Vast Sea Visualization

In a world where magic meets the mind's vast expanse, Lucas, reborn as Harry Potter, wields the power of visualization to master his emotions and wandless magic. With a tranquil sea as his mental fortress, he embarks on a journey of self-discovery and magical mastery.

Evoxius · Book&Literature
Not enough ratings
84 Chs

Innate Nature

The first light of dawn seeped through the curtains, illuminating the spacious bedroom with a soft radiance. Lucas's emerald eyes opened as he emerged from the depths of sleep, his body slowly unfurling against the luxurious mattress.

The cramped, dusty cupboard under the stairs was a distant memory. In this Cambridge home, Lucas had been provided a room befitting his status as a child prodigy. The Dursleys, ever conscious of their public image, had swiftly ensured their living arrangements met societal expectations.

As Lucas rose, he felt the familiar slide of scales against his skin. Nyx, his loyal grass snake, slithered out from under the covers, followed by a few of her serpentine companions. They had taken to sleeping coiled beside him, drawn to his warmth and the soothing hisses of Parseltongue that often accompanied his dreams.

With a deft motion, Lucas sent the covers floating off, folding themselves neatly at the bed's end. He swung his legs over the side, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as he stood. Another subtle gesture, and his slippers glided across the floor, coming to rest at his feet.

He walked into the adjoining bathroom, the cool tiles a contrast to the warm carpet. A slight twist of his wrist, and the tap turned, water flowing into the sink. His toothbrush floated from its holder, dipping under the stream before hovering to his waiting hand, a perfect amount of toothpaste already applied.

As he brushed, Lucas's gaze fell on his reflection. His unruly jet-black hair stuck up at odd angles, framing his youthful features. The lightning bolt scar, a mysterious remnant of his past, peeked out from beneath his fringe.

Finished brushing, he sent the toothbrush back to its place with a thought. A wash towel, animated by his magic, gently cleansed his face, the warm water a soothing caress. Lucas's eyes drifted shut, savoring the sensation.

Stepping into the shower, the water temperature adjusted perfectly to his preference with a mere thought. As he washed, the shampoo bottle floated over, dispensing just the right amount into his palm. The soap glided through the air, lathering his body as directed by his will.

Clean and refreshed, Lucas exited the shower, a plush towel wrapping around him as he stepped onto the bathmat. He dried himself with a focused thought, the towel moving independently to absorb the water from his skin and hair.

Back in the bedroom, Lucas's new uniform from The Perse School lay crisp and neat on a chair, courtesy of Petunia's diligent ironing. He dressed methodically, relishing the feel of the pristine fabric against his skin. The deep navy tie knotted itself perfectly at his neck, the intricate Windsor knot showcasing his growing magical finesse.

Standing before the full-length mirror, Lucas examined his appearance. The uniform, a harmony of navy and white, lent him an air of refinement beyond his years. He adjusted his blazer, the school crest prominently displayed on the breast pocket.

On an impulse, he decided to practice some of his more subtle magic. Focusing on the air around him, he visualized it as a protective cocoon. To an outside observer, nothing would seem amiss, but Lucas could feel the gentle pressure of the air shield against his skin, a reassuring presence.

Next, he manipulated temperature. With a thought, he sent a wave of warmth emanating from his body. To any onlooker, he would appear perfectly normal, but Lucas relished the cozy embrace of his self-generated heat.

Content with his control, he released the magic, the air around him returning to its natural state. A glance at the bedside clock confirmed he still had ample time before departing for school.

Lucas turned to Nyx and her companions, who had been observing his morning routine with unblinking eyes. He hissed a gentle greeting in Parseltongue, and the snakes bobbed their heads in response, their tongues flickering out to taste the air.

"Another day of playing the prodigy," Lucas mused aloud, his voice carrying a subtle undercurrent of self-assurance. His lips curved into a faint smile, a glimmer of anticipation in his emerald eyes. "Let's see what new heights we can reach today, shall we?"


The Perse School hummed with the energy of a new day as students filed in, their navy and white uniforms creating a sea of orderly activity. Lucas moved through the crowd with a purposeful stride, his posture straight and his gaze focused.

"Harry!" A cheerful voice cut through the morning chatter. A sandy-haired boy with a smattering of freckles jogged up to Lucas, his grin wide and eager. "Did you finish the math homework? I got stuck on the last problem."

