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

Prep School

The Perse Prep School buzzed with excitement as the students filed into the classroom, their chatter filling the air with a lively hum. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the polished wooden desks and the colorful posters adorning the walls.

Ethan Lakemeer, a tall, lanky boy with a mop of curly brown hair, slouched in his seat, his hazel eyes narrowed as he watched the door. He had just turned eight, and the novelty of being one of the older students in the class had already worn off.

Especially since he had arrived.

As if on cue, the door opened, and a small, raven-haired boy walked in, his emerald eyes bright and his smile wide. Harry Potter, the child prodigy, the boy who had skipped multiple grades and now, at the tender age of three, was joining their class.

Ethan scowled as the other students swarmed around Harry, their voices rising in excited greetings and questions. The little boy seemed to bask in the attention, his laughter ringing out like a bell.

It's not fair, Ethan thought, his hands clenching into fists beneath his desk. He's just a baby. What's so special about him?

He watched as Mrs. Wilson, their teacher, made her way over to Harry, her smile warm and her eyes crinkled at the corners. She knelt down, speaking softly to the boy, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

Ethan's scowl deepened. Mrs. Wilson had never looked at him like that, with such pride and affection. It was always "Ethan, pay attention" or "Ethan, stop fidgeting."

As the class settled down and Mrs. Wilson began the lesson, Ethan's mind raced, trying to come up with a way to take Harry down a peg. He couldn't outright bully the boy, not with the teachers watching. But maybe he could make him look stupid, make the other kids see that he wasn't so special after all.

His opportunity came during math class. Mrs. Wilson had written a complex equation on the board, one that had most of the students scratching their heads in confusion. But not Harry. The little boy's hand shot up, and when called upon, he rattled off the answer with ease, his voice clear and confident.

Ethan's jaw clenched. Showoff, he thought. But then, an idea struck him. He raised his hand, waiting for Mrs. Wilson to call on him.

"Yes, Ethan?" she said, her eyebrows raised.

"I have a question," Ethan said, his voice dripping with false innocence. "If Harry's so smart, why doesn't he teach the class?"

A few of the students giggled, and Ethan felt a surge of satisfaction. But it was short-lived. Harry, seemingly unfazed, turned to him, his emerald eyes wide and earnest.

"I'm not trying to show off, Ethan," he said, his voice soft. "I just really like math. Maybe we could study together sometime, and I could help you if you're having trouble."

Ethan felt his face flush. The other students were looking at him now, some with pity, others with amusement. He opened his mouth to retort, but Mrs. Wilson cut him off.

"That's a wonderful idea, Harry," she said, her smile warm. "Collaboration is an important part of learning. Ethan, perhaps you could take Harry up on his offer."

Ethan slumped in his seat, his cheeks burning. He had tried to make Harry look bad, but somehow, the little boy had turned it around, making him look like the fool.

As the day wore on, Ethan made a few more attempts to undermine Harry, but each one seemed to backfire. During English class, he tried to trip the boy as he walked to the front of the room to recite a poem, but Harry somehow managed to sidestep his outstretched foot with a graceful little hop, never missing a beat in his recitation.

During lunch, Ethan "accidentally" spilled his juice on Harry's shirt, hoping to make him cry. But the little boy just laughed, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

"No worries, Ethan," he said, his voice cheerful. "Accidents happen. I have a spare shirt in my bag."

And indeed, when Harry returned from the bathroom, his shirt was clean and dry, as if the juice had never touched it. Ethan stared, his mouth agape. How had he managed that?

By the end of the day, Ethan was exhausted, his mind spinning with frustration and confusion. Harry seemed to glide through the day with an ease that bordered on the supernatural, his smile never wavering, his good nature never faltering.

As the final bell rang and the students began to pack up their bags, Ethan watched Harry, his eyes narrowed. The little boy was chatting with a group of girls, his laughter ringing out like music. Ethan felt a pang of envy, sharp and bitter.

What's his secret? he wondered. How does he do it?

