Chris dipped his quill into the inkwell and continued writing in his leather-bound journal, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows of his study. The oak desk beneath his hands felt solid and reassuring, a physical anchor to this new world that still sometimes seemed like a dream. Six months had passed since he'd claimed his inheritance, six months of intense study and training, and the satisfaction of his progress glowed within him like a banked fire.
"July 6th," he wrote, the quill scratching pleasantly against the parchment. "Completed review of all first-year Charms texts today. Practicing the wand movements feels natural now, though I'm eager to attempt the actual spells once I acquire my wand next month."
He paused, glancing out the window where a small herd of unicorns grazed peacefully in the distance, their coats gleaming like freshly fallen snow in the summer light. Their presence still struck him with wonder, a reminder that magic wasn't just something to be studied and mastered, but experienced and cherished. One of the foals pranced around its mother, its tiny golden horn catching the sunlight as it played.
His gaze drifted to the stacks of books arranged neatly at the corner of his desk. Standard first-year Hogwarts textbooks sat alongside ancient, leather-bound journals that had once belonged to Merlin himself. The contrast between them, modern educational materials next to the personal writings of the greatest wizard who ever lived, seemed to perfectly encapsulate his unique position in this world.
"I've been studying Merlin's early approaches to magical theory," he continued writing. "His understanding of the fundamental principles that connect all magical disciplines is revolutionary even by today's standards. Most modern wizards seem to treat each subject as separate, but Merlin saw them as expressions of a single magical essence, channeled through different focuses of will and intent."
The memories of his past life had begun to feel more distant, less sharply painful. There were still moments when grief ambushed him, when he would wake from dreams of his children's faces, his heart aching for what he'd lost. But increasingly, his mind turned toward the future he was building, the opportunities that lay before him, the wrongs he might right with his second chance.
Two soft cracks broke the silence, announcing the arrival of Jilly and Bouncy. The house elves had become his constant companions over the months, integral to his new life in ways he couldn't have anticipated.
"Master Chrissy has been working very hard-hard today!" Bouncy exclaimed, his large eyes taking in the scattered notes and open books with approval. Unlike most house elves, Bouncy never seemed capable of remaining still, his feet moving in a constant dance of excitement even when standing in place.
Jilly carried a silver tray bearing a steaming mug of hot cocoa, the rich aroma filling the study with its comforting scent. "Master should take a break," she said, placing the tray on a clear spot on the desk with graceful precision. "Too much study without rest dulls even the sharpest mind."
Chris smiled, setting down his quill and stretching his fingers. "You're probably right, Jilly. I've been at it since dawn."
"Bouncy wants to know what Master learned today!" the excitable elf chirped, bouncing on his toes. "Was it exploding spells? Or turning teacups into toads? Or making things fly-zoom around the room?"
"Nothing quite so dramatic yet," Chris laughed, reaching for the mug of cocoa. It was perfect, rich and creamy with just a hint of cinnamon, exactly as he preferred it. Jilly had an uncanny knack for anticipating his needs. "Most of what I've been doing is theoretical. Understanding the principles before attempting the practice."
"Very wise, Master," Jilly nodded approvingly. "Many young wizards rush into spellcasting without understanding the foundations. It leads to poorly executed magic and sometimes dangerous accidents."
Chris took a sip of his cocoa, savoring the warmth that spread through him. "I've been documenting my progress in this journal," he said, gesturing to the book before him. "It helps me organize my thoughts and track my development."
Bouncy's eyes widened with interest. "Could Bouncy read Master's journal? Bouncy loves stories, especially true ones about Master's adventures!"
Chris considered the request. The journal contained his honest reflections on his training, his challenges, and his goals, nothing he wouldn't share with the loyal elves who had become something like family to him.
"Actually," he said, finishing his last sentence and placing the quill in its holder, "I think I'd like that. It would be good to get your perspectives on my progress."
With a satisfied smile, he closed the journal and handed it to Bouncy, who took it with reverent care despite his perpetually energetic demeanor.
"Bouncy will be very careful with Master's special book!" he promised, holding it as if it were made of the thinnest glass.
Jilly moved closer, her amber eyes curious but more restrained than her counterpart's. "If Master permits, I would be interested to read it as well."
