within, take as much as you want.
On the left, one chair shuddered; on the right — a second. They trembled as if resisting, but I gritted my teeth and pressed with a magical flow. And there — both lifted off the floor at once. It felt as if each palm was pulling its own anchor, and strength was draining twice as fast. But I was used to it: with books, I could do this easily, and with even more of them.
I made the chairs slide smoothly to the sides, then upward. Then, with a light flow of magic, they began to trace a slow circle around me. Slowly, almost lazily at first, as I was turning on my axis, controlling everything with my hands. But with each moment, the chairs began to spin faster, and I stopped turning, and though it became harder, I controlled the magic flow enough for the chairs to start spinning so fast that it was already scary to pass through the circle they described.
Two wooden silhouettes floated around my figure, like satellites of a planet, maintaining an equal distance.
And now, what if instead of two chairs I took something lighter? But not books, as usual, but, say, something solid and sharp — the thought had been swirling in my head for a long time. "Three, four, maybe even half a dozen. They are lighter, so I can move them much faster, and I think about five knives circling around me would be dangerous enough. And if I imagine that as my control grows, I will achieve a greater number of controlled objects, then a whole wreath of spinning, stabbing, and cutting objects — maybe something even more dangerous — all under my control…"
In such moments, I always wanted to laugh like a mad villain from a third-rate movie.
I could barely hold back a smile, looking at all this, but it's silly to talk about wandless magic and just limit oneself to telekinesis. I, of course, like Jedi, but lightning from hands is also a cool thing.
Next came time for quantitative measurements. Through trials, my previous rotation limit was capped at five books, and this time I tried six — not random ones, but heavy volumes on Transfiguration and Ritualistics, so the weight was tangible. I lifted them all at once. At first, I just held them in the air, but then I started giving them movement: in a circle around me. I spun them so fast that their movements at the peak became slightly blurred, then became clearly discernible to the eye again. I changed direction, spun them counter-clockwise and back, reduced the distance to a hand's breadth, and expanded the radius to two meters. It was like a dance — only I wasn't dancing, but the objects around me were, and every gesture of mine, every thought echoed in their movement.
True, this all required incredible concentration. I couldn't afford to be distracted for a second: one wrong impulse — and the books would fall, and magic would scatter them all over the room. But it was precisely in these failures that I saw growth. Week after week, they happened less often, and control became finer.
Of course, this ate up time. Such static magic training sessions (rotations, holdings) took over an hour in the evening — and just as much in the morning. But I didn't regret it. Yes, I had to adjust my day, carving out time from sleep or idle moments, but the result was worth it.
Of course, I didn't abandon regular spell chain practice and general spell work either. However, after one unpleasant incident, I had to resort to my least favorite activity — stretching. In general, the situation was as follows: In an attempt to flick my wand sharply, I jerked my arm so hard that I strained the ligaments. The pain lasted a long time, so I had to go to Madam Pomfrey. Fortunately, she is a true master, and within a couple of hours, I was already fully practicing a new spell in Flitwick's lesson. After this incident, I realized that magic is magic, but the body also needs care, despite youth and daily physical activity.
From that day on, every morning and evening before magic training sessions, particularly before wand-waving, I started everything with stretching. Five to ten minutes — and only then would I take up the wand, or go without it. It became a habit: prepare the body — and the magic flows more evenly.
So I went step by step. Lifting weight. Control over quantity. Rotation speed. All of this was just part of a bigger picture, but it's precisely in these small details that strength lies. Like, for example, in my attempts to create analogs of certain spells without a wand. Repeating a spell without a focus was a mystery to me, so I had to try to mimic spell effects on my own.
It's silly to tell myself that I'm studying wandless magic while focusing only on telekinesis.
Oh, the things I've come up with. Starting from attempts to create an analog of a repelling spell, which has now become my Force Push from a galaxy far, far away. Of course, it all came out messy and unclear, but I liked the effect of my Force Push, which could give a decent shove — I'd even say, knock someone over. Like a very powerful gust of wind, really strong. The sound was the same. The area of effect in diameter — no more than a meter.
A sharp swing of the arm, with the open palm extended, from which magic invisible to the eye burst forth with a loud clap, throwing a chair a couple of meters away.