He shook his head, shouldering his backpack with a huff. Maybe Harry was just lucky. Maybe he was just a freak of nature. But one thing was certain: Ethan wasn't going to let him win. He would find a way to take the little prodigy down, to prove that he was nothing special.

As he walked out of the classroom, his mind already whirring with new plans and schemes, Ethan failed to notice the knowing glint in Harry's emerald eyes, the slight curve of his lips that hinted at a secret knowledge, a power beyond his years.


The sun beat down on the playground, the laughter and shouts of children filling the air. Ethan sat on a bench, his eyes narrowed as he watched the game of dodgeball unfold before him.

In the center of the chaos stood Harry Potter, his raven hair gleaming in the sunlight, his emerald eyes sparkling with joy. The little boy moved like a dancer, his tiny body twisting and turning as he dodged the soft foam balls thrown his way.

Ethan's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. It wasn't right. A three-year-old shouldn't be able to move like that, with such grace and agility. It was like the balls were moving in slow motion for him, giving him all the time in the world to avoid them.

The other children seemed to be in awe of Harry, their throws gentle and half-hearted, as if they were afraid of hurting him. Ethan scoffed. They were coddling him, treating him like a fragile little doll.

As he watched, an idea began to form in his mind, a way to wipe that smug smile off Harry's face. He stood up, his heart pounding with anticipation, and made his way over to the game.

"Mind if I join?" he asked, his voice dripping with false cheer.

The other children nodded, stepping aside to let him into the circle. Ethan's eyes locked onto Harry, who smiled at him, his head tilted in a silent challenge.

The game resumed, the balls flying through the air, the children laughing and shouting. Ethan bided his time, waiting for his moment. And then, it came.

He snatched up a ball, his fingers curling around the soft foam. He drew back his arm, his muscles coiled like a spring, and then he let it fly, aiming straight for Harry's face.

Time seemed to slow down, the ball arcing through the air, a blur of red against the blue sky. Ethan held his breath, waiting for the satisfying thud of impact, the cry of pain and surprise.

But it never came.

Harry moved like a blur, his head snapping to the side, the ball missing him by mere inches. The other children gasped, their eyes wide with shock.

Ethan felt embarrassed. He hadn't meant to throw it that hard, but the rage had taken over, the need to see Harry fall.

"Sorry," he muttered, his voice tight. "Got a bit carried away."

The game resumed, but Ethan couldn't let it go. The sight of Harry's smiling face, the way he moved like a leaf in the wind, it gnawed at him, a festering wound that wouldn't heal.

When the ball came to him again, he didn't hesitate. He drew back his arm, his eyes locked on Harry's face, and let it fly, even harder than before.

But once again, Harry dodged, his body twisting like a cat's, the ball whistling past his ear.


The voice cut through the air like a knife, sharp and angry. Ethan turned, his heart sinking as he saw Mr. Thompson, the teacher on duty, storming towards him, his face a mask of fury.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mr. Thompson demanded, his hand clamping down on Ethan's shoulder like a vice.

Ethan opened his mouth, but no words came out. He could feel the eyes of the other children on him, the weight of their judgment pressing down on him like a physical force.

Mr. Thompson shook his head, his eyes narrowed. "Come with me," he said, his voice brooking no argument.

Ethan followed, his feet dragging, his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the whispers of the other children, the speculation and the gossip. He had messed up, and now everyone knew it.

Mr. Thompson led him into the school, down the long, echoing hallways, and into the office of the Senior Staff. Ethan had never been here before, and the sight of the stern-faced adults, their eyes boring into him, made his stomach churn.

"Sit," Mr. Thompson said, pointing to a chair in front of the large, polished desk.

Ethan sat, his hands twisting in his lap, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Ethan," one of the staff members said, her voice soft but firm. "Can you tell us what happened out there?"

Ethan swallowed, his throat tight. "I... I don't know," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You threw the ball at Harry's face," Mr. Thompson said, his voice hard. "Not once, but twice. That's not an accident, Ethan. That's deliberate."

