"Incendio!"
Ted aimed his wand at the target, shifting it slightly to mimic the movements described in the book he had studied. A few sparks shot out of the wand in response — but they fizzled out less than thirty centimeters away from him.
Observing the result, Ted gave a small, satisfied nod at his first successful cast, then immediately raised his wand to try again. Adjusting his movements ever so slightly, the next attempt managed to send the sparks about thirty-five centimeters forward.
"Incendio. Incendio. Incendio."
Without bothering to check the exact results of each attempt, Ted fired relentless streaks of magic into the air, visualizing the effect he wanted and refining his movements with every cast.
Eventually, one of the shots managed to strike the wall in front of him — though it still missed the target entirely. The movements were still wide and imprecise, but it was progress. He had performed the magic correctly.
Even if doing so left him noticeably tired.
Nodding to himself once more, Ted continued. Over and over, he cast the fire-making spell, repeating the cycle for nearly an hour. Each round of practice and recovery lasted somewhere between ten to twenty minutes — pushing himself to the very brink of exhaustion every time, before sitting down cross-legged to meditate and recover his lost energy.
With every round, his control improved. And as his mastery grew, so too did his efficiency — the amount of magic consumed by each cast steadily decreasing.
But at the start, every single attempt drained far more energy than necessary, forcing him to stop and recover much sooner.
Now, seated in meditation, Ted calmly analyzed the results.
In the past hour alone, he had cast the spell over five hundred times — and, crucially, by the end of each round, he still retained a little magic within him. Not much, but enough.
Draining one's magical reserves completely was dangerous. Doing so would lead to unconsciousness — or worse.
<=============>
During his earlier training in wandless magic, Ted had reached this critical limit more than once — often by accident, and often while creating all sorts of unintended effects.
Wandless magic was notoriously difficult to control. A wizard had to feel their magic, gather it, release it — and only then could they even attempt to control it properly.
And usually, control was supposed to be the easiest part.
The problem was... released magic without control didn't always behave.
Without that control, wandless magic tended to act based either on instinct — usually triggered by high emotion — or, if done through pure willpower, it would twist itself according to the wizard's own magical nature.
But Ted, calm by nature and trying to achieve control through deliberate will, struggled greatly.
Ironically, those with weaker or more mellow magical natures often found that stage of wandless magic by far the easiest. Their magic left the body slowly, gently, giving them time to shape it properly. Muggle-born, in particular, often fell into this category — their magic less aggressive, less entrenched.
But Ted's case was the opposite.
He had gained the ability to feel magic two years ago in Ollivanders — an occurrence that, according to his mother's books, marked significant natural talent. Most wizards required months of meditation near strong magic sources to even begin sensing their own magic. Many didn't achieve it until after receiving their wand.
Gathering magic by one's own will was a feat most wizards wouldn't achieve in their lifetime. Something that usually required countless hours of dedication and endless attempts. Yet Ted had succeeded within a single week of half-hearted effort — simply because he'd been bored in class.
For him, feeling magic came easily. Gathering it? Not difficult either. Releasing it? Easier still.
By that point, the moment he willed it, the magic inside him would surge and move wherever he directed it.
But control... control was where things became problematic.
Casting a spell required magic to leave the body — but if that magic wasn't stabilized quickly enough, the results could be catastrophic.
Magic left unchecked didn't care about the caster's intent. It would do whatever it wanted.
Imagine using Incendio — only for your own hand to catch fire in the process.
Not exactly ideal.
Wands, naturally, simplified this process. Magic channeled through a wand didn't distort the same way — it retained its shape and intent far longer, giving the caster the time they needed.
Wandless magic didn't grant such luxuries.
For most, their released magic stayed relatively stable — lingering in the air long enough to be shaped. But for someone like Ted, whose magical nature ran deep and wild beneath his calm exterior, the moment his magic left his body it was a race against time.
He had perhaps two seconds. Sometimes less.
If he failed to shape it in that window, anything could happen. The magic might explode. It might summon something random. It might erase part of a wall. It might shake the earth beneath his feet.