"Of course," Chris nodded. "I've detailed my training from the beginning in January until now. You two have been essential to that training, so you should know how much I appreciate your help."
Bouncy practically vibrated with excitement as he opened the journal to its first entry, his large eyes scanning the pages with surprising speed. Jilly peered over his shoulder, her expression composed but equally engaged.
Chris leaned back in his chair, watching them with affection. Six months ago, they had been strangers, figures from a fictional world suddenly made real. Now, they were his allies, his teachers, his friends. The manor had become home in a way his dwelling in his previous life never quite had, filled not just with magical wonders but with genuine companionship.
As the elves read, occasionally exchanging glances or nodding at particular passages, Chris turned to look out the window again. The unicorns continued their peaceful grazing, untroubled by the world beyond the protective wards of the island. In just two months, he would leave this sanctuary for Hogwarts, stepping into the narrative he once thought was mere fiction. But unlike Harry Potter, he wouldn't be entering that world unprepared. He would arrive armed with knowledge, resources, and a plan.
The thought brought a smile to his face. He was ready for whatever came next.
Journal Entry
January 2nd, 1991
Today marks the true beginning of my magical education. After spending the past days exploring the manor and learning its secrets, I've decided it's time to focus on practical preparation for Hogwarts. The wealth of knowledge available to me is staggering, but I need a structured approach if I'm to make the most of these eight months before term begins.
This morning, I entered the Ambrosia Room of Requirement with a clear intention in mind. Standing in the center of the empty stone chamber, I closed my eyes and focused my thoughts: "I need a library containing everything about first-year magical subjects at Hogwarts, organized by discipline, with special emphasis on theoretical foundations."
The transformation was immediate and breathtaking. The stone walls retreated outward, stretching impossibly far in all directions. The ceiling soared upward until it disappeared into shadows, pierced by columns of light from windows that hadn't existed moments before. The bare floor became rich, polished hardwood, partially covered with plush rugs in deep blues and burgundies.
Bookshelves materialized, not dozens, but hundreds, rising thirty feet high and extending in neat rows that defied the manor's physical dimensions. Each section was marked with elegant floating signs: Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Astronomy, Herbology, History of Magic, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. The air filled with the incomparable smell of ancient parchment, leather bindings, and magical ink.
What struck me most wasn't just the quantity but the quality of the collection. These weren't just textbooks but treatises, journals, personal notes from masters throughout history, magical manuscripts that would make the Hogwarts library look like a modest community bookshelf. Some volumes looked ancient enough to have been written in Merlin's time, their spines cracked with age but preserved by magic that kept them from crumbling to dust.
At the center of this literary cathedral, an oak table appeared, with a comfortable chair awaiting me. Already arranged on the table were the standard first-year Hogwarts textbooks, the ones Bouncy had purchased from Flourish and Blotts on my behalf last week. Beside them, something far more precious: several leather-bound journals, their covers embossed with the familiar dragon-and-tree symbol of House Ambrosia.
I sat down, drawn to these journals first. Opening the oldest one, I found myself looking at Merlin's own handwriting, elegant yet practical, the ink still as black as if it had been applied yesterday. The language was ancient, but thanks to my bloodline gift, I understood it perfectly.
"Magic is not a collection of tricks," the first page began, "but a singular force expressed through the will and intent of the wielder. The divisions we create, charms, transfiguration, potions, are merely conceptual frameworks. At its core, all magic draws from the same well, channeled through different perspectives."
This fundamental insight would never be taught at Hogwarts, where subjects are rigidly compartmentalized. I spent the next hour absorbed in Merlin's early writings, his explorations of magical theory that seemed centuries ahead of even modern understanding. He described magic as a language spoken by reality itself, with spells acting as sentences that reality must obey when properly articulated.
After this philosophical foundation, I turned to the practical. Without a wand until my Diagon Alley visit at the end of July, I can't perform actual spells yet. However, Merlin's journals suggested that mastering the physical components, wand movements and incantations, separately before combining them leads to greater precision.
I selected a straight stick from a container that had appeared beside the table, approximately the same length as a standard wand. Beginning with basic Charms movements from the first-year textbook, I practiced the precise swish-and-flick required for Wingardium Leviosa, repeating the motion dozens of times until it felt natural. The stick traced patterns in the air that briefly glowed blue before fading, the room's magic providing visual feedback on my accuracy.