I thought… this is a Force Push from Star Wars, not a beam-type repelling spell… hmm… what to call it? Alright, let it be an Air Ram! But the sound of the air clap is awesome to me! Gotta find the positive everywhere.
Yeah… a focus from the hand isn't the best, at least not yet. But with a wand, the same attempts at my own analog came out fairly decent. And though the same Flipendo was more precise, faster, and stronger, the concentrated Air Ram not only clapped louder than from the hand but also created a sufficiently sharp blow that would definitely leave bruises and hematomas on the victim's body. Because instead of a meter in diameter, it was more concentrated. And according to my rough calculations, if a bit more oomph is put into the homemade spell, it could break a rib upon impact… probably… if the calcium levels are low.
I should try to increase the Air Ram's range — and it should become a full-fledged push with an AoE effect, if, of course, more magic is invested. But that's the beauty of such pure magic: it uses more energy, but it can be changed according to whim, and at any moment.
In the past, before the principle of creating full-fledged spells, wizards operated only with raw magic. On one hand, they could mold quite powerful spells from raw magic, but on the other hand, these were literally talents among talents, who also practiced for a long time. That is, only strong and talented wizards wielded practical magic affecting the physical world. But they possessed this freedom to manipulate their own magic, which many are deprived of now.
And this does not mean that spells are for the deficient. No, on the contrary. Spells are invented and used because they are efficient: more specialized, and easy to learn. You don't need to have strong will, intent, talent, and a huge reserve — just take a wand in your hands.
But, in my opinion, this is a double-edged blade. Gradually, wizards become hostages to focuses and magical formulas — and that's terrible. Either the curriculum and the mindset of the magical community need to be changed, or wands need to be abandoned en masse. But then 70% of wizards would turn into people unable to use practical magic — after all, a wizard's potential is very important in the matter of operating pure magic.
After all, it's not for nothing that focuses in the magical world are like firearms in ours. Only more universal, as they are created not only to kill. Although… tell that to the Roman mages who invented wands.
Alright, let me return to my own creations from pure magic.
Besides trying to replicate a repelling effect, I tried creating elemental magic, Lumos, and even magical protection from scratch that would perform the function of Protego.
In the latter, I even started to get somewhere. I understood the principle of Protego, which is why, time after time, I tried to create a sufficiently dense and strong wave of energy that ideally should emanate from a point of power and, as a half-dome or full dome, protect the entire body.
Here, unlike beam spells, such precision wasn't needed, so from the hand, I managed to release and condense energy into a semblance of the most common version of a magical shield.
The spreading blue energy, unfortunately, still didn't protect even the front of the body, but it performed the function of a small shield — more precisely, a magical analog of a shield. At first, it was more like a buckler shield, but now I could at least cover half my body with it — and that's already a success.
Why is this so cool? Because the main problem with Protego is that while it's active — you can't attack. And though I managed to attack while defending thanks to magical "telekenesis," a full-fledged defense with a bare hand, which can be put up at any moment, soothed my paranoia. And now, in fact, I could weave this into my fighting style with dodges and redirections, getting reliable protection in case of an emergency… well, not exactly reliable, but at least some protection.
Though for now, I haven't shown this trick in the Dueling Club. After all, while you need to demonstrate that you're the best so no one doubts it, some things are better kept to oneself.
Before this, my achievements were extremely insignificant, but now I've made a real breakthrough for myself and reached a level of wandless magic that even some Aurors don't attain. Although most of them are more or less capable of wandless magic, but, let's be frank, a wizard's potential strongly influences many things. And though in terms of potential, I fall short of someone like the Dark Lord or Dumbledore, I will give my all and do everything possible not to fear even such mastodons. But it's too early to talk about that, considering that the upper-year students in the Dueling Club, thanks to the more developed physical form of their nearly adult bodies, possess corresponding reflexes and experience, so they beat me with enviable frequency, especially my cousin — Nymphadora, but more on that later.
If I, of course, weren't limited in means and fought at full strength, like against Mr. Krieger, then… although, empty words. The upper-year students know more dangerous, more complicated things; it's just that Flitwick doesn't let them run wild. Otherwise, the Dueling Club would be a gathering place for daredevils. After all, the same explosive spells, piercing spells — all of it is taught in the upper years as ordinary magic, not combat magic. But a spell capable of piercing a thick stone slab will also pierce a human ribcage. Even with a bulletproof vest…