Chapter 4
August 25th, 1991.
Thomas Greene sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, the afternoon sun slanting through his window and casting long shadows over the worn carpet. Spread before him were several books, the most prominent of which was "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1" by Miranda Goshawk. Its spine cracked with each flip of the page, the scent of ink and parchment still sharp and new. Thomas's wand—a slender piece of holly wood, eleven inches with a phoenix feather core—rested in his hand. He stared at it thoughtfully, the events of the past few days playing like a film reel in his mind.
He had a wand. He had spellbooks. He had robes, scales, a telescope, and even a midnight-black barn owl with snowy white speckles that he'd named "Nyx." He was a wizard.
And in exactly one week, on September 1st, he'd board the Hogwarts Express and begin the journey he had once only seen in movies.
Only now, he was living it.
He glanced again at the open page. The Wand-Lighting Charm. Lumos.
"The incantation must be spoken clearly. Visualize light flowing to the tip of your wand, like turning on a switch," the passage read.
Thomas raised his wand. "Lumos," he said.
Nothing.
He narrowed his eyes, adjusted his grip, and tried again. "Lumos."
Still nothing.
He sighed, leaning back on his elbows. For all his knowledge of what was supposed to happen, doing it without a teacher or guidance was proving to be more difficult than he had expected. The movies made it look so easy. Then again, actors had CGI.
"Maybe I need to pronounce it more... Latin-y?" he muttered.
Over the course of that evening, Thomas worked through the basic incantations listed in the first few chapters. The Levitation Charm, Wingardium Leviosa, was particularly infuriating. He practiced the swish-and-flick motion so many times his wrist began to ache.
And then, on his seventh attempt, while trying to levitate an eraser he had stolen from his schoolbag, the tip of his wand emitted a sharp spark.
Boom!
A puff of smoke exploded in his face. Thomas coughed violently, waving his hands through the acrid air.
"Merlin's beard," he wheezed. "I think I just blew up graphite."
From downstairs, his mum called, "Everything all right up there, love?"
Thomas quickly opened the window to air out the room. "All good, Mum! Just... learning magic."
He could hear the uncertain pause before she replied, "All right. Just don't burn the house down."
---
Over the following week, Thomas fell into a determined rhythm. In the mornings, he read. He'd devour chapters from Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, attempting to comprehend how magical energy flowed from a wizard through their wand. The book discussed magical cores, wand woods, focusing disciplines, and the importance of mental clarity. While some of it read like dense philosophy, it fascinated Thomas all the same.
From A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, he learned about the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. Food couldn't be conjured, only multiplied or summoned. Living creatures required immense control. And time... well, time magic was taboo for a reason.
In the afternoons, he practiced spells. He soon realized that saying the words wasn't enough—intent mattered. Visualization mattered. Even posture and grip made a difference. He began to treat his wand like a paintbrush rather than a remote control.
By the third day, he managed to light the tip of his wand faintly. It blinked like a dying torch.
By the fifth day, it shone brightly, casting a white glow across his bedroom ceiling. He had mastered Lumos.
"Nox," he whispered, and the light vanished.
"Progress," he muttered, grinning.
He practiced the Mending Charm next. Reparo. After shattering an old teacup (with permission), he spent two days learning how to piece it back together. On his seventh try, it worked—a clean snap, the porcelain rejoining with a spark of light.
Levitation took longer. The swish-and-flick motion felt unnatural at first, and he kept fumbling the pronunciation: "Wingardium Levio-sah, not Levio-sar," he said, mimicking Hermione's voice from memory.
By the sixth day, he was able to make a pencil hover about six inches off the desk.
He looked at it, amazed, like a proud parent. "Eat your heart out, Newton."
---
That evening, as he set his books aside, Thomas sat with his mum at the kitchen table. She was sipping tea, watching him with a quiet concern she hadn't voiced aloud.
"Mum," he said carefully. "Magic seems safe. A bit tricky, but I think... I think I can manage."
She smiled, setting her cup down. "I know you can. You've always been clever. Just don't push yourself too hard. It's all new, isn't it?"
He nodded. "Very new. Like learning another language. Or science with different rules."
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Your father would've loved this. He always said you were meant for strange and wonderful things."
Thomas looked down, guilt stirring in his chest. He wasn't being entirely honest with her. Magic wasn't just "tricky." It was dangerous. There were trolls and curses and dragons and worse. But she didn't need to know that.
"I'll study hard," he promised. "I won't let anything happen."
---
The night before September 1st arrived like a slow tide. Thomas packed his trunk twice just to be sure. His robes were neatly folded, his name sewn into each collar with a charm-tag McGonagall had shown him. His books were arranged by subject, and Nyx sat in her cage by the window, watching the moths flutter outside.
He looked around his room. Posters of rock bands and science-fiction movies still hung on the walls. A half-built model airplane sat on a shelf. This place—this life—felt like a chapter that was closing.
He sat on the edge of his bed, wand in hand, and stared out the window.
He thought of the train. Of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Of the Great Hall and floating candles.
He also thought of the danger ahead. He remembered Voldemort, the basilisk, Sirius Black, the Triwizard Tournament, and the Battle of Hogwarts. He remembered deaths. So many deaths.
But most of all, he remembered Harry.
He hadn't seen him in Diagon Alley. But maybe he'd just missed him. Maybe Harry had gone earlier or later. Maybe he would meet him on the train.
Thomas smiled faintly. "It'll be weird, meeting him. The real him."
Then a thought occurred to him.
What if things have already changed? What if my being here altered something?
He shook the thought away. No use spiraling. He'd find out soon enough.
---
His thoughts turned to the Sorting Hat. The four houses.
He couldn't go to Slytherin. Not just because of its reputation, but because they historically despised Muggle-borns.
"No chance," he whispered. "They'd eat me alive."
Hufflepuff was kind, but he didn't think he was particularly loyal or hardworking in the traditional sense.
Gryffindor? Maybe. He had guts, sure. But reckless bravery wasn't his style.
Ravenclaw. That was his hope. Knowledge, wit, creativity.
He thought of Rowena Ravenclaw's words: "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure."
"Sounds about right," he muttered. "Please put me there."
---
Before bed, he opened Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. He reread the entry on Hippogriffs, marveling at their pride and intelligence. He flipped through sketches of Bowtruckles, Grindylows, and Nifflers. Magical creatures were more fascinating than he remembered.
He jotted down notes in a little spiral-bound notebook:
Practice spell pronunciation aloud daily
Learn Latin roots for new incantations
Study wand movements in mirror
Read ahead in Transfiguration and Charms
He closed the book and looked at Nyx.
"Tomorrow's the day. Hogwarts."
The owl hooted softly.
Thomas smiled and crawled into bed, wand on the nightstand. He stared up at the ceiling, the faint glow of Lumos still echoing in his mind.
Four years. That's how long he had until things became dangerous. He didn't need to rush into being a hero. He just needed to survive, learn, and prepare.
And maybe... change a few things.
With that final thought, Thomas Greene closed his eyes.
The next morning, he would begin his journey into the magical world properly.
But tonight, he dreamed of stars above a castle, owls in flight, and candles floating in the sky.