The levitation charm was just the beginning. I worked through several basic first-year spells: Lumos, Alohomora, Incendio. For each, I practiced both the wand movement and the incantation separately, then combined them in practice runs without actually channeling magic. According to Merlin's notes, this method builds stronger neural pathways and magical memory, resulting in more consistent spellcasting when finally performed with a proper wand.
"Master Chrissy needs breaks for thinking properly!" The cheerful interruption came from Bouncy, who had appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. His large eyes widened as he took in the magnificent library. "Room made the biggest book-place Bouncy has ever seen!"
I set down my practice stick and accepted the tea gratefully, realizing I'd been practicing for nearly three hours without pause. "Thank you, Bouncy. This is perfect."
"Bouncy has brought more books from Diagon Alley!" he announced proudly, producing a stack of volumes from somewhere in his colorful uniform. "Extra reading that smart Hogwarts students use. Bouncy asked the bookshop lady for recommendations!"
The additional books included supplementary texts on magical theory, practical guides to ingredient preparation for Potions, and illustrated manuals for plant identification in Herbology, all thoughtfully selected to enhance my understanding beyond the basic curriculum.
"This is excellent, Bouncy. You've done wonderfully."
His chest puffed with pride as he bounced on his toes. "Will Master need anything else for studying?"
"Not right now," I assured him. "I'll continue for another few hours, then join you and Jilly for dinner."
After Bouncy departed with a cheerful crack, I returned to my studies with renewed focus. The theoretical foundations of magic were beginning to form a coherent picture in my mind, one far more comprehensive than what most first-years would possess. While I couldn't yet channel magic through a wand, I understood the principles behind it in ways that would make actual spellcasting more intuitive when the time came.
By the day's end, my hand ached pleasantly from hours of note-taking and wand practice. My mind felt both full and hungry for more, the peculiar sensation of learning that leads not to satiation but to greater curiosity. Tomorrow, I'll focus on Potions theory and ingredient properties, another area where advance preparation will give me an edge.
If today is any indication, these six months will transform me from a novice into someone with a foundation solid enough to rival even those raised in magical households. Knowledge is power, and in this world, I intend to be very powerful indeed.
Journal Entry
January 4th, 1991
While most wizards neglect their physical conditioning, relying solely on magical prowess, I know better. The coming years will bring challenges requiring not just magical skill but physical endurance. A duel isn't merely an exchange of spells, it's a dance requiring agility, stamina, and reflexes. Today, I began training my body as diligently as my mind.
Dawn broke clear and cold over the island, frost glittering on the grass as I stepped outside dressed in simple clothes charmed by Jilly to adjust to my body temperature. The manor's training facilities are extensive, but I decided to begin with the basics. The Quidditch pitch provided a perfect track for running, its oval shape offering a course of approximately 400 meters per lap.
My first steps felt mechanical, my muscles protesting at being asked to perform so early. This eleven-year-old body hasn't known physical strain yet, and it showed. By the second lap, my lungs burned with each breath, the cold air feeling like tiny knives in my chest. I pushed through the discomfort, remembering moments from my past life where I was too exhausted to even chase my kids around.
The sun rose higher as I ran, warming the air around me. Sweat began to bead on my forehead despite the winter chill. My white-blue hair clung damply to my neck, and my legs developed a leaden feeling that threatened to slow me to a walk. But with each completed circuit, I found a rhythm, my breathing stabilizing into a controlled pattern.
Eight laps. Just over two miles. Not impressive by adult standards, but a solid beginning for this young body. I slowed to a walk for the ninth lap, allowing my heart rate to gradually return to normal while I admired the pitch from a player's perspective. The goalposts rose high above me, three rings at each end gleaming gold in the morning light. I'll need to train on a broom soon as well.
After cooling down, I moved to the training ground adjacent to the pitch. Unlike the grassy field, this area featured a hard-packed dirt surface, ideal for quick movements and sudden changes in direction. Stone pillars of varying heights dotted the perimeter, and at the center stood a control pedestal inscribed with runes that glowed faintly blue in the daylight.