All of these things had happened to him before.
Luckily, no one had died in the process — though he had injured a few students early on, back when one particularly rough attempt had caused the earth itself to tremble beneath the school grounds.
Eventually, he had made it.
Ted could now cast the simplest of spells wandlessly with reasonable control. But anything more complicated — or anything dangerous — he still avoided. Not because he lacked power, but because he couldn't reliably predict what might happen once that power left his body.
And that — more than anything — was why he'd been so eager to get his wand.
<=============>
Over the last three hours, Ted had made solid progress.
He dedicated and hour at a time to a single spell — then twenty minutes to recover his magical energy through meditation and go over his results. It was a rhythm that worked for him. Efficient. Disciplined.
His focus remained on elemental spells — basic, but foundational. Mastering them was essential to mastering everything else.
Conjuration spells were very hard for him to perform wandlessly, and he hadn't succeeded thus far.
So, today, he had added three new spells to his repertoire: Incendio, Aguamenti, and Rociferre — the fire-making spell, the water-making spell, and the stone-conjuring spell.
In all of them, he had reached a respectable level of mastery.
Both Incendio and Aguamenti now consistently reached their targets, with the produced fire and water each roughly the size of a football. According to his books, that level of power was expected from third or even fourth-year students. Albeit the bare minimum.
Rociferre, however, wasn't a spell taught at Hogwarts at all — largely dismissed as useless. It could only conjure a large rock, incapable of even launching it at an opponent.
But Ted had found its worth.
It was a base spell — the foundation for other, far more versatile conjurations like summoning stone walls or armour. Simple building blocks — and Ted was a firm believer in mastering foundations.
With the thirty minutes he had left at the end, Ted ran through the various spells he had already learned to cast wandlessly, testing them again to see how their effects had changed.
The results were exactly as expected.
Every spell consumed less magic than before and worked more smoothly — stable, controlled, efficient.
He had accumulated a wide range of spells — each designed for specific effects, useful in very particular situations. But in a face-to-face battle? Almost all of them, save for one, were next to useless.
That one exception was Expelliarmus.
With the wand, the spell had become far faster and much more accurate at longer ranges, allowing Ted to hit the target in a flash. The wand didn't change the power of his magic — but it refined it, stabilized it, and allowed for precision that was difficult to achieve wandlessly.
His control had grown to the point where even simple spells like Levitation and Unlocking Charms could now be cast silently. Not perfectly — but consistently enough for his current standard.
Nodding to himself one last time, satisfied with his progress, Ted finally turned and left the room, making his way toward the gym's entrance.
"How was it? Managed to cast a spell?" Jim called out, catching sight of Ted leaving.
Ted didn't answer directly.
Instead, he gave a small, mysterious smile — faint, calculated — before walking away, once again stepping onto the old, uneven cobblestone roads.
<=============>
Later that day, the moon shone overhead, its reflection rippling faintly across the water of a small fountain in the Blake mansion garden. In the middle of it stood a stone statue of a young woman in a summer dress — caught forever in mid-motion, as if the wind had frozen around her.
Ted sat at the edge of the fountain, slowly turning the small box he'd received for his birthday over in his hands. His gaze drifted upward, toward the sky.
This had always been his place.
Ever since he'd been old enough to understand what had happened to his mother, Ted had spent both the night of his birthday and the anniversary of her death right here — watching the stars.
According to Nigel, this had been her favorite spot in the mansion. She would sit here for hours, doing nothing but staring at the sky.
And so Ted did the same.
Twice a year, for those two nights, he allowed himself to shut off the endless hum of thoughts in his mind — and just... sit.
But tonight was different.
This year, for some reason, his father had decided they were going on a trip.
"The Lord is waiting outside, Master Theodor," Nigel's voice broke the stillness, calm as ever. The butler stood by the arched doors leading from the house, dressed in his usual immaculate black suit.
Ted nodded once. "Thank you, Nigel."
Without hesitation, he stood and passed by him, leaving the garden behind.
