The next morning felt quiet, almost too quiet.
Sunlight came through the window, soft and golden, but Harry woke up with a strange feeling in his chest. He couldn't explain it. Something about the air felt… different.
Downstairs, his mother was making breakfast. The teapot floated by itself, and spoons danced around the cups.
"Good morning, Harry," Lily said kindly.
Harry smiled, but only a little. Watching magic always made him feel small inside.
After breakfast, he went outside. Other children were flying toy brooms and throwing glowing balls that left sparks in the sky. Harry stood at the gate, holding his small wooden stick. He tried again.
> "Up," he said softly.
The stick didn't move.
"Up!"
Still nothing.
Some boys nearby laughed.
"Harry's broom can't even shake!" one called out.
Harry turned away quickly. His throat hurt, but he didn't want to cry.
He walked away from the houses, away from the laughter, until he reached the Whispering Woods. His parents had told him not to go there alone, but he liked it. The trees were tall and silver-green, and when the wind blew, it sounded like someone talking far away.
He sat down under an old willow tree. The ground was cool, covered in soft leaves.
"I just want to do one spell," he whispered. "Just one."
The forest went very still.
Even the birds stopped singing.
Then Harry heard something—like a low hum deep in the ground. The air moved around him, gentle but strange, as if the forest itself had taken a breath. He looked up. Dust and tiny lights floated in front of him, glowing faintly. They weren't fireflies. They were brighter, slower, and they began to spin around him in a soft golden ring.
Harry's heart raced.
The lights circled faster. He felt warmth in his hands, like the air itself was alive. His wooden stick began to glow faintly.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He only watched.
The glow grew brighter… then, suddenly—
everything went dark.
The lights vanished. The hum stopped. Even the wind froze.
Harry sat still, afraid to breathe. The forest was completely silent. Then, somewhere deep among the trees, something cracked—like a stick snapping under a heavy foot.
He turned his head slowly.
Nothing. Just shadows.
Then a voice, soft as the wind, whispered through the trees:
> "It's not time yet…"
Harry jumped up, heart pounding. "Who's there?"
No answer. Only the sound of leaves falling slowly to the ground.
He ran home as fast as he could, his small shoes crunching the dirt road. When he reached the house, his mother smiled from the doorway.
"You look pale, sweetheart. Are you all right?"
Harry nodded quickly. "Yeah… just tired."
He didn't tell her what he saw. He wasn't sure if he believed it himself.
But that night, as he lay in bed, he could still hear the whisper echoing in his ears—
soft, strange, and real.
> "It's not time yet."