Harry Potter: I Cast

"Humana, humana, humana."

My mouth betrayed me, producing nothing but nonsensical sounds as I stood before Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of our age.

His half-moon spectacles falling onto the bridge of his nose, his piercing blue eyes looking at me so hard, that I thought he was reading my thoughts - then again given what little I knew about Legilimency, he probably could.

His magic was overwhelming - unlike anything I'd ever sensed before. I didn't even need to touch him to feel it radiating from him in waves. Even more interesting was his wand - it possessed its own magic. There was something deadly about that wand's magic, as if Dumbledore carried death itself at his waist, it was all in all very very weird.

"Felix, I have heard quite remarkable things about you from Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall," he said with deliberate calmness. "Quite the eventful first day at Hogwarts, wouldn't you say?"

"Humana, humana, humana," was all I could say in response.

Inside my head, I screamed, FELIX! Shut your fucking mouth already, pull yourself together!

"May we talk?" Dumbledore asked, seeming more amused than annoyed.

Finally, my mouth snapped shut with an audible pop. I tried to wet my suddenly dry throat but managed only an embarrassingly loud gulp. Dumbledore's silver eyebrow arched slightly, making me all the more nervous.

Great first impression Felix, you nailed it.

"Are you all right, lad?"

I nodded frantically, apparently having lost all other motor functions. My hands were sweating, and I resisted the urge to wipe them on my robes. Was there proper etiquette for what to do with your hands when standing before the most powerful wizard in Britain?

"I think it would be better if we continued this conversation somewhere more private," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

Without warning, the world twisted inside out. The sensation was indescribable - like being squeezed through a rubber tube while someone tried to push my eyeballs back into my skull. My lungs felt compressed, my ears popped, and every atom of my being seemed to protest this unnatural form of travel. Just when I thought I couldn't bear it another second, it stopped.

We were standing in his office, the same one I'd glimpsed in my vision through the gargoyle's eyes. The circular room was even more impressive in person.

The walls were lined with portraits of previous headmasters, most pretending to sleep - though I caught several peeking through barely-closed eyes. I wondered if all portraits were such peeping toms, though I couldn't blame them - being stuck in a castle for eternity must get boring.

Books covered every available surface, their spines gleaming with gold lettering in languages I couldn't recognize.

Some seemed to rustle nervously as if alive. And there, sitting innocently on its shelf, was the Sorting Hat, looking exactly as it had during the sorting ceremony, though perhaps a bit more worn in the direct light.

My fingers itched to grab it and study it, but I forced myself to stay still. Now was definitely not the time for attempted magical artifact theft, no matter how tempting.

"Wait, Professor," I said as my brain caught up with events, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Doesn't Hogwarts have anti-apparition wards?"

"I had them temporarily lifted," he replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eye that reminded me startlingly of my mother when she was up to something. "But let's keep that between us, shall we?"

He gestured for me to take a seat before his desk - an enormous, claw-footed thing that looked old enough to have belonged to the founders themselves.

As I sat, trying not to fidget too obviously, I couldn't help but stare at the phoenix perched nearby. The bird was even more magnificent up close, its feathers the color of fire itself. I desperately wanted to touch it and feel its magic, even if it meant getting burned.

"Fawkes is quite the handsome beast, isn't he?"

"He is," I mumbled, focused on the magical creature.

Dumbledore took his seat behind the desk, and I found myself cataloging every detail of the office, my peculiar memory storing it all away like pages in a book. I couldn't control how my memory worked - it just did what it wanted, which was weird, but at this point, what wasn't?

"Professor Flitwick tells me he's taken you on as his assistant," Dumbledore began. "In all my years at Hogwarts, he's never done that before. Claims he enjoys grading homework too much to share the pleasure."

His blue eyes seemed to glow behind the half-moon spectacles. "When I inquired why he'd made an exception, especially for a first year, he spoke of your remarkable talent for Charms. Then, curiously enough, Professor McGonagall shared similar observations about your performance in Transfiguration."

I shifted uncomfortably, reminded of my old school principal's technique of building you up before delivering bad news. Nine times out of ten, that bad news had involved my 'accidental' magic flaring up.

"Your mother, Felice," Dumbledore continued, his voice softening with reminiscence, "was quite the handful in her day. I distinctly remember her turning Professor Slughorn's entire classroom into a rather impressive approximation of the night sky during her sixth year - complete with shooting stars."

"I always thought she possessed qualities that would have suited Ravenclaw or Gryffindor admirably, but the Sorting Hat placed her in Slytherin. It must have seen something particularly remarkable in her ambition. And of course," he added, leaning forward slightly, "she is quite the accomplished Seer."

His piercing gaze met mine, and I felt something gently brush against my thoughts. Was this Legilimency? I managed only to nod, my voice trapped somewhere between brain and throat.

