Quirks in Wizarding World

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- Carter Residence, Chelsea -

- June 24, 1991 – Morning -

The morning light filtered through the window as Arthav sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, his Transfiguration textbook open in front of him. Breakfast had been a quiet affair, his mother too preoccupied with talking about various things which she missed talking about in all these years, with his grandparents, to notice how distracted he had been. His mind was already on magic, on understanding its deeper mechanics.

Transfiguration was different from Charms. It wasn't just about making something move or glow—it was about altering an object's very form. A complete reconfiguration of its structure.

His eyes moved over the text carefully, absorbing the explanations. The process required precision: correct wand movement, clear visualization, and an unshakable intent. The caster had to truly believe in the transformation, had to impose their will on reality with enough force that magic reshaped the object in response.

He picked up a matchstick he had set aside earlier and placed it on the wooden desk. Beside it, he had placed a needle—his reference point.

Taking a slow breath, he raised his wand and focused.

"Ferrum mutatio."

The matchstick quivered but remained unchanged.

He frowned slightly. He hadn't expected success on the first try, but he was certain something had happened—something subtle, just beneath the surface. He tried again, refining his mental image. This time, he didn't just picture a needle; he broke down what it was. He studied its smooth metallic surface, the way light reflected off it, the way its sharp point tapered precisely. Then, he examined the matchstick the same way—its rough wooden texture, the way the fibers ran along its length, the blackened tip.

Closing his eyes briefly, he imagined the matchstick shifting, its fibers tightening, hardening, until it took on the properties of the needle. He pictured the change not as something forced, but as something inevitable.

He raised his wand once more.

"Ferrum mutatio."

This time, the matchstick shimmered, a faint glow encasing it. The wood compressed, its color shifting, its form narrowing and elongating. Within seconds, where the matchstick had been, a perfect silver needle rested on the desk.

Arthav let out a breath, his fingers brushing over the transformed object. He picked it up, weighing it against the original needle. Side by side, they were identical in every way—shape, weight, texture. But as he focused his vision, he noticed something faint—an almost invisible aura clinging to the transfigured needle, like a thin shell of lingering magic.

That was the difference.

Transfiguration didn't truly alter the fundamental nature of an object—it only imposed a new form upon it. The original essence remained beneath the surface, held in place by magic. That was why transfigured food wasn't safe to eat; no matter how real it looked, its inner nature hadn't changed. A transfigured apple was still, at its core, whatever object it had been before.

He sat back, considering this carefully.

Transfiguration required more than just the right spell—it depended on the caster's willpower, their intent, and their ability to command magic to reshape reality. The wand served as a guide, but ultimately, it was the magician's control over the energy around them that dictated success.

That meant…

He set the wand aside.

If he could direct magic to obey him with the wand, then he could do the same without it.

Arthav closed his eyes and concentrated. He recalled the way magic had moved through him before, how it had wrapped around the matchstick, forcing it into a new shape. He reached for that sensation again, mimicking the same flow of energy, this time guiding it with only his intent.

The matchstick trembled.

He narrowed his focus, reinforcing his mental image, making his will absolute.

The shimmer returned, fainter this time, but present. The matchstick's edges blurred, its form wavering between what it was and what it could be.

For a brief second, it was neither matchstick nor needle—it was potential.

Then, the shift completed.

The needle lay still.

Arthav stared at it, heart pounding. Wandless transfiguration.

It had taken longer, demanded more effort, but it had worked. He reached out, running his fingers over the needle's surface, feeling its smoothness, its weight. The transformation was just as perfect as before.

A slow smile spread across his face.

He was beginning to understand.

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Arthav spent the rest of the morning practicing transfiguration wandlessly, pushing his control further with each attempt. He started with simple objects—matchsticks into needles, buttons into coins—until the transitions became smoother, faster. The process still required deep focus, but he could feel the shift happening with more ease. Each time he willed the change, he learned more about how magic flowed, how it latched onto an object and reshaped it according to his intent.

By the time lunch approached, he set his wand down and leaned back in his chair, his mind drifting into theory.

If transfiguration worked by compelling magic to impose a new form on an object while keeping its essence intact, then alchemy had to be something more. It wasn't just transformation—it was fundamental change. True transmutation, where an object's nature was rewritten from the inside out.

Alchemy, as he had read in the wizarding world's history, was the pinnacle of magical transformation. And the greatest name associated with it was Nicholas Flamel.

The Philosopher's Stone. A legendary artifact said to turn any metal into pure gold and, more astonishingly, grant immortality. If that was true, then alchemy didn't just alter an object's outward appearance. It restructured its very essence, breaking it down and rebuilding it with magic so thoroughly that the change became permanent.

This required absolute magical control. Not just imposing will on magic but guiding it with such precision that it rewrote reality itself.

His thoughts drifted further.

Alchemy reminded him of something else. Something ancient.

Maya.

The word had been whispered in myths and stories for centuries. The illusionary force, the fabric of reality itself, which sages and ancient prana practitioners were said to control. If transfiguration changed how something appeared, and alchemy changed what something was, then Maya went beyond both—it altered the world itself.

The greatest sages were said to have made the impossible real. Through perfect harmony with their prana and the universe, they could shape existence as they wished. If legends were to be believed, they could conjure entire realms, bend time, even make mere thoughts take physical form.

Could it be real?

If Flamel existed, if the Philosopher's Stone was real, then what about the old stories? What about the sages who were said to be alive even today, hidden from the world? What about the Devas, the Rakshasas, the Gods themselves?

Were they just myths, or was there truth buried in those tales?

A spark of excitement flickered in him. The more he learned about magic, the more he realized how little he actually knew. How much had been forgotten? How much was waiting to be discovered?

His stomach grumbled, pulling him back to reality. He sighed, closing his book. There was only so much he could theorize in one morning. Some answers would come with time, with experience.

For now, he would wait.

And he would keep learning.

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The days passed in quiet determination. Each morning, Arthav woke early, ate breakfast with his family, and then disappeared into his room, immersing himself in magic. His routine was relentless—study, practice, refine.

By the end of the first few weeks, he had worked through all the subjects of the first-year curriculum. Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts—each discipline opened new doors, revealing how magic functioned at its core. He didn't just memorize spells; he dissected them, broke them down into their raw components, understanding how magic responded to intention, movement, and willpower.

Transfiguration had been the most demanding, but also the most rewarding. Each success—turning matchsticks into needles, feathers into paper, stones into goblets—reinforced his understanding. He grasped why precision was necessary, why the smallest lapse in focus could result in an incomplete transformation.

By the time he finished the first-year syllabus, he barely paused. He wanted more.

With a fresh stack of books from his mother's collection, he pushed forward into second-year material. Harder spells, deeper theory, more complex magic.

The deeper he went, the clearer the patterns became. Magic wasn't just about memorization. It was about understanding why spells worked, not just how to cast them.

And Arthav wasn't satisfied with just following instructions.

He wanted to master magic on his own terms.

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