Ethan felt the tears welling up in his eyes, hot and stinging. He blinked them back, his jaw clenched.

"I didn't mean to," he said, his voice cracking. "I just... I just wanted..."

He trailed off, the words sticking in his throat. How could he explain it, the jealousy that burned in his gut, the need to see Harry fall, to prove that he was nothing special?

"Ethan," the staff member said, her voice gentle. "We understand that this is a difficult situation for you. Harry is a very special child, and it can be hard to see someone so young excelling in ways that you might struggle with."

Ethan's head snapped up, his eyes wide. They knew. They could see right through him, into the dark, twisted places of his heart.

"But that doesn't excuse your actions," the staff member continued, her voice firmer now. "What you did was dangerous and unacceptable. You could have seriously hurt Harry."

Ethan felt the tears spill over, running down his cheeks in hot, salty tracks. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice choked. "I'm so sorry."

The staff members exchanged glances, their expressions softening. "We know you are, Ethan," one of them said. "But actions have consequences. We're going to have to give you a week's worth of detention, and you'll need to apologize to Harry."

Ethan nodded, his head bowed. He knew he deserved it, knew that he had let his emotions get the best of him.

As he walked out of the office, his shoulders slumped, his heart heavy, he caught a glimpse of Harry, sitting on a bench outside, his face serene, his eyes closed as if in meditation.

Ethan paused, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what he had to do, knew that he owed Harry an apology, a real one, not just the empty words that the teachers had forced him to say.

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and walked over to the bench, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Harry," he said, his voice soft, hesitant.

The little boy opened his eyes, his emerald gaze locking onto Ethan's. "Yes?" he said, his voice calm, expectant.

Ethan swallowed, his mouth dry. "I'm sorry," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "For what I did, for trying to hurt you. It was wrong, and I'm sorry."

Harry smiled, his face lighting up like the sun breaking through the clouds. "I forgive you, Ethan," he said, his voice warm, sincere. "I know it's not easy, being around someone like me. But I hope we can be friends, someday."

Ethan felt a lump rise in his throat, a strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Gratitude, relief, and something else, something he couldn't quite name.

"I'd like that," he said, his voice rough, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I'd like that a lot."


The afternoon sun filtered through the large windows of the classroom, casting a warm glow on the eager faces of the students. Mr. Aurelius, the Latin teacher, stood at the front of the room, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed and his dark eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

"Salve, discipuli!" he greeted the class, his voice rich and resonant. "Welcome to your first Latin lesson."

The students, a mix of ages and backgrounds, sat up straighter in their seats, their eyes fixed on the teacher. Among them, a small, raven-haired boy with piercing green eyes stood out, his face alight with genuine interest.

"Now, let's start with some basic greetings," Mr. Aurelius said, his voice clear and engaging. "Repeat after me: Salve!"

"Salve!" the class chorused, their voices a mix of hesitant and confident.

Harry's voice rang out above the others, his pronunciation perfect, his intonation flawless. Mr. Aurelius felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Excellent!" he praised, his eyes sweeping over the class. "Now, let's try something a bit more complex. In Latin, we often use different endings to indicate the function of a word in a sentence. For example, the word for 'friend' is 'amicus.' But if we want to say 'to a friend,' we add the ending '-o,' making it 'amico.'"

He wrote the words on the board, his hand moving with practiced ease. The chalk scratched against the surface, leaving behind crisp, white letters.

"Can anyone give me an example of how we might use this in a sentence?" Mr. Aurelius asked, his eyebrows raised in expectation.

Harry's hand shot up, his eyes bright with eagerness. "Donum amico dedi," he said, his voice clear and confident. "I gave a gift to a friend."

Mr. Aurelius felt a thrill of excitement run through him. "Optime, Harry!" he exclaimed, his voice warm with praise. "That's exactly right."

The other students murmured in appreciation, their eyes wide with admiration. Harry ducked his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

As the lesson continued, Mr. Aurelius found himself drawn to the boy, amazed at how quickly he picked up the language.