"Now, about this fascinating magic of yours," Dumbledore continued, steepling his long fingers. "Your first display at Hogwarts was rather creative - young Mr. Flint's impromptu facial modification, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes, Professor," I replied, fighting the urge to squirm.

"Most inventive, I must say. A charm I've never encountered in all my years of teaching - and I've seen quite a few unusual spells in my time. But then there was the matter of the troll. Several witnesses described you conjuring fire without proper incantation or wand movement. You simply said 'I Cast Fireball,' and there it was, as if you were writing your own spell into existence."

I nodded again.

"Words, Felix," Dumbledore prompted gently. "They're generally more illuminating than head movements."

Yep, this was exactly like my time at the principal's office in primary - word for word, bar for bar. Well, except without the magic part.

"Well, you see, Professor," I began, trying to organize my thoughts, "I'm not entirely sure how it works myself. I just... say 'I Cast' and add whatever effect I'm trying to create. Sometimes it works and sometimes..." I trailed off, remembering several embarrassing failed attempts throughout the summer. "Sometimes it doesn't work at all."

"Fascinating," Dumbledore murmured, stroking his long silver beard. "Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it. But this... this is something quite remarkable indeed."

"Professor," I ventured, seeing an opportunity to avoid future breaking and entering to satisfy my kleptomaniac tendencies and steal the hat in the future, "I think the Sorting Hat might know something about my magic."

Dumbledore's eyes flickered to where the hat sat on its shelf, apparently dozing. "Then let's ask?"

With a casual flick of his fingers - not even his wand - the Hat soared across the room and landed gently on his desk. He prodded it with one long finger, and the familiar rip near its brim twitched to life.

"Oh, disturbing my rest again, are we?" the Hat grumbled grumpily.

"The Hat often affects irritability when awoken, rather like the Fat Lady painting," Dumbledore confided in a stage whisper. "I suspect it's mostly for dramatic effect."

Turning back to the Hat, he asked, "What can you tell us about young Felix here?"

The Hat's fabric creased in confusion. "Felix who?"

There was a pause as it studied me, then its "face" transformed into recognition. "Ah yes, the Scribe! Rather early to be discovered, isn't he?"

"What exactly is a Scribe?" Dumbledore inquired, leaning forward with interest.

"How should I know?" the Hat retorted, managing to sound both defensive and smug. "Do I look like a dictionary to you?"

Dumbledore and I exchanged bewildered glances. My finally interest in magic flooded momentarily overwhelming my awe of being in Dumbledore's presence.

"What do you mean, you don't know?! You're the one who told me I was one!"

The Hat's fabric bunched indignantly. "Just because I can recognize one doesn't mean I know what one is! Do you expect me to know the intimate details of every type of wizard I sort?"

"Please," Dumbledore said calmly, well not so calmly actually. "Let's speak calmly."

"Look here, Scribe," the Hat said. "I know what you are because of that peculiar 'I Cast' magic of yours. You're like other rare magical types - Seers, Metamorphmagi, Parselmouths. Different, but not unprecedented."

"Has there been another Scribe before me?" I asked eagerly. "How did you know my magic was connected to being a Scribe?"

"Only one other that I've sorted - Merlin himself." The Hat's voice took on a reverent tone. "He called himself a Scribe, though his magic manifested differently from yours. Still, the underlying principle was the same - I saw it in your memories, just as I saw it in his."

"Thank you," Dumbledore said quietly, levitating the Hat back to its shelf. "That will be all."

Turning back to me, his expression thoughtful, he said, "Perhaps it's best to simply accept this as an innate magical ability for now. Some mysteries reveal themselves only in their own time."

"Yes, Professor," I replied.

Dumbledore walked me to the door, his parting words carrying a clear warning beneath their gentle delivery: "Now Felix, do try to refrain from using your unique magic on your fellow students. I believe we still have a Gryffindor struggling with an unusual case of vertigo."

"Yes, Professor," I promised.

I found myself back in the corridor, unable to suppress my growing grin. I had so many questions now, so many mysteries to solve, I also felt like the sorting hat hadn't said everything plus it's sentience was still ver very interesting so for now, the heist plan was still on.

As for Dumbledore's words? Sure, maybe I should try to be more subtle about using my abilities, but as I imagined casting "I Cast Itchy Bones" on particularly annoying classmates, I knew that wasn't going to happen. After all, what was the point of having unique magic if you couldn't have a little fun with it?

As for the scribe thing, both Merlin and that author Quillian had called themselves Scribes - there had to be a connection there somewhere. And I was going to find it, even if I had to read every book in Hogwarts. I was going to uncover the origin of not just my magic, but all magic. Scribes? Wizards? I would find it all.

My grin widened , spreading from one ear to the other as I walked along the corridors. This was going to be so much fun.

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