I approached the pedestal, running my fingers over the runes as I recalled Jilly's instructions. "Combat training, level one," I spoke clearly, pressing my ring to the central stone.
The air around me hummed with awakening magic. From recesses in the stone pillars, dozens of glowing orbs emerged, each about the size of a Bludger but weightless and shimmering with enchantment. They hovered momentarily before beginning to move in seemingly random patterns throughout the training area.
"Evasion drill commencing," announced a disembodied voice. "Difficulty: novice."
The first orb shot toward me with surprising speed. I sidestepped it narrowly, feeling the rush of air as it passed. Another came from behind, forcing me to drop into a crouch. A third and fourth approached simultaneously from different angles.
This was the point of the exercise: to develop the reflexes and spatial awareness needed to avoid spellfire in an actual duel. Each orb represented a spell to be dodged, their speed and unpredictability simulating real combat conditions. Contact with an orb wouldn't cause injury but would register as a "hit," which the training ground would count against my performance.
I twisted, jumped, and rolled, my muscles burning with the effort. Some orbs I evaded by millimeters, others by a comfortable margin. As my confidence grew, I began to anticipate their movements, noticing patterns in their seemingly random approaches. This, too, was valuable training, learning to read the subtle tells that precede an opponent's attack.
The drill lasted fifteen minutes, though it felt much longer. When the final orb returned to its pillar, the voice announced: "Session complete. Performance: acceptable. Hits sustained: seven."
My legs trembled with exertion and my lungs heaved for air. Sweat soaked through my clothes, and my muscles protested every movement. But beneath the discomfort lay satisfaction. Seven hits in a first session wasn't bad. With regular practice, I could reduce that number to zero.
I lowered myself to the ground, stretching my tired muscles to prevent stiffness later. The manor spread out before me in all its grandeur, towers and turrets reaching skyward against the blue winter sky. Beyond it, I could see the edge of the creature sanctuary, a stretch of forest that seemed more vibrant than the surrounding woodland, magical energy almost visible in the way sunlight played through its leaves.
Something moved at the forest's edge, a flash of white that might have been a unicorn. The sanctuary housed dozens of magical species, many extinct or endangered in the wider world. Another area to explore, another resource to understand. But that would have to wait for another day. My body had reached its limit for now.
Rising on shaky legs, I began the walk back to the manor. Each step reinforced my determination. This regimen, alternating magical study with physical conditioning, would prepare me for more than just Hogwarts classes. It would prepare me for the war I knew was coming, for confrontations with both Voldemort and those who might unwittingly serve his return.
Most eleven-year-olds arriving at Hogwarts would be concerned with making friends and learning their first spells. I carried the burden of foreknowledge, of understanding exactly what threats loomed on the horizon. This wasn't just training; it was preparation for survival.
As the manor's doors opened to welcome me home, I made a silent promise to myself. I would use every advantage my unique position offered, the resources of House Ambrosia, the knowledge from my past life, the six months before school began, to ensure that this time around, the story would have a different ending. One with far fewer tragedies and far more justice.
Tomorrow would bring more study, more training, more preparation. But for now, a hot bath and a hearty meal beckoned. Even warriors in training needed rest.
Journal Entry
January 5th, 1991
Today marked my first formal lesson in Herbology. While less flashy than Charms or Transfiguration, I understand that knowledge of magical plants forms the foundation of potion-making and healing. The manor's greenhouses have been cultivated for centuries, housing species so rare they're believed extinct in the wider magical world. Jilly agreed to share her extensive knowledge, accumulated through generations of house elves who have tended these plants since Merlin's time.
The glass doors of the largest greenhouse swung open at my approach, welcoming me into a world of verdant wonder. Warm, humid air enveloped me instantly, carrying scents both familiar and exotic, earthy soil, sweet blossoms, spicy leaves, and the faint metallic tang of magical sap. Unlike the controlled temperature of the manor, the greenhouse embraced a lush, primal warmth that spoke of growth and life even in the depths of winter.
Sunlight filtered through glass panels overhead, creating dappled patterns on the stone pathways that wound between raised beds and hanging planters. Vines with softly glowing flowers crept up the support beams, while floating orbs of magical light hovered near plants that preferred a different atmosphere. The greenhouse stretched farther than seemed possible from the outside, another example of the manor's space-bending magic.
