As the headmaster of a school of magic, Dumbledore had little free time.
After asking a few more questions, offering appropriate reassurances, and warning the Demoness not to use that ability lightly, he declined Harriet's invitation to stay for dinner and departed from Privet Drive.
The Dursley family, meanwhile, gained a new appreciation for kinship and courtesy. Aunt Petunia cleared out a room on the second floor so that Harriet no longer had to live in the cramped cupboard under the stairs. Uncle Vernon remained conspicuously silent on the matter, though at least he refrained from speaking in his usual ridiculous tone.
After dinner, having politely praised her aunt's cooking, Harriet returned to her room.
Compared to the cupboard, the room felt infinitely spacious. Beyond the window, dusk had settled over the neighborhood, and scattered lights glimmered like distant stars. She drew the curtains, shutting out the mundane world beyond the glass.
"From here on, my time belongs to wondrous magic."
She locked both the door and the window, then took out the assortment of ritual tools she had purchased earlier that day in Diagon Alley.
An altar was arranged. A circle was carefully drawn. With a dagger, she traced a wall of spirituality, forming a barrier to ward off unwanted disturbances.
Learning magic required vigilance.
In The World of Mysteries, carelessness meant allowing toxic knowledge to erode one's sanity. The Demoness had specifically warned the Dursleys that while they watched their eight-o'clock programs, they were not to disturb the little girl engrossed in her studies.
With her preparations complete, Harriet sat cross-legged in the open center of the room and opened the pristine beginner's spellbook.
Her wand rested lightly in her hand, and a faint sense of connection tingled through her fingertips.
The first spell to catch her eye was a rather peculiar one.
Levitation Charm.
As its name suggested, it allowed objects to float.
After witnessing the Dark Arts and secret rites of The World of Mysteries—spells capable of eroding the mind and warping flesh at a whim—this charm seemed almost gentle by comparison.
Following the textbook's pronunciation and wand movements precisely, she began her first attempt.
Fixing her gaze on a matchbox resting on the desk, she drew a deep breath and flicked her wrist in the prescribed, intricate motion.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The cadence of the words and the sweep of the wand were flawless.
Yet the matchbox did not move.
"…Hmm?"
Why was there no effect?
Had she bought the wrong textbook?
The situation reminded her of a pirated novel she had once encountered—The Great Adventurer Gehrman and the Fishing King Hedwig. Crudely written, its characters butchered beyond recognition, with absolutely no respect for canon.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
She tried again, this time raising the final syllable.
The matchbox lifted at one corner, trembling briefly, but it was far from true levitation. It soon fell back onto the desk with a soft tap.
A pang of frustration stung her chest.
She could feel her inner magic flowing sluggishly, as though encountering resistance.
That shouldn't be happening. Even when mastering far more complex rites and Dark Arts, she had never experienced this kind of obstruction.
"It feels like I'm just reciting lines and mimicking movements."
She lowered her wand, her brows knitting together in puzzlement.
The incantation was correct. The wand motion was correct. And yet, some vital core element was missing.
"…Ah. I see."
An idea flashed through her mind.
The fundamental rules governing magic in these two worlds must be different.
Recalling every spell she had witnessed and the spiritual ripples they produced, she formed a bold conjecture.
"So in this world, magic's key isn't correctness—it's belief?"
Moments earlier, when her desire to lift the matchbox had surged, the magic had responded more strongly.
Professor Dumbledore had once spoken of "accidental magic": young wizards casting spells unconsciously when their emotions ran high. But those children had never studied incantations or wand movements—so what powered their magic?
Certainly not precision.
The answer had to be emotion.
Coupled with the sensation she'd felt upon first grasping her wand, her reasoning deepened.
The syllables and wand paths held no power on their own. They were merely conduits—tools that channeled a wizard's innate magic and shaped intent into reality.
"Then let's try again."
She calmed herself and turned inward, sensing the two distinct forces dwelling within her.
One was the spirituality from The World of Mysteries—deep, cold, and calamitous.
The other was the wizard's blood of this world—placid like blank paper, easily influenced by emotion.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
Her third attempt.
This time, she did not mechanically imitate the motions. She poured her will, body, and soul into the spell.
She vividly imagined the matchbox becoming weightless, drifting upward as though freed from gravity itself.
Magic stirred.
It surged from the tip of her wand—not pushing against the object, but altering its very nature. It was as though she were painting the concept of "lightness" onto the matchbox with an invisible brush.
The box wobbled into the air, hovering unsteadily before stabilizing. It twirled gently, responding to even the slightest shift in her thoughts.
A harmony she had never experienced before flooded through her.
It was strange.
And exhilarating.
"So in this world, magic is the power of the heart?"
Within her, the Demoness stirred restlessly.
A question surfaced in her mind.
If she fused the spirituality of The World of Mysteries with the magic of this world, what would happen?
Carefully, she allowed the two forces to touch.
At first, they resisted one another like uneasy strangers. But gradually, they settled into a fragile truce.
She spoke the charm for a fourth time, her voice carrying an unconscious, dark resonance.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
This time, the magic was tainted by a trace of calamity.
Malice warped its nature.
The matchbox did not rise gently. Instead, it shot skyward as moisture in the air flash-froze, forming a halo of pale frost around it. A faint crackling sound filled the room as rime spread rapidly across its surface.
Under the erosion of the Demoness's power, the matchbox grew brittle.
With a soft pop, it shattered into countless fragments of icy dust, which pattered quietly onto the desk.
"…The Demoness's power actually altered the spell's essence?"
Strictly speaking, the Levitation Charm was not an offensive spell.
True, it could be weaponized, but the emotions required to cast it were not inherently hostile.
Harriet withdrew her magic and examined the remnants scattered across the desk.
Without spiritual guidance, the power reverted to its gentler form—though now tinged with something new.
Not erased.
Fused.
"Interesting rules."
She gazed thoughtfully at the icy residue, a faint smile curving her lips.
Softly, she murmured, "Then combining both forces might allow me to accomplish things… never recorded in any textbook."