The corners of Lucas's mouth lifted slightly. He had, of course, breezed through the assignment, but he knew the value of discretion. "It was a bit challenging," he said, his tone even and understanding. "Why don't we review it together before class?"

The boy, Thomas, nodded enthusiastically. As they walked, Lucas skimmed the surface of Thomas's thoughts. Images of a new video game console, a birthday celebration, and a yearning for parental approval drifted through the boy's mind.

"I heard you got a new gaming console for your birthday, Thomas," Lucas said, his voice casual. "That's quite impressive."

Thomas's eyes widened, surprise evident in his raised eyebrows. "How did you know?"

Lucas gave a small, enigmatic smile. "A lucky guess," he said, fully aware that his Legilimency had provided the insight. "What games have you been playing?"

As Thomas dove into an animated description of his favorite games, Lucas listened attentively, his nods and questions perfectly timed. To an outside observer, the two boys would appear to be close friends, united by a common interest.

But Lucas knew the truth. Video games and birthdays held no real interest for him. His focus was solely on maintaining the façade of friendship, on crafting the perfect image of a well-adjusted, socially adept child prodigy.

Throughout the morning, Lucas navigated the classroom's social landscape with practiced ease. He engaged with his classmates, offering words of encouragement and praise when needed, and subtly guiding conversations towards topics that highlighted his own knowledge and maturity.

He paid close attention to the thoughts of his teachers, using his Legilimency to assess their perceptions of him. Mrs. Hawkins, the English teacher, was impressed by his articulate manner and advanced vocabulary, while Mr. Thompson, the science instructor, marveled at his grasp of complex concepts.

Lucas allowed himself to enjoy their admiration, but he was careful not to let it show. He maintained an air of modesty, always quick to credit his success to diligence and a passion for learning.

As lunchtime approached, Lucas approached Mrs. Hawkins at the front of the classroom, where she was organizing her papers. "Excuse me, Mrs. Hawkins," he said, his voice polite and deferential. "May I have a moment of your time?"

The teacher looked up, a warm smile on her face. "Of course, Harry. What can I do for you?"

Lucas took a measured breath, his eyes downcast as if gathering his thoughts. "I've been thinking," he began, his voice carefully measured. "While I truly appreciate the lessons here at the Pelican, I feel that I'm not being sufficiently challenged."

He met Mrs. Hawkins's gaze, his green eyes steady. "I've been working on the advanced material you provided, but even that seems to come easily to me. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I was wondering if there was any possibility of moving up to the Prep school ahead of schedule."

As he spoke, Lucas delved into Mrs. Hawkins's mind, gauging her reaction. Surprise flickered through her thoughts, followed by a growing sense of understanding and agreement. She had noticed his exceptional progress and had even discussed the possibility of acceleration with her colleagues.

"Harry," Mrs. Hawkins said, her voice gentle, "I believe you're absolutely right. It's evident that you have a remarkable mind, and it would be a disservice to keep you here if you're not being adequately challenged."

She leaned forward, her expression serious. "I'll discuss this with the headmaster and the other teachers. We'll see what we can do about getting you into the Prep school as soon as possible."

Lucas inclined his head, a small smile on his lips. "Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins," he said, his voice sincere. "I truly appreciate your support."

As he walked away, a quiet assurance shone in his emerald eyes. Another step closer to his goal, another manipulation successfully executed. The Perse School was just the beginning – he would conquer the academic world, one grade at a time.

And if a few minds needed to be read along the way, well, that was a small price to pay for the power and knowledge he sought.


The afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the large windows of the Perse School, illuminating the polished wooden floors. Lucas sat at his desk, his emerald eyes focused on the math problem before him, his pencil moving swiftly across the paper as he worked through the complex equations with practiced ease.

A gentle knock on the classroom door drew his attention. Mrs. Hawkins stepped into the room, her auburn hair pulled back into a neat bun. "Harry," she called, her voice soft yet firm, "the headmaster would like to see you in his office."

Lucas set his pencil down and rose from his seat, straightening his uniform. "Of course, Mrs. Hawkins," he replied, his tone respectful.

