4 Skewed Odds

Hermione couldn't help but worry. A nervous sigh left her even as she held her wand: it offered a calming balm to her soul in times of need - times such as this one.

Her brother had been acting strange. Since Professor McGonagall's visit, Thomas has not behaved like his usual boisterous self. Admittedly, he had a good reason to be like that.

Now, instead of playing football outside with the other street boys, he would lock himself inside his bedroom, only exiting for the sake of eating and hygiene.

She could still remember the state his bedroom had been in that fateful day - glass shards scattered everywhere, his chair broken, books thrown to the sides. And, in the middle of it all, his unconscious body.

When she was little, her 'accidental magic' incidents - as the books described - were much lesser in magnitude. They could be mistaken for tricks of the light or coincidences at worst.

Tom's first and only - to her knowledge - incident had been destructive. Dangerous. No, she knew it was more than just discovering he was a wizard. Something else was at play.

Why wouldn't he go outside? Play around until the late hour, only studying right before an exam? Instead, he poured over his new books. Almost obsessively, to such a zeal that even Hermione had never seen.

One particular book caught her attention - 'Wizarding Laws: The Stupid, The Malicious, and The Reasonable' by Bathilda Bagshot, a dry codex of wizarding legislation.

His choice of reading material, more dry than any math school book could ever be, sparked a heightened sense of concern. Something must have changed for the sudden personality change. It was almost like he was another person entirely. 

[ - - - ]

'Facking fuck fack-' Thomas almost ripped the pages off the book he was reading. His worst worries had been proven correct back in Flourish and Blotts, and he had been denying it since then.

But - deny it as he might want to - reality wouldn't change. 'The-Girl-Who-Lived: Violet Potter.' It read, bold and underlined, on the first page of 'Notable Figures of the 20th Century.'

'An alternative universe, the stuff of nightmares. Everything derailed, just like that.' He fell back on his bed, black hair splaying to the sides. 'There will be more changes - most likely - and I must get prepared.' 

No longer could he rely solely on his knowledge gleaned from the original books. The narrative had veered off its expected course, and he could only brace himself for more unforeseen changes. 

With a weary sigh, he reached for his wand on the bedside table. 'According to the wizarding laws, I can still practice without restriction. The Trace only comes into full effect after I step into Hogwarts.'

'The Trace will, somehow, be applied to me then, and it will detect any magic spell cast in my vicinity, informing the Ministry of the location, type, and time performed.'

'Then comes the tricky bit. Legally, there is another step before I get punished for performing spells outside of Hogwarts. A Ministry employee must still come to my location and perform a Prior Incantato on my wand.'

'That way, they verify if I cast the spell or someone else in my vicinity did. That's the problem, however. The due legal process isn't always followed, just like it happened to Harry in the books.'

He frowned, gripping harder onto the wand. 'Worse, I am a mud-blood. If I get someone like Dolores Umbridge to oversee the investigation, the due process might as well be thrown out the window.'

'Three strikes, and I am expelled from Hogwarts. Paragraph C of the 'Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery' states that any spell cast in a muggle area constitutes a strike.'

It was clear what the true intent of the Trace was, and it did not bode well for him. He had not even stepped into Hogwarts proper, and he could already see how heavily skewed the judicial system was. 

'Meaning, pure-bloods and a few half-bloods that live in magical communities get to practice all holidays long, while muggle-borns can't do so. And it would be trivially easy to lie about the results of a Prior Incantato.'

'Who would it be easier to believe? An upstanding Ministry employee or a mud-blood risking the secrecy of wizards? Worse, I doubt appealing to the Wizengamot would help.'

'The British Ministry of Magic is corrupt, filled with Death Eaters who escaped trial and self-interested scum. If given any opportunity, it would be trivial to fuck me over.'

'I have no political or social security. Having friends in high places sure would help, or well- their children ought to be enough.' His amber eyes sharpened, and a bolt of energy ran down from his wand to his right hand. 

'Until then, I can practice as much magic as I want.' He mused, acknowledging the loopholes deftly hinted at by Bathilda Bagshot's writings. 'Bless that woman's soul.'

Then, he laughed as he remembered a quote from her book: 'The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery is everything but reasonable - malicious and stupid would describe it better.'

Thomas had to thank his lucky stars that the British Ministry did not have a penchant for censorship - yet. He wouldn't bet on that lasting very long, seeing how the original saga went.

'First spell, Wingardium Leviosa.' Shaking his head, he focused as he rose from his bed. 'I have to visualize the effect. Feel it beyond just the image of what I want.'

In comparison to his old life, the presence of magic felt crystal clear, as if you were to give a blind man sight. As soon as he focused his intent, his wand obliged, eager to follow his command.

The constant warm balm in his veins stilled before quickening in pace as if boiling. 'Intent. Focus. Will. Focus on more than just the picture of what I want.'

He imagined the sensation of lightness, of wind brushing against his hair, of jumping up in the air. Abruptly, his amber eyes then latched onto the scattered papers in the room, gaze unblinking.

"Wingardium Leviosa." A swish and flick of his wand and a wave of boiling energy rippled forth. Goosebumps riddled his skin, and a brief, carefree smile bloomed on his face.

One measly paper fluttered up in the air, dancing ever so slightly in its fixed spot. If it weren't for the closed windows and door, Thomas might have even mistaken it for the wind.

"Magic-" He smiled, only for it to instantly disappear in a frown. Brief memories of his family crossed his mind, clashing with the giddiness he felt after performing the spell.

'My family is grieving. How is Mom-' He shook his head, the wand in his right hand offering much-needed warmth. 'Don't think about it. There is nothing you can do.'

"Wingardium Leviosa." He intoned again, grip tightening. The rest of the scattered papers went up immediately, twirling around one another in a flurry of movement-

A lance of confusion struck him suddenly, and all papers dropped. As if something had stretched his mind thin, thoughts became more elusive to grasp. Words all converged onto one another in a blurry mess, and he dropped his wand. It took another 15 seconds before he could think properly again.

'I remember something about magic being infinite, according to Harry Potter lore, but that can't be it. Wizards must have a limit to how many spells they can perform - so this must be magic exhaustion.'

'Either magic is infinite, but wizards' bodies can only channel so much. Or their bodies can hold a maximum amount of magical energy.' Thomas sat there on his bed, just thinking, papers and books surrounding him.

'And I think the more complex a spell is, the harder it is to visualize it and the greater the mental burden. Probably why I feel like my mind is stretched to its seams.'

He tapped his fingers on his bedframe, frowning. 'There could be more factors at play. I will probably learn more at Hogwarts. At least, I hope so.'

He chuckled with a wry smile. 'Funny how studying becomes so much more gratifying when magic is the subject. Who would've thought?'