The weeks passed in steady progression. The Hogwarts Quidditch season concluded with Gryffindor winning the cup in a nail-biting match against Slytherin. Rowan attended because observing the competition gave him insights into team dynamics, non-verbal communication, and coordinated action under pressure. All applicable to dueling, he told himself. Otherwise, he had no particular interest in the sport.
His friendship with Lawrence deepened as they continued their theoretical discussions. Lawrence had become fascinated with the idea of magical artificing. Creating objects that combined multiple magical disciplines.
"What if you could create a self-stirring cauldron?" Lawrence speculated one evening. "Combine Charms for the motion, Transfiguration to make the stirring rod adapt to the brew's thickness, and Runes to make the whole thing permanent. It would revolutionize Potions brewing."
"You'd need to understand all three disciplines at a mastery level," Rowan pointed out. "And the interaction effects between different types of magic could be unpredictable."
"But theoretically possible?"
"Theoretically, yes. The question is whether anyone has the breadth of knowledge and skill to actually do it."
"Maybe we could," Lawrence said quietly. "Not now, obviously. But someday. If we both studied all three fields seriously..."
The idea appealed to Rowan. Artificing aligned perfectly with his long-term goals of modernizing the wizarding world. Creating new magical devices, improving on existing ones, combining magic and innovation to solve problems. That was exactly what he envisioned doing.
"Let's make it a goal," Rowan said. "By the time we graduate, we should both have the knowledge base to attempt serious artificing. That means excelling in Charms, Transfiguration, and Ancient Runes, plus understanding enchantment theory and magical craftsmanship."
"Deal." Lawrence grinned. "We'll be the youngest artificers in Britain."
Edmund and Celeste remained close friends despite being in different houses. Edmund's enthusiasm for Hufflepuff's collaborative spirit had only grown. He'd organized an inter-house study group that met weekly in the library, much to Madam Agnes Scribner's irritation. Celeste, meanwhile, had appointed herself the voice of reason in Gryffindor Tower, a role she described as "exhausting but necessary."
"Three different students tried to sneak into the Forbidden Forest last week," Celeste reported one evening at dinner. "Separately. None of them told the others they were going. I only found out because I overheard them all complaining about the detention."
"What were they looking for?" Lawrence asked.
"One wanted to see a unicorn. One thought he could catch a Bowtruckle as a pet. The third claimed he was 'just exploring.'" Celeste rolled her eyes. "Gryffindor courage is indistinguishable from Gryffindor stupidity half the time."
As April approached and the weather began to warm, the tournament loomed larger. Professor Hecat increased training intensity, running them through increasingly complex scenarios and difficult opponents.
"Two weeks until we leave for the championship," she announced at one session. "It's being held at the International Confederation of Wizards headquarters in Paris this year. We'll travel by Portkey on June first, have one day to acclimate and meet the other teams, then compete over three days. The tournament concludes on June sixth."
Paris.
Rowan had never left Britain. In either life. The opportunity to see France, to observe international magical culture, was almost as exciting as the competition itself.
"Your families will be invited to attend if they wish," Hecat added, looking at each team member.
Rowan had no family to invite, which suited him fine. Fewer distractions meant more focus on the competition itself.
He spent his free time in the Room of Requirement, practicing obsessively. His spell repertoire had expanded significantly beyond the first-year curriculum. He could now cast fifth and sixth-year spells with reliability. His magical capacity had grown since September. His chain casting could link up to seven spells in rapid succession. His dueling instincts had sharpened to the point where he could often predict his opponent's next three moves.
The Library had also provided access to books on tournament strategy, historical records of previous championships, and detailed analysis of different schools' fighting styles. Rowan absorbed it all, building a mental database of techniques, counters, and tactical approaches.
But the biggest shift came from Hecat's private sessions.
She'd been working him through chain casting drills, firing spells at him faster than he could comfortably defend, when she suddenly cast a Disarming Charm that ripped his wand from his grip. It clattered across the room.
"Now what?" she asked.
Rowan lunged for his wand. Hecat put a Tripping Jinx between him and it.
"You're dead," she said flatly. "In a real fight, the moment you lose your wand, you lose. Unless you can cast without one."
"Wandless magic."
"Every witch and wizard channels magic through their body. You've done it yourself. Accidental magic, before you ever held a wand. The wand doesn't create the magic. It focuses and amplifies it." She picked up his wand and held it out of reach. "Your body already knows how to channel magic. The wand just makes it easier. The question is whether you can direct it through your hand with enough control to produce a spell."
"And the incantation?"
"Still does the work. You still speak the spell. The incantation triggers the magic and shapes the effect, same as always. The only thing that changes is the conduit. Hand instead of wand." She set his wand on the desk behind her. "Try. Levitate that cushion. Use the incantation, use the wand movement, just do it with your palm."
Rowan extended his hand. "Wingardium Leviosa."
Nothing happened. He could feel his magic gathering, the same sensation as always, but it pooled uselessly in his chest without the wand to draw it outward.
He tried again. And again. For twenty minutes he stood with his hand outstretched, speaking incantations at a cushion that refused to move.
"Stop trying to push the magic out," Hecat said. "You're fighting your own instincts. Two terms of wand work have taught your magic that it exits through the wand. You need to give it a different path."
"How?"
"You can't think your way into it. The body learns by doing, not by reasoning." She drew her wand. "We'll try something else."
She duelled him without returning his wand. Cast at him while he had nothing to cast with, nothing to shield with, nothing but his body and his magic and the growing desperation of having no way to fight back.
The first session produced nothing. The second, three days later, produced a feeble spark when Hecat's Stunner was about to hit him and every instinct screamed to do something. The third session, she nearly knocked him unconscious with a Knockback Jinx and in the instant before impact, his palm came up and "Protego!" produced a shimmer that absorbed perhaps a tenth of the force.
Weak. Barely functional. But real.
"There," Hecat said. "You felt it?"
"It only works when I'm not thinking about it."
"Because desperation bypasses the habits your conscious mind has built. Under pressure, your magic finds whatever exit it can." She returned his wand. "Practice it. Don't expect control, not yet. Your wand will always be more precise and more powerful. But if you're ever disarmed in a real fight, that shimmer might buy you the half-second you need to survive." She paused. "And if you can learn to do it while holding your wand in the other hand, you can cast two spells at once. Shield with one, attack with the other. Most duelists only have one hand in the fight. Give yourself two."
Over the following weeks, Rowan practiced wandless casting in the Room of Requirement. The results were consistent: unreliable, weak, and only functional when he could replicate the urgency of Hecat's drills. Calm, deliberate wandless magic eluded him completely. But under pressure, with his back against the wall, he could produce a counter-spell or a shield that was just barely enough.