Accio Paintbrush

The fluorescent lights of St. Grogory's Primary School buzzed overhead as five-year-old Harry sat at his desk, a worn crayon gripped in his small hand. While other children scribbled stick figures and houses with crooked chimneys, Harry's paper came alive with sweeping landscapes and intricate designs that shouldn't have been possible for someone his age.

Miss Henderson stood transfixed behind him, watching as he layered colors with the precision of a master painter. "Harry," she whispered, "where did you learn to draw like this?"

He didn't answer. How could he explain that these fingers had once held brushes in galleries across Manhattan? That in another life, he'd spent decades perfecting his craft?

The other children gathered around his desk, their eyes wide with wonder. Even Dudley, who usually tormented Harry at every opportunity, stood slack-jawed at the sight of his cousin's artwork. The drawing depicted the school playground, but somehow more magical – the swing sets seemed to sway in an invisible breeze, and the autumn leaves appeared to dance across the paper.

Word spread quickly through the school. Teachers shared his artwork in the staff room, and soon the headmaster himself came to see. Harry's drawings began appearing on classroom walls and in school newsletters. For the first time in this new life, he felt seen.

But with recognition came complications.

"The boy's making us look bad," Vernon growled one evening, his face an alarming shade of purple. "People asking questions about where he learned it all. It's not natural, Petunia. It's that... that abnormality showing itself."

Petunia's lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the latest school notice praising Harry's artistic achievements. "We'll have to limit it," she decided. "No more art supplies at home. He can only draw at school, under supervision."

But they couldn't stop what they couldn't see. In the darkness of his cupboard, Harry had discovered that his fingers could trace patterns in the air, leaving behind faint trails of light that faded within seconds. By age six, he could make small objects float with a gesture, though it exhausted him completely.

He kept these abilities secret, practicing in the dead of night when the house creaked with silence. His artist's soul understood instinctively that magic, like art, required discipline and practice. Each night, he would lift paper clips, pencil stubs, and spare buttons, building his strength like a muscle.

The breakthrough came at eight years old. The Surrey Youth Art Competition had selected Harry's piece – a haunting watercolor of a phoenix rising from ashes – as its grand prize winner. Reporters from local papers descended on St. Grogory's, cameras flashing as Harry stood beside his painting, thin and awkward in Dudley's oversized clothes.

"Extraordinary talent," the judges had written. "Technical skill well beyond his years, with an emotional depth that speaks to something ancient and profound."

The Dursleys couldn't hide him anymore. The article ran with the headline "Surrey's Young Master: Local Boy Shows Prodigious Artistic Talent," accompanied by a photo of Harry's solemn green eyes peering from behind his round glasses.

That evening, Vernon made a decision that would change everything. "He's going to Marge's guest bedroom," he announced, as if the words physically pained him. "Can't have reporters seeing him come out of a cupboard, can we? Would raise too many questions."

And so Harry found himself with a real bedroom for the first time in this life. It wasn't large – barely big enough for a bed, desk, and small wardrobe – but it felt like a palace after the cupboard. More importantly, it had a window that looked out over the street, letting in natural light that made his heart soar.

The move upstairs marked a turning point. With more space and privacy, Harry began experimenting with combining his artistic abilities with his growing magical control. He discovered that drawings made with intention, infused with his wandless magic, could take on subtle qualities of movement and life. Flowers he sketched would seem to sway in nonexistent breezes, clouds would drift across painted skies, and water would appear to ripple on the page.

He kept his most precious creations in his Inventory, that mysterious space that felt like a piece of his soul. The gold bars remained there too, untouched, waiting for the day they might prove useful. Each night, before sleep claimed him, Harry would close his eyes and reach out with his consciousness, touching that space between spaces where his treasures lay hidden.

Time flowed like paint water in a rinse cup, swirling with colors and possibilities. Harry grew stronger, more confident in both his artistic and magical abilities. He learned to channel his magic through his art, creating pieces that seemed to whisper with power. And all the while, he waited, knowing that somewhere out there, a letter was being prepared – a letter that would change everything once again.

The morning of his eleventh birthday dawned gray and cool, with a hint of autumn in the air. Harry sat at his desk, sketching idly, when he heard the distinctive sound of mail sliding through the letter box.

His heart skipped a beat.

The time had come.