Henry began by reviewing the Wand-Lighting Charm and the Matchstick-to-Needle Transfiguration.
Both came smoothly—the orb of light held steady, the needle transformed cleanly. After running through them several times, he moved on to spells he had not yet covered in class: the Levitation Charm, and its extended applications in cushioning and velocity control.
These he mastered with reasonable speed, guiding the rise and fall of a feather and a cushion with growing precision.
The slightly more demanding spells were another matter. After several attempts at the Disarming Charm and the Reductor Curse, he accepted the reality plainly enough: he could not cast them yet, not reliably. He was not discouraged by this. One had to take things in the right order.
His overall pace of learning, he noted, was decent but not exceptional. He had no obvious extraordinary aptitude of the sort Harry possessed for certain defensive spells, or the kind of instinctive affinity that reportedly made certain charms come naturally to some students from their very first attempt.
He was competent and improving. That was sufficient for now.
He crossed to the other side of the room, faced the practice dummy, and raised his wand. He had come here to practice, and since he was here, he saw no reason not to conduct a proper self-assessment.
Crucio!" he said clearly, flicking his wand in a sharp diagonal upward motion.
Nothing happened. No light, no activation, no response from the dummy whatsoever—as though he had simply spoken a meaningless syllable aloud.
It was not a shortage of magic. Something more fundamental was absent: the intense, consuming desire to inflict extreme pain, and the cruel satisfaction that desire required. He could not manufacture those feelings, and his magic knew it.
Imperio!" He tried again, this time attempting to conjure the sensation of bending another will entirely to his own.
Still nothing.
Finally, he fixed his gaze on the dummy and made a deliberate effort to gather something cold and absolute—a pure intent to end.
Avada Kedavra."
As he had expected, his wand did not produce so much as a trace of green light.
Three attempts. Three complete failures.
Henry lowered his wand and gave a small, indifferent shrug.
Good. This was a genuinely good thing.
Having no aptitude for the Unforgivable Curses was not a deficiency worth mourning. All three required the caster to sustain deeply destructive emotional states, and possessing a natural talent for that kind of magic would have presented a far more troubling problem than lacking it. Practice it, and the mind risks being slowly warped by the darkness it invites.
Decline to practice it, and the talent sits there festering, unused and unresolved. That particular door being closed from the start was a simpler and cleaner arrangement.
He turned back to his earlier work and resumed practice on the spells he had already begun to develop. Mastery required patience and repetition; there was no shortcut worth taking, and the correct approach was to consolidate what he had before reaching further.
For several days, his routine held steady. Outside of classes, he found quiet spaces to practise. Every afternoon at four o'clock, tea was laid out in the second-floor classroom. After tea, he made his way to the Room of Requirement.
On Friday morning, as he sat at breakfast in the Great Hall, Mercury landed beside him with a soft beat of wings, carrying two letters.
The first was from his parents.
---
To our dearest Henry,
Written at Kensington Palace, on a chaotic morning during which Harry has already broken another vase.
We hope that when this letter arrives, breakfast at Hogwarts is considerably quieter than it is here.
Your mother has insisted on dictating while I write, on the grounds that my handwriting is at least legible to house-elves—a claim I dispute.
First and most importantly: we miss you terribly. The dining table feels too large, and the garden too quiet without you. But knowing that you are doing well, and that you are already—in your particular way—shaping your new environment rather than merely adjusting to it, our longing has a great deal of pride mixed in with it.
The lessons you described, and the afternoon tea salon you have apparently established, were wonderful to read about. Your mother was struck by what you wrote about Miss Farley, and I find your observations on spellwork genuinely interesting. Please continue sharing these thoughts in your letters.
Now, to the disasters you have left in your wake. William has decided that, as the current eldest brother in residence (he insists on that phrasing), he has full rights to use your study for his rocket experiments. You can imagine how that has gone. Harry has appointed himself his devoted and utterly incompetent assistant. The two of them attempted to use the laundry room as a skateboard track yesterday and came very close to ruining one of the servants' shirts. I have been invoking your name as a deterrent—"What would Brother Henry say?"—and it carries some weight for the moment, though I suspect that will not last.
Your mother says the household urgently needs your steady influence back. I think what the household urgently needs is for you to come home and help manage these two small catastrophes. They are very lively. They are also a genuine headache.
Your mother has asked me to make sure I pass this on: wherever you are, please look after yourself first. Do not be anxious. Enjoy the magic. Enjoy making friends. Enjoy being yourself, and not only someone's grandson or son. She is enormously proud of you, and she looks at the enchanted picture book you brought back from Diagon Alley every single day. Harry likes it too, though we have put it somewhere he cannot easily find it.
Write to us often, even just a few lines.
All our love,
Father and Mother
---
Henry folded the letter away with a quiet smile. He could picture the scene at the Palace quite clearly without any difficulty.
He set it aside and opened the second letter.
---
To Henry,
Mercury arrived safely this morning, a little weathered but no less dignified, and has been properly seen to and is resting.
Your grandfather and I were very glad to learn of your enrolment and your sorting into Slytherin House. The House is well known for valuing tradition and for its clear-eyed understanding of the world. This arrangement reflects the Sorting Hat's considerable wisdom and suits your character well. Learning to read rules and understand people in that environment is an experience worth more than almost any other, and far more than anything a more comfortable placement could offer.
I have read your account of the courses and the first afternoon tea with care. You have shown good judgement in using the opportunity to build relationships thoughtfully and without rushing. Remember that true influence begins with respect and with listening, and is sustained by offering something of genuine and irreplaceable value to others. You have made a solid start. Your dealings with the younger generation of the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, and others of that circle should continue to be approached with patience and attention. Understanding what they think, what they want, and what they fear is itself an education.
The lively disorder your father mentioned is simply part of growing up. There is no cause for concern. They will find their own way in time, just as you are finding yours.
Enclosed is a small box of Balmoral shortbread, made here as it always has been. I hope it brings you a taste of home in the middle of your studies.
One further thing: upon hearing of your sorting into Slytherin, your great-grandmother selected a gift from the royal collection. It is a Serpent Ring, once worn by Queen Victoria, and she wishes you to have it. It carries considerable meaning. Please cherish it.
With love,
Grandmother
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