"Master has chosen wisely to begin with Herbology," Jilly's voice came from between two towering ferns with fronds that swayed slightly despite the absence of wind. She emerged, looking perfectly at home among the vegetation, a pair of silver shears in her hand and a small canvas apron protecting her uniform.
"Most young wizards are drawn to wand-waving first," she continued, gesturing for me to follow her deeper into the greenhouse. "But the greatest potion masters and healers build their foundation on understanding the living materials they work with."
I followed her to a section where plants with silver-green leaves grew in neat rows. Their edges glistened with tiny droplets that caught the light like diamonds.
"Dittany," Jilly explained, stopping beside the bed. "One of the most versatile healing herbs in the magical world. Its essence can heal wounds, neutralize certain poisons, and form the base for dozens of medicinal potions."
She bent toward the plant, her movements precise and almost reverent. "Harvesting magical plants requires more than just cutting," she explained. "You must understand what part of the plant holds the magic, how to preserve that magic during harvest, and how the plant responds to being cut."
Jilly held her long finger above a stem laden with silvery leaves. "For Dittany, timing is crucial. Harvest too early, the healing properties are weak. Too late, they begin to fade." She traced a pattern in the air above the plant, and I realized she was demonstrating a wandless version of the Diffindo charm. "The cutting must be clean, one fluid motion, while thinking of healing."
As she completed the gesture, her finger emitted a brief flash of light. The stem separated neatly from the main plant, and for a moment, the cut end glowed with a soft silvery aura before sealing itself.
"House elf magic," she explained, catching my fascinated expression. "Different from wizard magic, but compatible with these plants because of our connection to growing things."
She handed me my practice stick from yesterday's training. "You cannot perform the spell properly without a wand, but practicing the motion and incantation will prepare you. When the time comes to use your actual wand, your body will remember."
I positioned myself before another Dittany plant, holding my stick the way I imagined I would hold a wand. Following Jilly's example, I made a precise slashing motion while clearly enunciating, "Diffindo."
Nothing happened to the plant, of course, but Jilly nodded approvingly. "Very good motion, Master. Smooth and controlled. The incantation was clear as well. Many beginners rush their words, slurring them together, which weakens the spell's focus."
We practiced several more times, Jilly offering minor corrections to my grip or the angle of my wrist. Though I couldn't see results, I could feel myself improving, the movements becoming more natural with each repetition.
"Wandless magic is possible for human wizards," Jilly explained as we moved to a different section of the greenhouse, "but it requires tremendous concentration and power. Most never master it beyond simple spells. Your ancestor Merlin was a notable exception, he could perform complex magic with merely a gesture."
We stopped before a row of covered pots, each about the size of a cooking cauldron. A muffled squirming sound came from beneath the soil.
"Mandrakes," Jilly said, her tone becoming more serious. "Not fully mature, but still dangerous. Their cry can stun an adult wizard and would likely be fatal to one your age."
She pointed to a shelf where several pairs of earmuffs rested. "When you handle these at Hogwarts, you must always wear proper protection. The professor will demonstrate safe extraction, but I want you to understand now: respect for magical plants includes acknowledging their dangers."
I nodded, appreciating the practical warning. Theoretical knowledge from books couldn't replace this kind of hands-on instruction.
We continued through the greenhouse, with Jilly identifying key plants from the first-year Herbology curriculum: Bouncing Bulbs that pulsed with stored energy, Devils Snare seedlings safely contained in light and shadow-filled chambers, and Puffapods whose beans burst into flowers when dropped.
As the sun began to set, its light taking on the golden quality of late afternoon, Jilly suggested we conclude for the day. "Too much information at once becomes difficult to retain," she advised. "We can continue tomorrow with plants used in first-year potions."
I agreed, wiping soil from my hands on a towel she provided. My mind buzzed pleasantly with new knowledge, connections forming between what I'd read in textbooks and what I'd now seen and touched firsthand.
This hands-on approach would give me an immeasurable advantage over classmates who had only read about these plants. When Professor Sprout discussed Dittany in class, I would already know the precise scent of its leaves, the proper angle for harvesting, and the glow of its magical essence when properly cut.