As the doors closed quietly in his wake, Nigel lingered for a moment, watching the boy's retreating figure. Then, turning without a word, he made his way to Ted's room.
The black and silver suitcase Ted had left in the center of the floor looked ordinary enough. Picking it up, Nigel noted its surprising lightness — too light for a week's trip in his experience. Still, knowing Ted and watching him grow up. He knew better than most that he could take care of himself, and that his worry was needless.
<=============>
The drive to the airport was quiet.
Ted sat in the backseat, next to his father, who was already mid-conversation on his phone — sleek, black, expensive. He didn't spare Ted so much as a glance.
Ted didn't expect one.
Without comment, he opened his briefcase and pulled out a book, flipping it open across his lap.
The suitcase Nigel had carried to the car was a decoy — prepared well in advance. Ted had no intention of letting anyone see what actually mattered.
They didn't stop at the terminals like most cars.
Instead, their vehicle moved smoothly past them, heading for a private gate leading to the runways. Identity verification was short and efficient — Blake staff rarely wasted anyone's time.
A few minutes later, the car came to a halt.
Ahead of them stood the jet.
Black. Sleek. The polished silver logo of three snarling dog heads — one facing forward, the others glaring left and right — stood out sharply against the metal.
Below them, in bold Old English letters, was a single name.
BLAKE.
His father's private jet.
Ted had never seen it up close before. Or any other plane, for that matter.
And to be honest, planes, aerodynamics — those weren't things that had ever caught his interest. But leaving the country? This was new.
And new things, at least most of them, were worth doing at least once.
This was also the first time his father had given him anything specifically on his birthday. Which caused his internal debate to reach a new peak.
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Last year for example, on his birthday, there had been the closest thing to a gift he had ever gotten.
And it was far from a normal one, to say the least.
Instead, Cassius Blake had given his son a sheet of paper — a list of complex questions on mathematics, business theory, negotiation, economics, and law.
Ted had answered all of them and in return, he received the only thing that mattered to him, and something that he had to ask for.
Freedom.
From that point on, unless Cassius specifically found it necessary, Ted was free to handle his time however he pleased. No mandatory events. No forced appearances. No scripted lessons. And most importantly, he could go to study wherever he liked, no questions asked.
It suited them both.
Ted knew exactly what kind of man his father was... What kind of man he was.
Not good. But fair.
Cassius Blake didn't lie. He didn't break his word. When he said something, he meant it.
A deal, to him, was absolute — as binding as magic.
Ted had once overheard a conversation between his father and Nigel about a certain business partner who had tried to double-cross them.
By the following week, that man had lost everything.
Assets seized. Contracts torn apart. Reputation ruined. And a court case, pushed through with terrifying speed, had landed him in prison.
Cassius Blake was not forgiving.
Entering the plane, they were greeted by two young and striking flight attendants, both dressed in black uniforms, and an older captain wearing a matching black suit and cap.
Like Ted, like his father — dark colors dominated.
Only silver was ever an exception.
The interior of the plane, in Ted's eyes, wasn't particularly impressive.
Four wide black leather seats surrounded an ebony wood table. At the back were a small fridge, a flat-screen TV so new it probably wasn't even on the market yet, and a bathroom marked simply W.C. And next to it, another fridge mirrored the first.
Functional. Clean. Expensive.
But not flashy.
Taking his seat at the table, Ted glanced out the window. The view wasn't much — at night, he could barely see ten meters ahead.
His father sat across from him, casually ordering an espresso and a newspaper from one of the attendants — speaking in fluent French without once taking his eyes off the window beside him.
If Ted hadn't known it was pitch black outside, he might have assumed his father had seen something interesting.
Moments later, the captain's voice crackled over the comms.
They had received clearance for takeoff.
The plane shook faintly as it began to taxi forward — and when it finally gained enough speed, it lifted smoothly into the night sky, rising steadily eastward.
Their destination?
Paris.
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This chapter was edited(I'm sorry if your comments were deleted as a result.)