"Now, let's move on to some vocabulary," Mr. Aurelius said, his voice taking on a playful tone. "In Latin, the word for 'book' is 'liber.' And the word for 'page' is 'pagina.'"

He wrote the words on the board, the chalk clicking softly against the surface. Harry's eyes widened, a small grin spreading across his face. Mr. Aurelius felt curious. What was it about the word 'pagina' that had caught the boy's attention?

But before he could ponder it further, the lesson was over, the students filing out of the classroom in a buzz of excitement.

With a smile on his face, the teacher gathered his notes and erased the board, the Latin words fading into memory. 


The auditorium buzzed with energy as the drama students took their places on the stage, their faces alight with anticipation. Ms. Blackwood, the drama teacher, stood in the wings, her keen eyes surveying the scene before her.

"Alright, everyone," Ms. Blackwood called out, her voice ringing through the auditorium. "Let's start with a classic scenario. Harry, you'll be playing the role of a customer at a restaurant, and Olivia, you'll be the waitress. The catch? Harry's character is a food critic, and he's not happy with his meal."

Harry and Olivia nodded, their eyes sparkling with excitement. They took their places on the stage, a simple table and two chairs serving as their set.

Olivia picked up an imaginary notepad, her face transforming into a bright, customer-service smile. "Hello, sir," she chirped, her voice sweet and cheerful. "How are you enjoying your meal today?"

Harry's face twisted into a scowl, his emerald eyes flashing with displeasure. "Enjoying?" he scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. "I've had better meals at a prison cafeteria."

But before Olivia could open her mouth, Harry continued, his voice low and menacing. "The soup was cold, the salad was wilted, and the steak was so overcooked, I could have used it as a hockey puck."

Olivia's eyes widened, her mouth falling open in shock. She glanced at Ms. Blackwood, her expression pleading for help.

But Harry was relentless, his words coming fast and furious. "I've been to this restaurant before, and I've never had such a terrible experience. I demand to speak to the manager."

Olivia stammered, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I... I'm so sorry, sir," she managed, her voice trembling. "I'll get the manager right away."

Harry leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of smug satisfaction. "See that you do," he said, his voice cold and dismissive.

Ms. Blackwood clapped her hands, her voice ringing out through the auditorium. "Bravo, Harry!" she exclaimed, her eyes shining with pride. "That was well done! "

Harry ducked his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, Ms. Blackwood," he said, his voice soft and humble. "Olivia, you started good, but do try to respond to the customer's complaints."

She turned to the rest of the class, her voice ringing out with authority. "Alright, everyone," she said. "Let's take a quick break, and then we'll move on to the next scenario. And remember, the key to improv is to stay in the moment, to listen to your partner, and to trust your instincts."

The auditorium humed with anticipation as the drama students regrouped.

"Alright, break is over." she announced. "For our next scenario, we'll explore the theme of delusion and persuasion. Harry, you'll play the role of a person convinced they possess magical abilities. Ethan, your character is Harry's concerned friend, trying to persuade him that it's all in his mind."

Harry and Ethan exchanged glances, a flicker of amusement passing between them. They stepped onto the stage, the polished wooden floorboards creaking beneath their feet. The set had been transformed, a cozy living room with a plush sofa and an antique coffee table taking center stage.

Harry settled into the sofa, his emerald eyes gleaming with a hint of madness. He waved his hands in the air, his fingers tracing complex patterns. "Behold, Ethan!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement. "I have unlocked the secrets of the universe. I can bend reality to my will!"

Ethan, his brow furrowed with concern, leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Harry, my friend," he began, his tone gentle yet firm, "I think we need to talk. I'm worried about you."

Harry laughed, a high-pitched, manic sound that sent shivers down the spines of the watching students. "Worried? Why? Because I've transcended the limitations of mere mortals?" He pointed his finger at the coffee table, his face contorted in concentration. "Levare!"