Theory and practice, mental and physical training, magical and practical knowledge, the balance felt right. Each day brought me closer to being truly prepared, not just for school, but for everything that would follow.
Journal Entry
January 6th, 1991
The creature sanctuary called to me all day, that flash of white at the forest's edge lingering in my thoughts through my morning studies. After afternoon tea, Bouncy eagerly volunteered to be my guide. "Magical creatures love-trust the Ambrosia blood," he explained, his large eyes wide with excitement. "They remember Merlin's protection when others hunted them." With my physical training complete for the day, I decided to answer that call, curious about what connections my bloodline might offer with the inhabitants of the sanctuary.
The forest path leading to the sanctuary seemed ordinary at first, packed earth winding between ancient oaks and firs draped with moss. But as we ventured deeper, subtle changes appeared. The moss began to emit a faint glow in shadowed areas. Flowers impossible for the winter season bloomed alongside the path, their petals shifting colours as we passed. The very air felt different, carrying scents that seemed to bypass my nose and register directly in my mind, clean water, sun-warmed stone, creatures both familiar and unknown.
Bouncy skipped ahead, occasionally vanishing with a soft crack only to reappear further along the path. "This way to the unicorn meadow!" he called back. "They always know when a new Ambrosia comes to visit!"
The trees thinned gradually, sunlight strengthening until we emerged onto the edge of a vast meadow. The sight stole my breath. Green grass rippled like water in the gentle breeze, dotted with wildflowers that shouldn't exist in January. A crystalline stream meandered across the space, its banks lined with smooth white stones that seemed to glow from within.
And there, drinking from the stream, stood a small herd of unicorns.
I'd seen them at a distance from the manor windows, but nothing prepared me for their presence up close. Their coats weren't simply white but seemed to contain all colors and none, shimmering with an internal light that made them appear partially transparent at certain angles. Their spiraled horns caught the sunlight and refracted it into rainbow patterns that danced across the meadow. The largest, a mare with a horn nearly three feet long, raised her head at our approach, water droplets clinging to her muzzle like liquid diamonds.
"Bow to the lead mare," Bouncy whispered, suddenly solemn. "Show respect before approaching."
I bent at the waist, keeping my eyes downcast in a gesture of deference. When I straightened, the unicorn mare was walking toward me, her hooves barely seeming to touch the grass. The other unicorns, seven adults and two golden-horned foals, watched with alert curiosity.
The mare stopped three feet away, her eyes fixed on mine. They were liquid silver, with no visible pupil, yet I felt her gaze examining not just my appearance but something deeper, something beyond physical form.
A sensation unlike anything I'd experienced flowed into my mind, not words exactly, but intentions, emotions, and images that assembled themselves into meaning. I understood, without being told, that the unicorn was greeting me as the new guardian of their sanctuary, acknowledging blood-ties stretching back to Merlin himself.
More impressions followed: the herd's history on the island, spanning centuries; gratitude for protection during times when unicorns were hunted to near-extinction for their horns and blood; curiosity about where I had been and why the Ambrosia line had disappeared for so long.
I had no idea how to respond in kind, so I simply thought my answers as clearly as possible: I am the last of the line, returned to claim my heritage. I will protect this sanctuary as Merlin did.
The mare dipped her horn toward me, and without conscious thought, I reached out. My fingertips brushed the spiraled surface, and a jolt of pure magic coursed through me, clean, wild, primordial. It felt like drinking light, like touching the essence of creation itself. My hand trembled against her horn, not from fear but from the overwhelming purity of the connection.
A shadow passed overhead, breaking the moment. I looked up to see a magnificent hippogriff circling above the meadow, its eagle head turning to observe us while powerful wings held it aloft. Its feathers blended from tawny gold at the head to steel gray at the rear haunches, catching sunlight with metallic brilliance.
The unicorn mare stepped back, communicating a farewell that felt like a gentle wave receding from shore. She rejoined her herd, leaving me still tingling from our connection.
"Master must bow again," Bouncy advised as the hippogriff landed at the meadow's edge. "Hippogriffs are very proud. They only let those touch or ride who show proper respect."
I approached slowly, maintaining eye contact with the creature. Its fierce amber eyes regarded me with intelligent assessment, head cocked slightly as if measuring my worth. About fifteen feet away, I stopped and executed a formal bow, deeper than the one I'd offered the unicorn.