As they walked through the hallways, their footsteps echoing on the polished floors, Lucas delved into Mrs. Hawkins's mind, skimming her surface thoughts. Images of a meeting with the Multi-Disciplinary Team flashed through her consciousness, discussions of his exceptional academic performance and emotional maturity.

They arrived at the headmaster's office, the heavy wooden door adorned with a brass plaque bearing the name "Dr. Charles Winthrop." Mrs. Hawkins knocked twice, and a deep voice called out, "Come in."

The office was spacious and well-appointed, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls and a large mahogany desk dominating the center of the room. Behind the desk sat Dr. Winthrop, an older man with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his blue eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.

"Ah, Harry," he said, gesturing to the plush armchairs facing his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Lucas settled into one of the chairs, his posture straight and attentive. Mrs. Hawkins took a seat beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"Harry," Dr. Winthrop began, leaning forward slightly, "your teachers have nothing but praise for your academic abilities and your maturity."

Lucas inclined his head, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "Thank you, sir," he said, his voice even. "I've been enjoying my time here very much."

Dr. Winthrop nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm glad to hear that. Now, the reason I called you here today is that we've had a meeting with the Multi-Disciplinary Team about your future at the school."

As he spoke, Lucas delved into the headmaster's mind, reading his thoughts. He saw flashes of the meeting, discussions of his exceptional test scores and his ability to grasp complex concepts far beyond his years. There was also a hint of expectation, a belief that Lucas would react with childlike excitement at the news.

"Considering that the current coursework doesn't seem to be challenging enough for you, and given your demonstrated social skills and emotional maturity, we've decided to offer you the opportunity to skip a grade and move up to the Prep school," Dr. Winthrop said, his voice filled with pride.

Lucas took a moment to compose his features, ensuring that his expression remained one of calm gratitude. "I'm honored, Dr. Winthrop," he said, his voice steady. "I truly appreciate the opportunity."

He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "I must admit, though, I will miss the friends I've made here in the Pelican. They've been so welcoming and supportive."

Mrs. Hawkins reached over, patting his hand gently. "I'm sure you'll make new friends in the Prep school, Harry," she said, her voice reassuring. "And you can always visit your old classmates during breaks and lunchtimes."

Lucas nodded, a small smile gracing his features. "You're right, Mrs. Hawkins. Change can be challenging, but it's also an opportunity for growth. I'm excited to see what the Prep school has to offer."

Dr. Winthrop leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. "That's a very mature outlook, Harry," he said, his voice filled with approval. "I have no doubt that you'll thrive in the Prep school, just as you have here in the Pelican."

Lucas stood, extending his hand to the headmaster. "Thank you again, Dr. Winthrop," he said, his grip firm and confident. "I won't let you down."

As Lucas and Mrs. Hawkins left the office, the warm sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to mirror the quiet assurance that shone in Lucas's emerald eyes. He walked with a steady, purposeful stride, ready to embrace the challenges and opportunities that awaited him in the Prep school.


The night was still, the silence broken only by the gentle chirping of crickets and the soft rustling of leaves in the cool breeze. The small park, nestled in the heart of the city, lay empty, its winding paths and well-manicured lawns bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

A lone oak tree stood at the center of the park, its gnarled branches reaching towards the starry sky. As the breeze picked up, the leaves danced, casting shifting shadows on the ground below. But there was something else, something strange and unnatural, happening beside the ancient tree.

A steady stream of water, as if poured from an invisible pitcher, flowed from the air itself, cascading down into the soil at the base of the oak. The water moved back and forth, swaying in a mesmerizing pattern, as if guided by an unseen hand.

Suddenly, a figure appeared out of thin air, as if materializing from the very fabric of the night. It was Lucas, his emerald eyes reflecting the moonlight, his jet-black hair tousled by the breeze. He stood beside the tree, his right hand extended, a single finger pointing towards the ground.

The water, it seemed, was flowing from his fingertip, a continuous drip that defied the laws of nature. Lucas's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze focused intently on the task at hand.

Creating water out of nothing, he mused, his thoughts turning inward. In the Harry Potter books and movies, it's possible. But food, that's the exception. I wonder if it's a real limitation, or just something that hasn't been surpassed yet.

He closed his eyes, his mind drifting to the vast sea that had become his mental sanctuary. In his mind's eye, he saw the water, an endless expanse of blue, stretching out to the horizon. He focused on that image, on the feel of the water, the way it moved and flowed.