The table, of course, remained firmly rooted to the ground. But Harry's expression was one of pure, unadulterated triumph. "Do you see, Ethan? Do you see the power I wield?"

Ethan shook his head, a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Harry, there's no magic. It's just... it's just your imagination."

Ms. Blackwood watched, her heart pounding with excitement, as the scene unfolded. The contrast between Harry's manic energy and Ethan's calm, rational demeanor was electric, the tension palpable.

Harry leaped to his feet, his eyes wild, his hair standing on end. "Imagination? You dare doubt the great wizard Harry?" He whirled around, his arms outstretched, his voice rising to a fevered pitch. "Expulso! Stupesco! Lux!"

The auditorium lights flickered, a coincidence that only added to the eerie atmosphere. The students gasped, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination.

Ethan rose slowly, his hands held out in a placating gesture. "Harry, please. Listen to me. This isn't real. You're not well."

Harry's face crumpled, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. "Not real? But... but I feel it, Ethan. The magic, it courses through my veins, it dances at my fingertips."

Ethan moved closer, his voice soft, soothing. "I know it feels real to you, Harry. But it's not. It's a delusion, a trick of the mind. Please, let me help you."

Harry's shoulders slumped, his eyes brimming with tears. "Help me? How?"

Ethan wrapped his arm around Harry's shoulders, guiding him back to the sofa. "We'll get through this together, Harry. You're not alone. I'm here for you, and so are the doctors, the therapists. We'll find a way to make you better."

Harry nodded, his confusion clear on his face. "I... I don't know what's real anymore, Ethan. I'm scared."

Ethan hugged him close, his voice a whisper. "I know, Harry. I know. But we'll figure it out, I promise."

The auditorium erupted in applause, the students leaping to their feet, their faces alight with admiration.

Ms. Blackwood approached them, her voice trembling with emotion. "That was... that was incredible, boys. The way you played off each other... it was pure magic."

Harry gave her a small smile. "Magic, Ms. Blackwood? I thought we established that it was all in my head."


The afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the tall windows of the philosophy classroom, illuminating the eager faces of the students seated in a semicircle. Mr. Whitmore, a tall, slender man with a neatly trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses, stood at the center of the room, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"Good afternoon, class," he began, his voice rich and melodious. "Today, we'll be exploring the fascinating world of ethical dilemmas. These are situations where there is no clear right or wrong answer, and we must rely on our moral compass to guide us."

The students murmured in excitement, their pens poised over their notebooks, ready to capture the wisdom of their esteemed teacher. Among them, a small, raven-haired boy with piercing green eyes sat cross-legged on the floor, his gaze fixed intently on Mr. Whitmore.

"Let's begin with a classic dilemma," Mr. Whitmore said, his voice taking on a somber tone. "Imagine you are a doctor in a hospital during a natural disaster. You have two patients in critical condition, but only enough resources to save one. One patient is a brilliant scientist on the verge of discovering a cure for cancer, while the other is a young mother with two small children. Who do you choose to save, and why?"

The room fell silent, the weight of the question hanging heavy in the air. Mr. Whitmore's gaze swept over the students, waiting for a brave soul to venture an answer.

To his surprise, it was Harry who spoke first, his voice confident. "It's a difficult decision, Mr. Whitmore," he said, his emerald eyes locking onto the teacher's. "On the one hand, the scientist has the potential to save countless lives with his discovery. But on the other hand, the young mother has an immediate impact on the lives of her children, who depend on her for love and support."

Mr. Whitmore knew Harry Potter was not an ordinary child, just like all the other teachers knew, but he was still surprised by how eloquent he was. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.

"Very astute, Harry," he said, his voice slightly unsteady. "And what would you do in that situation?"

Harry paused, his brow furrowed in thought. "I would choose to save the young mother," he said finally, his eyes resolute. "While the scientist's work is undoubtedly important, there is no guarantee that he will succeed in finding a cure. The mother, on the other hand, has a very real impact on the lives of her children. They need her, and her loss would be devastating."