For a tense moment, the hippogriff remained motionless. Then, with a graceful movement that belied its massive size, it bent one clawed foreleg and lowered its head in return.
"It accepts you!" Bouncy clapped his hands in delight. "Master can approach now!"
I moved forward, hand extended. The hippogriff allowed me to stroke its beak, the surface warm and surprisingly smooth beneath my fingers. Then, to my astonishment, it lowered its body in clear invitation.
"It wants to fly with Master!" Bouncy explained, bouncing in place. "Very rare honor! Very special!"
With careful movements, I climbed onto the hippogriff's back, positioning myself where the feathers gave way to fur. I had barely settled when powerful wings extended on either side of me, and with a great downward thrust, we were airborne.
The sudden acceleration pushed me back, and I gripped tightly with my knees, leaning forward against the creature's neck. We soared upward, the meadow shrinking beneath us. Within moments, we were higher than the manor's tallest tower, the entire island spreading out below like a living map.
The hippogriff banked sharply, circling the property in a wide arc that offered spectacular views of forests, mountains, and the sea that surrounded our hidden world. The wind rushed past my face, tears streaming from my eyes not from emotion but from sheer speed. Yet despite the exhilaration, I felt no fear, only a profound connection to the creature carrying me and to the land below that was my home.
We flew for what felt like hours but was probably closer to twenty minutes, eventually returning to the meadow where Bouncy waited, hopping from foot to foot with poorly contained anxiety that melted into relief when we landed smoothly.
As dusk approached, we made our way back to the manor. My body hummed with the excitement of the encounters, a pleasant vibration that settled deep in my bones. I understood now, in a way books could never teach, why Merlin had created this sanctuary. These creatures weren't just magical curiosities to be studied or resources to be used. They were living embodiments of magic in its purest form, worthy of protection for their own sake.
I silently renewed my commitment to maintain the sanctuary, to keep it safe not just from those who would harm its inhabitants but from the turbulent changes I knew the wizarding world would soon face. Like Merlin before me, I would be their guardian, their protector.
This, too, was part of my inheritance, not just wealth and power, but responsibility toward the magical world in all its forms.
Journal Entry
January 7th, 1991
Flying. Perhaps the most iconic wizarding skill, and one I've both anticipated and dreaded in equal measure. Unlike spellwork, where my theoretical knowledge gives me an advantage, flying is purely practical, no amount of reading can replace the experience of actually being airborne on a broomstick. Still, I've delayed this training long enough. If I'm to arrive at Hogwarts prepared for all aspects of magical education, I can't ignore this fundamental skill.
This morning, I spent two hours in the Room of Requirement, which I'd configured as a small study filled with works on magical transportation. I focused primarily on "Quidditch Through the Ages," absorbing its chapters on basic flight techniques. The book emphasized that flying is as much about confidence as technique, the broom responds not just to physical commands but to the rider's intentions and emotional state. This explained why some naturals like Harry Potter would excel immediately, while others struggle despite perfect technical form.
After lunch, I retrieved one of the vintage racing brooms from the manor's collection. According to Jilly, it's a Comet 180, considered top-of-the-line about thirty years ago. While not as sleek as the Nimbus 2000 that will be released this year, it's well-maintained and more than adequate for learning. Its polished handle gleamed in the winter sunlight as I carried it to an open field behind the Quidditch pitch, away from trees or structures I might collide with.
Following the book's instructions, I laid the broom carefully on the ground beside me, standing with my dominant hand positioned over it. The first command seemed deceptively simple: "Up!"
Nothing happened. The broom remained stubbornly inert on the grass.
I tried again, louder this time. "UP!"
A slight twitch, nothing more. Frustration bubbled up inside me. I had commanded wards that spanned an entire island, communicated with unicorns, even ridden a hippogriff, yet I couldn't make a simple broomstick obey the most basic command.
Taking a deep breath, I recalled the book's emphasis on intention and confidence. The broom would sense hesitation or doubt. I closed my eyes, visualizing the broom jumping eagerly into my hand, feeling the weight of the handle against my palm before it happened.
"Up," I said again, my voice quieter but filled with certainty.