And as he did, the stream of water from his fingertip grew stronger, more steady. It pooled at his feet, a small puddle forming in the soft earth.

It's a start, he thought, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. But there's so much more to learn, so much more to explore…

He looked around the park, taking in the open space, the freedom it offered. This was why he had come here, to practice his magic away from prying eyes, to push the boundaries of what he thought possible.

With a wave of his hand, a nearby rock, easily the size of a football, rose into the air, hovering a few feet off the ground. Lucas's gaze sharpened, his mind reaching out, guiding the rock in a complex pattern, a dance of sorts, weaving it through the branches of the oak tree.

The rock moved faster, spinning and twirling, as Lucas's control grew more precise. He added a second rock, then a third, until a dozen stones were orbiting the tree, a whirling dervish of earth and magic.

And then, he let the rocks fall gently to the ground, the water from his fingertip slowing to a trickle.

As the rocks settled on the ground, Lucas felt a surge of energy coursing through his veins. The night was young, and the park was his playground, a vast canvas upon which he could paint with the brushstrokes of his magic.

He looked down at his hands, examining the power they held. The water, still dripping from his fingertip, caught his eye. With a thought, he willed the droplets to coalesce, forming a small, gleaming sphere that continually expanded and hovered just above his palm.

Lucas focused, his mind reaching out, shaping the water. The sphere elongated, twisting and turning, until it formed a delicate ribbon, undulating in the air like a serpent made of liquid glass.

He sent the ribbon dancing through the air, weaving it between the branches of the oak tree, watching as it left a glistening trail in its wake. The water moved with a grace and fluidity that seemed almost alive, responding to his every whim and desire.

An idea formed, and Lucas directed the ribbon downwards, towards the ground. It flowed like a miniature river, winding its way through the grass, leaving a path of gleaming moisture in its wake.

With a flick of his wrist, Lucas sent the water surging upwards, forming a translucent wall that stood nearly as tall as he did. The moonlight refracted through the liquid barrier, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the park.

I wonder, Lucas thought, just how far I can push this.

He closed his eyes once more, focusing on the sensation of cold, of the biting chill of winter. In his mind's eye, he saw the vast sea, its surface beginning to freeze, ice spreading across the endless expanse of water.

As he opened his eyes, he saw that vision made manifest. The ground around him, in a slowly expanding circle, was turning white, the grass and soil alike covered in a growing layer of frost.

Lucas watched, his gaze intense, as the circle of cold expanded, reaching the base of the oak tree. The ancient bark, gnarled and weathered, began to glisten as the frost crept up its surface, encasing the lower branches in a layer of ice.

Incredible, he mused, but what about the opposite?

He focused once more, this time on the sensation of warmth, of the comforting heat of a roaring fire. In his mind's eye, he saw the frozen sea beginning to melt, the ice giving way to the gentle lapping of waves.

Slowly, the ground around him began to change. The frost receded, melting away as if touched by the first rays of the spring sun. The grass, once stiff and brittle with cold, softened, returning to its natural state.

The oak tree, too, was transformed. The ice that had encased its branches melted, the water dripping down onto the soil below. Within moments, the tree stood tall and proud once more, free from the icy embrace.

As the frost receded and the warmth returned to the park, Lucas's eyes narrowed, his mind racing with the possibilities. The ability to manipulate temperature, to bring forth the chill of winter or the heat of summer with a mere thought, was intoxicating. But he wanted more. He wanted to push the boundaries of what he thought possible, to condense these forces into something tangible, something he could hold in his hand.

He closed his eyes, focusing once more on the vast sea that had become his mental sanctuary. But this time, he didn't just envision the water freezing or melting. He imagined the cold itself, a tangible force, gathering in a single point above the waves. In his mind's eye, he saw it, a sphere of pure, icy energy, hovering just above the surface of the sea.

Lucas opened his eyes, his right hand extended, palm facing upwards. He focused, his jaw clenched in concentration, as he tried to bring that vision to life. At first, nothing happened. The air above his palm remained still, unchanged. But he persisted, delving deeper into his memories, searching for something that resonated with the cold, with the idea of a frostball.