"That's a very nuanced perspective, Harry," Mr. Whitmore admired. "You've considered both the potential long-term impact and the immediate consequences of the decision."

Harry nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's not an easy choice, Mr. Whitmore," he said, his voice soft and contemplative. "But sometimes, we have to prioritize the needs of the present over the possibilities of the future."

Mr. Whitmore felt excited, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the kind of philosophical discussion he lived for, the kind of deep, meaningful exploration of the human condition that had drawn him to the field in the first place.

"Let's consider another scenario," he said, his body leaning forward. "You are a soldier in a war, and you have captured an enemy combatant. You know that this person has valuable information that could save the lives of your fellow soldiers, but he refuses to talk. Is it ethical to torture him for the information?"

The room erupted in a flurry of whispers and murmurs, the students grappling with the weight of the question. But Harry remained calm, his gaze never wavering from Mr. Whitmore's.

"It's a complex issue, Mr. Whitmore," he contemplated. "On the surface, it may seem justified to use any means necessary to save the lives of one's comrades. But torture is a violation of basic human rights, and it can have long-lasting psychological effects on both the torturer and the tortured."

Mr. Whitmore nodded, his mouth showing an excited smile. "And what about the argument that the ends justify the means?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry shook his head, a sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That's a dangerous line of thinking, Mr. Whitmore," he said, his voice heavy with wisdom beyond his years. "Once we start justifying unethical actions in the name of a greater good, we risk losing our moral compass altogether. We become no better than the enemy we're fighting against."

Mr. Whitmore had never encountered a student with such a deep understanding of the human nature, let alone a child of Harry's age. As he met Harry's gaze once more, he suddenly felt that Harry could see through him, but shook his head.

The other students were confused by their discussion, not really able to understand what they were talking about.

Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Thank you, Harry," he said, his voice slightly unsteady. "That was a very insightful analysis."

He turned to the rest of the class. "As you can see, class, ethical dilemmas are not always black and white. They require us to consider multiple perspectives, to weigh the consequences of our actions, and to make difficult choices based on our own moral values."


"Good morning, class," Ms. Ellington greeted, her voice warm. "I hope you're all ready to share your creative writing assignments with me today."

The students rustled in their seats, some eagerly pulling out their papers, while others fidgeted nervously. Ms. Ellington smiled, remembering the assignment she had given them the previous session: to plan and write a short story of their own creation.

As she collected the assignments, Ms. Ellington couldn't help but grin at the diversity of the stories. Some were filled with fantastical creatures and magical lands, while others explored the everyday struggles of childhood.

But when she reached Harry's assignment, Ms. Ellington's eyes widened in surprise. The stack of pages in her hand was significantly thicker than the others, and as she flipped through them, she realized that his story was at least 15,000 words long.

Of course, she thought to herself, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I should have expected nothing less from Harry.

"Class," Ms. Ellington announced, "I'm going to take some time to read through your assignments. In the meantime, I'd like you to turn to your neighbor and discuss what inspired your stories."

The room erupted in a flurry of chatter as the students eagerly shared their ideas with one another. Ms. Ellington settled into her chair, her eyes already scanning the first page of Harry's story.

As she read, Ms. Ellington found herself pulled into the story Harry had written. It was about Eli and Sara, two people trying to make it in a world that had changed completely because of a fungal infection. The way Harry told their story made everything around Ms. Ellington seem to disappear. She was very impressed by how real the characters felt and the tough choices they had to make. The way he described the empty cities, taken over by nature, made her feel like she was right there with them.

What really got to her, though, were the complex themes Harry was playing with. Things like how tough people can be, what it means to make hard choices, and how people can still care deeply for each other even when things look bleak. These weren't easy things to talk about, and Ms. Ellington wouldn't have guessed a young kid could handle them so well.

When she got to the part where Eli has to make a huge sacrifice to save Sara, it hit her hard. The way Harry wrote it was so touching that she almost cried. It was a lot for a story from someone his age.

This is amazing, she thought, surprised by how well Harry had put everything together—the story, the people in it, and the complex themes—all of it was really something.

