The heavy door to Harry's temporary bedroom had barely clicked shut before Mia swung around, her beautiful face a complex mask of maternal fury and deep, lingering fear. She didn't trust the hotel room's mundane security; her training as a mediwitch meant she was meticulous.
With a swift, silent gesture of her hand—a simple, elegant piece of wandless magic that startled Sebastian with its casual power—she cast a sophisticated Muffling Charm on the room, sealing their conversation from the boy just down the hall.
She didn't need to speak. Her eyes, still red-rimmed from the tears shed for Lily and Harry, spoke volumes. Then, her right hand moved, quicker than a Bludger, targeting the vulnerable, soft flesh at Sebastian's waist.
"You… you utter cad!" she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl as she twisted the flesh. Sebastian's impeccable composure fractured immediately, his breath catching in a pained choke.
"I was practically winking myself blind! I was sending you signals that were causing premature wrinkles on my face! How could you just stand there and dump the entire, brutal, life-destroying reality of the Dark Lord's return on an eleven-year-old boy?"
Sebastian fought to keep his knees from buckling, attempting to negotiate a peaceful surrender. "But, my dear, I believe the appropriate diplomatic response is to… to untwist first?"
"Absolutely not! I asked you, is this the moment to talk about revenge? About confronting the Mysterious Man head-on? You told me that story about the monkey and the monk—the one from the Muggle television you watch, Journey to the West!—where the demons chase the holy man. You want our little star to run right at the chief demon, Bongboboba, or whatever his name is?!"
"Mia, darling," Sebastian choked out, desperately trying to correct the reference while also managing the pain. "It's Benboerba. And no, that's not the point! I was merely using it as a metaphor for tactical pursuit versus strategic retreat…"
"Is this about the name?!" Mia's voice, though magically muffled, somehow managed to climb eight octaves higher, sounding dangerously close to a sonic shattering. She twisted again, viciously. "He's a child! Do you truly believe a few extra years of training will make him capable of defeating the Dark Lord? You're asking him to achieve a feat that Dumbledore himself, with all his geriatric wisdom, has failed to manage! What in the name of Merlin's beard is your actual plan?"
Before he could answer, she grabbed a thick, velvet cushion from the back of the sofa and swung it at his head twice for good measure.
"Alright! Alright, you magnificent, infuriated fury," Sebastian managed, pulling her into a tight, desperate embrace to immobilize her weaponizing hands. He gently stroked her hair, his own pain temporarily suppressed by the urgency of his explanation.
"My apologies. My signals were crossed. You are correct, I ignored your winks," he conceded softly, his voice regaining its smooth, persuasive cadence. "But listen to me: I did it to motivate him. You know the atmosphere at Hogwarts. He's going to be the Boy-Who-Lived, celebrated, adored, and constantly tempted by the complacency of easy fame."
He held her away slightly, his silver-grey eyes intense and earnest. "I am terrified he will lose all interest in serious study once he realizes he's famous. The story I told him—the truth—is a fire, Mia. It is the only thing that will drive him past the easy lessons and the distractions of his friends."
Sebastian lowered his voice, the true, cold strategy coming through. "I don't expect him to fight the Dark Lord at seventeen. My goal is simple: I need him to have the skills to escape the Death Eaters when they come for him. I need his magical proficiency to be high enough that he can hold his own, at least long enough to disarm or Apparate away. I need him to become an asset, not a sacrifice."
Mia's rigid posture slowly, finally, melted. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her sobs turning into soft, sad whispers. "I feel so sorry for him, Sebastian. He's so young, and yet he's shackled to such a heavy destiny. It's Lily's burden, and now it's his."
She pulled back, her maternal instinct taking over, and reached out to gently rub the crimson marks her fingers had left on his side. "Does it hurt terribly? I'm so sorry, I acted instinctively."
Sebastian kissed her forehead. "Don't worry, my love. It's made of solid iron. It's fine. Now, go to bed. I need to think about the syllabus for tomorrow. We start training at 0900 hours sharp."
He waited until the door clicked and he heard the sound of her moving around in their adjacent room. Then, Sebastian collapsed onto the plush carpet, letting out a long, drawn-out, theatrical wail of agony.
"Aaargh! You are a brutal woman, Mia Swann! The skin is absolutely marinated in bruises!"
He immediately reached into his cloak pocket and withdrew a vial of strong, concentrated Murtlap Essence, applying the highly potent, burning salve to his inflamed skin. He then glared fiercely at Harry's magically sealed door.
"You absolute little menace, Potter," he muttered, wincing as the essence worked its magic. "I'm taking the pain out on you tomorrow. I'm putting you through the most rigorous Elite Auror physical regimen I can devise. Hope you like running around the park at dawn, because you have a lot of pain to repay!"
The next morning, Sebastian—wearing a black, high-collared tunic to discreetly cover the massive, healing bruise on his side—met Harry in the suite's large, sunlit study.
"Mia is on duty at St. Mungo's Hospital today; they had a sudden influx of Niffler bites, so she won't be joining us. Therefore, our lessons begin now, Harry. For the purpose of instruction, you may refer to me as Professor Swann."
Harry, eager and bright-eyed, immediately raised his hand, looking every bit the earnest student Sebastian hoped he would be.
"Professor Swann, I have a question about magic." Harry picked up his brand new wand of Holly and Phoenix Feather and displayed it. "Do wizards always need a wand? When I was with the Dursleys, I didn't have one, but I still did strange things."
