16 XVI. Contest of Will

Relativity. Such was the name of a painting he had once seen in a book in his school's library. The book's contents were about optic illusions and other tricks made by the light.

At the time, Harry had believed that to be the explanation for the strange incidents around him. Of course, it hadn't taken long for Harry to discard that line of thought. Some things, after all, couldn't have been explained as simple illusions.

But the name of that painting resurfaced, and he had to thank his Occlumency for that. The Grand Staircase of Hogwarts - its name given by the students - reminded him of the art piece too much.

From as far as his eye could see, hundreds of staircases intercrossed between each floor, weaving intricate and complex patterns. They shifted locations on a whim, as if alive, and their stones groaned with each and every motion.

Portraits and pointed archways decorated the walls, each giving entrance to a different part of the castle. And, just like the rest of Hogwarts, the whole structure exuded a magical pressure. It was an old one, made stronger by untold centuries of history.

Harry suddenly remembered it. Maurits Cornelis Escher was the name of the artist. At the time, he had thought of ripping the artwork from the book. Of course, he hadn't followed through, afraid it could get him into trouble.

Regardless, it was a fond memory he had. Back then, he was mesmerised by the painting and how unorthodox it was. It defied the common perception of reality, with impossible angles and designs - it was the sort of thing that the people of Little Whinging despised.

What lay ahead, however, was even better. Harry could feel it in his bones. It went beyond just his basic senses. Strings of Magic crisscrossed like lattices, forming an elaborate labyrinth of paths and routes.

And he found himself following them, connecting his Magic to the web of strings. They guided him, giving directions to where he wanted to go.

"Come on," He told Hermione, almost absentmindedly.

The girl followed him, confused. Inside her head, many questions bounced around. It was yet their second day at Hogwarts, but Konrad already knew his way around the castle.

The staircases changed to align with his path, their timing perfect, and it made her wonder. Were the staircases following him, or was he following them? And if so, how?

She did not know the answer for either. It did not matter how much she tried to wrap her head around it. Still, she preferred to remain in the dark than to ask questions.

The invisible fence surrounding the boy's persona was very effective, and she feared somehow crossing it. Better to remain quiet and still have one friend, she decided. That is if she could even call him that.

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As soon as they set foot in the library, the sight of sunken cheeks and a hooked nose greeted them. Madam Irma Pince made for an intimidating visage up close.

She looked down on them, scrutinising, her thin eyebrows pinched together. Her posture was hunched, like a hag, and her neck unnaturally long.

"A warning..." She drawled, her voice pooling over the long corridors of the library.

"If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, deface, disfigure, smear, smudge, throw, drop, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards any book..." She then went silent, staring down at their souls, judging.

"The consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them." And, with that said, she was gone with the wind. Not a single word more was directed their way.

As quickly as she appeared, so did she vanish. And, in the distance, Harry could already see that she was back to stalking the library's aisles, behaviour similar to a vulture hunting for meat. He then glanced at Hermione. Her cheeks were pallid, and her expression wan as if on death's door.

"What books were you looking for?" He asked her, "I could go get them... while you find us a table."

"Yes- alright." That seemed to break her out of her reverie. She gave him a long list on his request - so long, in fact, that it made him thank his Occlumency. Then, both went their separate ways, now assigned to different tasks.

Alone, Harry tapped into the gossamer of magical strings that permeated Hogwarts. Instantly, the bookshelves spoke to him, and he became mesmerised by the library's arrangement. Information flowed freely in the air, unseen to the naked eye, dancing between each and every book.

It didn't take long to find the titles he was after. Seven volumes of 'Magical Theory' by Adalbert Waffling - alongside the other books Hermione had asked for - were now precariously held by him. Unsurprisingly, the pile threatened to fall at any time.

'This won't work,' He noted, taking a second to set the stack on the floor before it fell. Then, eyeing it with analytical eyes, he let his Magic drift aloft in the air. He imagined it turning into hands, just as he once did to close the door on the ponce's face.

That, however, didn't work, as the magical hands weren't enough to hold all the books. 'I could create more, but that would be inefficient.' He pondered.

The more complex his mental images were, the harder it was to keep them intact. He supposed spells were similar to mathematical calculations in that regard. But that wasn't all - no, it couldn't be. Magic had more to it. It relied on intent, knowledge, and-

'Willpower.' The realisation blossomed like a spark of fireworks, and the words of his teacher echoed in his thoughts, 'The more you meddle with nature, the more resistant it will become.'

It was a battle against nature, a contest of will in its purest form. The more one tried to change, the harder it would be. It explained the sudden bouts of tiredness he had initially felt when escaping from Little Whinging. Or the creeping desire to give up after exhaustive magical practice.

He eyed the stack of books again, feeling his Magic slowly creep around the tomes. What he had been doing until then was a roundabout way to lift it. It was a cheap recreation of the Wingardium Leviosa Spell. He had to be more direct.

In the distance, Harry could feel energy looming, thrumming with power. It held things down, bound to gravity. Focusing, he stared it down, and, with a mental command, he pushed. His Magic obliged his order, and the stack of books slowly levitated from the ground.

He took a step back, pulling onto the magical string that encapsulated the pile of tomes. They followed, moving as his will so commanded.

'This is never getting old.' He couldn't help but stare in wonder, mesmerised.

'Right, Hermione's probably waiting.'