Wandless magic is an incredibly advanced skill, something not every wizard masters. Flitwick didn't mention the difficulty, and Owen didn't ask. He simply treated it as "Wizarding Pre-K."
Every power needs a solid foundation, and magic is no exception.
With this mindset, Owen studied diligently. Although he hadn't fully mastered casting yet, he discovered that the exercises were excellent for stabilizing his magical core. At the very least, he could now direct the flow of magic inside him, rather than letting it surge chaotically like it used to.
This tangible progress was encouraging, so Owen doubled down on his efforts.
Hogwarts is massive. While his daily routine was consistent, the travel time between locations was significant. Wasting thirty minutes a day added up to five hours every ten days, or fifteen hours a month. When he crunched the numbers, Owen felt that continuing this way was practically a crime against his own time management.
Was there a faster way to get around?
Yes.
Apparition.
It was the spell Dumbledore had used to bring him from the Ministry to the Hogwarts gates. Unfortunately, the castle was protected by Anti-Apparition wards, making that impossible.
Fawkes could help, and so could the house-elves, but that was asking for favors. Owen didn't want to be a burden, especially since this wasn't a one-time thing—it was a daily necessity.
He needed a different solution. Naturally, he thought of flying.
Wizards use broomsticks. That fit the lore perfectly. But there was a problem: this was a school. He could get away with riding a broom during the summer holidays, but what about when the term started? Flying a broom down the corridors would definitely break school rules.
Breaking the rules just for convenience didn't sit right with him. He needed another workaround.
"A flying spell?"
Professor Flitwick chuckled when Owen asked. "There isn't a spell for true flight, I'm afraid. Aside from broomsticks, the closest thing is the Levitation Charm. Like this... Wingardium Leviosa."
Professor Flitwick cast the spell on his own clothes and floated up like a balloon, bobbing gently in the air.
Owen wasn't impressed. Sure, he was flying, but it was agonizingly slow. He didn't need altitude; he needed speed. He wanted a spell that cut down travel time.
After failing to find a suitable spell in the library, Owen decided to invent one.
Magic is a force. Any spell is just magic fueled by intent and shaped by an incantation to achieve a specific result.
Spells are crucial because raw magic output is usually inefficient, and most wizards have limited reserves.
But Owen was different. His magical core was growing stronger by the day. Every morning when he woke up, he could feel his power had expanded. He didn't know if this rapid growth was safe, and even Dumbledore didn't have a clear answer. But the reality was, he was leaking excess magic every day.
Instead of letting it go to waste, why not put it to work?
Magic is typically channeled through a wand. But during his wandless magic training, Professor Flitwick had taught him how to channel magic through his hands. If hands worked, why not feet?
Just a pure release of power. No incantation necessary.
It worked.
He was only hovering about eight inches off the ground, but he was definitely flying. As for the energy cost... well, it was negligible. He was burning less magic flying than he usually wasted doing nothing.
Lean forward to accelerate.
Shift weight to turn left or right. Lean back to brake.
It was surprisingly intuitive—kind of like riding an invisible hoverboard.
The magical drain was low, but the mental focus required was high. After less than thirty minutes, Owen had to stop. He felt dizzy—a classic sign of mental fatigue.
But he was happy. Mental stamina was something he could build up with practice. Once the steering and balancing became muscle memory, the mental load would disappear.
As Professor Flitwick always said: Magic needs to be used. The more you use it, the stronger it gets.
---
"Good morning, Mr. Squid!"
Every morning during his run, Owen would greet the Giant Squid in the Black Lake. The squid would respond enthusiastically, waving a tentacle full of suckers in his direction.
"Good morning, everyone!"
"Good morning, Mr. Owen!"
The early-rising house-elves had gotten used to the friendly young wizard. They no longer broke down sobbing just because he said hello, though they did still wipe away the occasional tear of gratitude.
They still blamed themselves for Owen's frailty, convinced it was their fault their cooking hadn't made him big and strong yet.
"Good morning, Mrs. Willow!"
The Whomping Willow extended a small, twiggy branch. Owen reached out and gently high-fived it as he passed, like greeting an old friend.
"Good morning, Fang!"
Hagrid wasn't up yet, but his boarhound, Fang, was an early riser. The dog wagged his tail at Owen before flopping back down to sleep.
The young wizard had a strange, magnetic charm. Whether it was people or animals, everyone seemed to become his friend instantly. But his biggest fan wasn't a person or a dog—it was Fawkes. The phoenix, who usually spent his days dozing in the Headmaster's office, now sought out Owen constantly.
Whenever Owen wasn't holding a book, he would hold the phoenix, or let the bird snuggle up next to him while he read.
This made Madam Pince extremely nervous.
A phoenix is a creature of light, symbolizing many positive things. But a firebird inside a library? That was a disaster waiting to happen. If a spark landed on a book, Madam Pince would lose her mind.
So, whenever Fawkes showed up, Owen compromised by moving his reading session to the stone steps outside the library.
Luckily, Fawkes didn't visit every day—usually once every two days for a couple of hours before heading home.
But today was different. When Fawkes arrived, Owen was "skating" across the grounds, skimming just above the grass at high speed toward the greenhouses. Fawkes circled him once, realized he couldn't safely land on Owen's moving head, and settled for the next best thing: Owen's arms.
"Morning, Fawkes. You're getting heavier, you know."
Trill.
Fawkes made a sound of indignation, and Owen laughed. "That's a good thing! It means you're growing."
Professor Sprout was also an early riser, always tending to her plants in the morning light. But today, she froze. She stared as the small wizard came zooming toward her, feet hovering off the ground, holding a phoenix.
She was terrified.
When Owen landed, she rushed over and frantically patted him down. Only when she felt his body heat and a steady heartbeat did she let out a breath of relief.
"Oh, thank heavens! You scared me to death, dear. For a moment, I thought you had become a ghost like Professor Binns! But... what spell was that?"
Owen grinned. "It wasn't a spell, Professor. Just a crude application of raw magic."