And then, he found it. A memory from his past life, a moment of profound nihilism as he contemplated the vastness of the universe, the insignificance of his own existence. It was a cold thought, a chilling realization that had left him feeling small and alone.

Lucas latched onto that memory, onto the emotions it evoked. He let it fill his mind, his very being, as he focused on the space above his palm. And slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, a sphere began to form. It was small, no larger than a marble, but it glowed with an icy blue light, a miniature star of pure, frigid energy.

The corners of Lucas's mouth twitched upwards as he watched the frostball grow, expanding until it was the size of a tennis ball. He could feel the cold emanating from it, a biting chill that numbed his fingers and sent shivers down his spine.

"Good," he whispered, his breath misting in the air before him.

But he wasn't done yet. The frostball was a success, but he wanted to try something else, something that would push his magic even further. He wanted to create a fireball.

Lucas closed his eyes once more, focusing on the vast sea. But this time, instead of cold, he sought out heat. He imagined the water boiling, steam rising from the surface in great, billowing clouds. He pictured the fireball, a sphere of pure, searing energy, hovering above the waves.

But as he tried to bring that vision to life, he found himself struggling. The emotions required for a fireball, the rage and the desire to burn, to destroy, were foreign to him. In his past life, he had been a calm individual, rarely angry at anyone or anything.

He delved into his memories, searching for moments of anger, of fury. But they were few and far between, and when he did find them, they felt weak, insubstantial.

Still, he persisted. He focused on the space above his palm, willing the fireball into existence. And slowly, a sphere began to form. But it was small, much smaller than the frostball, and its light was dim, a feeble orange glow that paled in comparison to the icy blue of its counterpart.

Lucas's brow furrowed, a twinge of frustration running through him. But he accepted it. This was a consequence of his nature, of who he was as a person. He couldn't change that, not easily at least.

But he wouldn't give up. If the quality of the memory wasn't enough, then he would find another way. Maybe, he thought, I can use my Occlumency, my vast sea visualization, in a more complex way. Maybe I can duplicate the angry memories, amplify them until they were strong enough to fuel a more powerful fireball.

It was something to experiment with later. For now, he would have to accept the small, weak fireball that hovered above his palm.

As he stood there, the frostball and fireball floating side by side, Lucas's thoughts turned to the Harry Potter books and movies. The way magic was used in that world was so different from his own experiences.

In the books, wizards and witches used wands, small sticks of wood that seemed to channel their magic. They waved these wands, spoke incantations, and magic happened. It seemed so simple, so effortless.

And yet, the results were often incredible. He remembered the scene in the final book, where a simple-minded, dull character had cast Fiendfyre, sentient flames that consumed magic and grew as they did so. The flames had filled an entire room, an immense, uncontrollable force.

How was that possible? How could a mere wave of a wand and a spoken word produce such power?

There were some similarities, he realized, between his own magic and the wanded magic of the books. The Unforgivable Curses, for example, required the caster to feel intense, genuine emotions. The desire to kill, to torture, to control.

It was not unlike his own spells, which initially required specific emotions to function. But he had trained, had worked to separate the emotions from the process, to make his magic a matter of pure will and intent.

Perhaps, he mused, there was some form of sympathetic magic at work in the wanded spells of the Harry Potter universe. When a wizard created a new spell, they imbued it with certain properties, certain requirements. And anyone who followed those requirements, who used the correct wand motion, the correct incantation, and sometimes the correct intent, could replicate the effect.

It was a way to mass-produce magic, to make it accessible to anyone with a wand. But it also created a reliance on the wand, on the tool. Wizards in the books seemed almost helpless without their wands, unable to perform even the simplest of magical tasks.

Lucas looked down at his hands, at the frostball and fireball that hovered above his palms. He had created these with nothing but his mind, his will. He was not reliant on any external tool, any crutch.

And yet, he couldn't help but wonder what he could achieve if he had a wand, if he could tap into that sympathetic magic, that pre-established network of spells and effects.

It was a thought for another time. For now, he had his own magic to explore, his own boundaries to push.

With a flick of his wrist, Lucas sent the frostball and fireball spiralling into the air. They orbited each other, two opposing forces, cold and heat, locked in an eternal dance.

And as he watched them, the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. The night was still young, and there was so much more to discover, so much more to learn.