Harry Potter and My Wizarding Life

The first thing I learned about magic?

Everything I read in fanfics was a damn lie.

Seriously. All those stories about mana control, feeling the flow of magic, and willing objects into the air effortlessly? Absolute Lie.

I had spent the last three days testing my abilities, and the results were humbling, to say the least.

The first time I tried to use magic, I did it the way every single fanfic said I should.

I sat cross-legged on the rickety wooden floor of my dormitory room, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and focused on feeling my magic.

And guess what?

Nothing.

I sat there for a solid fifteen minutes, breathing like a discount meditation guru, trying to 'sense the energy within me,' and all I got in return was a cramp in my back and the growing urge to punch the nearest wall.

Okay, no problem. Maybe I needed to envision it better?

I tried imagining an invisible force flowing through my body, extending outward, wrapping around an old rubber eraser I had swiped from the orphanage's communal supplies.

The eraser… did not move.

At all.

I spent another hour trying different approaches—pushing, pulling, commanding, begging (don't judge me), and nothing worked. I was starting to think maybe Chaos scammed me and forgot to actually give me magic.

Then, something happened.

It was a fluke, really. I got frustrated, and instead of carefully guiding the magic, I just sort of willed the eraser to move—not gently, not smoothly, just pure, desperate, MOVE, DAMN YOU!

And it twitched.

Not flew, not levitated. It just jerked a millimeter off the floor before dropping back down like a lifeless potato.

I stared at it, my brain catching fire with possibilities.

I did it.

It was weak, pathetic even, but it was magic.

That was all the encouragement I needed.

Turns out, moving things with magic is hard as hell.

There was no "graceful" way to describe it—it was like trying to lift weights with my brain, except I had the mental equivalent of noodle arms. The bigger the object, the harder it was, and right now? Even a rubber eraser felt like a goddamn anvil.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I trained.

I set a goal—keep the eraser floating for as long as possible. Not lifting it, not throwing it, just keeping it in the air.

Sounds simple, right?

It wasn't.

At first, I could barely hold it up for more than a second before it dropped. Each attempt drained me, leaving my mind feeling sluggish, like I had spent hours solving advanced calculus problems (and I hated calculus).

After a dozen attempts, I felt physically exhausted, even though I hadn't moved an inch. My head ached, my limbs felt sluggish, and a dull throbbing pulsed at the back of my skull.

Magic was real. But magic was also a muscle, and mine was embarrassingly underdeveloped.

So, I did what any logical person would do.

I worked out.

Five push-ups. Five measly push-ups left my arms shaking, and I swore the floorboards were laughing at me. But I gritted my teeth and kept going. If my magic needed strength, then so did my body.

For the rest of the day, I alternated between physical training and magic practice. It was slow, grueling, and frustrating as hell, but by the end of the night, I managed to keep the eraser in the air for five whole seconds.

It wasn't much, but it was progress.

I might have been obsessing over magic, but I wasn't a shut-in. Life in the orphanage wasn't bad, per se—it was just ordinary.

Mrs. Thompson, one of the caretakers, was a plump, middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and a warm smile. She was strict, but in a good way, making sure we ate well, stayed out of trouble, and didn't act like feral goblins.

She caught me doing push-ups in the hallway and raised an eyebrow.

"Planning to become a bodybuilder, Bhatti?" she asked dryly.

"Something like that," I replied, grinning.

She chuckled, ruffling my hair before heading off.

Then there were the other kids.

Most of them were younger than me, but a few were around my age. Daniel, a wiry kid with messy blond hair, had made it his mission to be the 'coolest' among us, which mostly meant trying (and failing) to impress the older kids. He caught me staring intensely at my eraser during breakfast.

"You good, mate?" he asked through a mouthful of toast.

"Yeah," I said, flicking the eraser away before he could question why I was staring at it like it owed me money.

Then there was Emma, a quiet girl with dark curls and big, observant eyes. She didn't talk much, but when she did, she always asked the weirdest questions.

"Do you think the moon ever gets lonely?" she asked out of nowhere.

I blinked. "Probably. But it's got the stars, so maybe it's not that bad."

She hummed thoughtfully. "That makes sense."

Yeah, she was definitely a thinker.

Despite everything, I liked my life here. The caretakers were decent, the kids were bearable, and for once, I wasn't stressing about exams or the future.

But that didn't mean I was satisfied.

I needed more.

I needed to master magic—or at least, be able to move objects freely before I set foot in Hogwarts.

Because if I couldn't even levitate a stupid eraser properly, I had no business calling myself a wizard.

So I went back to training.

Five push-ups.

Hold the eraser in the air for as long as I could.

Repeat.

And no matter how slow the progress, I refused to stop.