He leaned in, his voice hushed and conspiratorial. "One time, Aunt Petunia forced me to wear a hideous, old jumper of Dudley's, and when I didn't want to, it suddenly shrank so much that it was unusable. And," Harry touched his unruly black hair, a shy smile touching his lips, "my hair always grows back immediately after a haircut. I think I was trying to cover my scar, and my hair just… listened."
"So, why use a wand at all? Wouldn't it be simpler to just wish for magic to happen?"
Sebastian's genuine smile returned, the one reserved for intellectual curiosity rather than political strategy. "That, Harry, is an insightful question. Most adult wizards couldn't articulate the answer so clearly, and it perfectly explains the difference between accidental magic and controlled spellcasting."
"You see, for the most powerful and experienced witches and wizards—those who have mastered incredible mental discipline—wandless magic is entirely possible. Watch."
Sebastian snapped his fingers in a sharp gesture. A bottle of expensive, chilled sparkling pumpkin juice sitting on the sideboard immediately darted across the room, stopping precisely above the desk before gently settling on the blotter.
"Convenient, yes?" Sebastian noted, unscrewing the cap without touching the bottle. "But even I can execute more complex, precise, and subtle maneuvers with a wand. It is a conduit, a tool for focusing intent."
He paused, then turned serious. "Now, consider your experiences. The clothes shrank because your desire for them to disappear was sudden, powerful, and driven by intense emotion. Your hair grew back because of a fierce, desperate will to hide your scar. That is accidental magic. It is volatile, highly unstable, and directly proportional to your emotional state."
"Here is the crux: as you grow older—specifically after the age of eleven, when your magical core begins to truly solidify—your power will become significantly stronger. If you continue to channel that power solely through raw emotion, without constant control, it becomes dangerous, unpredictable, and potentially harmful to yourself and others."
Sebastian pointed to the Holly wand in Harry's hand.
"The wand is, therefore, crucial. It is a stabilizer and a precision instrument. It allows us to release the magical energy steadily, safely, and in the exact dose required for the spell. This is why for young wizards, and indeed for the vast majority of adult wizards, the wand is indispensable. It is the foundation of our survival and the discipline of our art. You must protect it with your life."
Sebastian took a long, satisfied sip of the pumpkin juice, the movement reinforcing the casual command of magic he possessed.
"Now that we understand the why of the wand, let's move to the how of spellcasting. Every spell requires three essential components to be successfully cast: The Gesture, The Incantation (the name of the spell), and The Intent (the sheer will behind it)."
"Today, we begin with the simplest and most famous foundational charm: the Levitation Charm." Sebastian placed a delicate, white feather on the large mahogany desk between them. "This spell, designed to make objects fly, is perfect for practicing all three components."
"The Incantation is Wingardium Leviosa." Sebastian enunciated the Latin syllables slowly and clearly, stressing the crucial syllable. "And the gesture is equally important: a firm swish and flick of the wrist. Like this."
Sebastian performed the smooth, expert motion. As his wand traced the air, the feather between them gently lifted, rotating elegantly a foot above the desk, before slowly settling back down.
"The Incantation must be recited clearly. Mumbling leads to misfires, which can result in unforeseen dangers," Sebastian warned. "Your turn, Professor Potter."
Harry, utterly absorbed, repeated the incantation several times under his breath, striving for the perfect pronunciation. He gripped his wand tightly, his mind focused. He copied Sebastian's motion precisely, feeling the importance of the gesture.
He aimed at the feather.
First attempt: Swish and Flick.
"Yugadimurleviosa!" (Fast, stressed incorrectly).
The feather remained stubbornly stuck to the desk.
Second attempt: Swish and Flick.
"Wingardium Leveeosah!" (Closer, but too rushed).
The feather twitched slightly, mocking his efforts.
Harry's frustration mounted. He tried harder, waving his arm more aggressively, his movements becoming large, frantic arcs. The air around his wand began to hum from the velocity.
Sebastian immediately reached out, his hand wrapping gently but firmly around Harry's wrist, stopping the chaotic movement.
"Stop!" Sebastian commanded, his voice sharp and authoritative. "Harry, you are not mixing batter, nor are you conducting an orchestra. You are performing a precise, controlled action. It is a gentle swish and flick, using the power of your wrist, not your whole arm. Impatience is the death of spellcasting!"
Harry hung his head, frustrated with his own failure.
"You are copying my movements perfectly, but you are failing the third, and most important, component: Intent."
Sebastian leaned close, his gaze intense, drilling the critical lesson into the boy. "Listen to me, Harry. Magic is the power to make your deepest wishes come true. It is the power of absolute belief."
"You are watching the feather, and you are hoping it will rise. But hope is useless. You must not hope, you must know." Sebastian's voice became firm, resolute, instilling the certainty of his command.
"You must believe, without a shred of doubt, that the moment the sound leaves your mouth, your magic will compel that feather to fly. Do not doubt yourself. Do not rush. Take a deep breath, clear your mind of all frustration, and believe in your power."
Harry inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as Sebastian instructed. He felt the residual tension from the Dursleys, from the fight, from the humiliation, slowly drain away. When he opened his eyes, he was focused only on the tiny white feather. He visualized the air beneath it turning into a cushion, pushing it effortlessly upwards.
He moved his arm slightly, using the strength of his wrist.
With a perfect swish and flick of his Holly wand, Harry spoke the incantation, his voice clear and charged with absolute, unwavering conviction:
"Wingardium LeviOsa."
The feather didn't just twitch. It shot vertically into the air, reaching the ceiling of the study before hanging there, still and silent, a foot higher than Sebastian's earlier, gentle demonstration. Harry stared up at it, a look of profound, dawning wonder spreading across his face.
He had commanded it, and it had obeyed. He was a wizard.