The broom shot upward, smacking satisfyingly into my outstretched hand with enough force that I nearly dropped it in surprise. The wood seemed to vibrate slightly, as if tell me that it was happy. We connected in that moment, broom and rider, in a way I hadn't anticipated.
Mounting it as demonstrated in the book's illustrations, I gripped the handle firmly but not too tightly. My heart pounded against my ribs as I prepared for the next step. Gently, I pushed off from the ground, intending to hover just a few feet up.
The Comet had other ideas. It rocketed upward fifteen feet before I managed to level it out, leaving my stomach somewhere on the ground below. For a terrifying moment, I wobbled precariously, certain I would slip sideways off the handle. But something instinctive took over, a shift in weight, a subtle adjustment of grip, and I stabilized.
Hovering there, suspended above the winter-brown grass, I experienced a peculiar mixture of vulnerability and freedom. Unlike the hippogriff flight, where the creature controlled our path, I alone determined where this broom would go. The responsibility was both exhilarating and sobering.
Starting with basic maneuvers, I leaned slightly forward, accelerating into a slow glide across the field. The broom responded smoothly, picking up speed as my confidence grew. I practiced turns next, discovering that a combination of leaning and subtle pressure from my hands produced the desired direction changes.
Each successful maneuver emboldened me to try something more challenging. Banking left then right in a serpentine pattern. Increasing speed then coming to a controlled stop. Ascending another twenty feet and holding position despite a gusty crosswind. The Comet handled predictably, its responses becoming familiar as minutes stretched into an hour of practice.
My tension gradually dissolved into enjoyment. There was something undeniably magical about flying, not just in the obvious sense of defying gravity, but in the pure freedom it represented. No wonder wizards considered this a fundamental skill. It wasn't merely transportation; it was liberation from physical constraints.
As my confidence peaked, I decided to attempt a more advanced technique: a simple diving turn, descending while changing direction. I climbed to about fifty feet, higher than I'd yet ventured, the manor sprawling impressively below me. The winter sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the grounds.
The dive began well, a controlled descent at a forty-five-degree angle while banking gently left. But halfway through, I increased the angle too sharply, and the broom's nose dipped suddenly toward the ground. My stomach lurched as acceleration pulled me forward on the handle, my weight shifting dangerously.
The ground rushed up with alarming speed. In my panic, I overcorrected, jerking backward with too much force. The broom responded by changing trajectory so abruptly that I nearly slipped sideways off the handle. Only a desperate grab with my left hand kept me from falling.
Now out of balance and barely in control, I spiraled toward a copse of trees at the field's edge. At the last possible moment, instinct took over again. I flattened myself against the handle and pulled up with everything I had, simultaneously straightening the broom's direction.
The Comet responded just in time, skimming over the topmost branches with inches to spare. Leaves brushed against my shoes as I struggled to level out, finally regaining control over a safe portion of the field. My heart hammered so violently I could feel it in my throat as I carefully descended to a hover just three feet above the ground.
When my feet finally touched earth again, my legs trembled so badly I had to sit down, the broom still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. The lesson was clear and humbling: overconfidence in magic could be deadly. I had pushed too far too quickly, assuming that knowing the theory would protect me from practical mistakes.
After catching my breath, I forced myself to mount the broom once more. I wouldn't end the session with fear as my last experience. This time, I flew modestly, simple circles at a safe height, focusing on smooth control rather than thrilling maneuvers. When I finally landed with a controlled, gentle touchdown, satisfaction replaced the earlier shame of my near-accident.
Walking back to the manor with the Comet propped on my shoulder, I reflected on the day's lesson. Perhaps the most valuable skill I'd learned wasn't how to fly but how to respect the learning process itself. Magic, whether channeled through a wand, a broom, or pure will, demanded not just knowledge but wisdom. Power without control was merely danger waiting to happen.
I resolved to continue practice daily, building skills methodically rather than rushing toward mastery. Flying would be essential at Hogwarts, not just for potential Quidditch participation but for mobility and, if my foreknowledge proved accurate, possibly for survival itself.
Today's near-disaster was, in its way, a gift, a reminder that even with advantages of blood and knowledge, I remained fallible. A lesson better learned here, over the protected grounds of Ambrosia Manor, than in the more dangerous situations that surely awaited me at Hogwarts.