Looking up, she saw Harry talking with a friend, his face all lit up. He was moving his hands around as he explained something about his story. Ms. Ellington couldn't help but be amazed by how creative he was for someone so young.

As the noise in the room started to settle, Ms. Ellington got everyone's attention and held up Harry's story, her eyes full of pride.

"Class," she announced, "I want to share with you an exceptional piece of writing. Harry's story, 'The Last Hope of Humanity,' is very well-written and something everyone could take inspiration from."

She began to read aloud, her voice rich and expressive, bringing the world of Eli and Sara to life for the entire class. The students sat in rapt attention, their eyes wide with wonder as they listened to the tale of survival, sacrifice, and the unbreakable bonds of love.

As she reached the end of the story, Ms. Ellington looked up, her eyes meeting Harry's. 

"You did very well," she said softly. "Keep this up and I'll not be surprised to see your name among the best-selling authors in the future."

Harry looked a bit shy, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, Ms. Ellington," he replied, his voice clear. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."


The staff room at The Perse Prep School was abuzz with activity as the teachers gathered for their monthly meeting. The late afternoon sun streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the polished wooden table and the colorful posters adorning the walls.

Ms. Blackwood, the drama teacher, sat at the head of the table, her auburn hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She shuffled through a stack of papers, her brow furrowed in concentration. Beside her, Mr. Aurelius, the Latin teacher, leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes looking at the wall as he listened to the chatter around him.

"Bonjour, mes amis!" Madame Dubois, the French teacher, swept into the room, her vibrant silk scarf billowing behind her. She took her seat next to Mr. Thompson, the geography teacher, who greeted her with a smile.

As the last few teachers trickled in, Ms. Blackwood cleared her throat, calling the meeting to order. "Thank you all for coming," she began. "Let's start by discussing the progress of our students. Who would like to go first?"

Mr. Novak, the music teacher, raised his hand, his salt-and-pepper beard twitching with excitement. "I must say, I'm quite impressed with young Emilia's progress on the violin," he said, his pride clear in his tone. "She's shown remarkable dedication and improvement over the past month."

Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the room as the teachers shared their own observations of their students' achievements. Mrs. Hartley, the history teacher, praised the insightful essays her class had written on the Roman Empire, while Ms. Ellington, the English teacher, gushed about the creative writing projects her students had completed.

But as the discussion turned to Harry Potter, the atmosphere in the room shifted.

"I must say," Mr. Whitmore, the philosophy teacher, began, "I have never encountered a student like Harry. It seems like he is well-versed with ethical dilemmas, and his ability to articulate his thoughts is not something I would expect even from someone who just finished Sixth Form."

Ms. Ellington nodded, "I couldn't agree more," she said, her head leaned forward. "Just last week, Harry submitted a short story that left me absolutely speechless. The emotional depth, the vivid imagery, the philosophical themes – it was like nothing I've ever seen from a child his age."

As the teachers swapped stories, the room filled with surprise. Each had their own example of Harry's knowledge, showing just how much he stood out. It was a real eye-opener for everyone, seeing just how knowledgeable a child prodigy could be in all of those fields.

"I think," Ms. Blackwood said, her voice cutting through the chatter, "that we need to consider the possibility of accelerating Harry's education. It's clear that he is not being challenged at his current level."

Agreement was clear on everyone's faces through the room, but Mr. Thompson, the geography teacher, raised his hand, his brow furrowed with concern. "I understand the desire to nurture Harry's talents," he said, his voice thoughtful, "but we must also consider his emotional and social development. He is still only three years old, after all."

Ms. Blackwood nodded, her eyes understanding. "You raise a valid point, Mr. Thompson," she said. "But I believe that Harry's emotional maturity is just as exceptional as his intellectual abilities. In my drama classes, he has shown an uncanny ability to empathize with his characters and convey complex emotions through his performances."

The debate continued, the teachers passionately arguing the merits and drawbacks of accelerating Harry's education. Some, like Madame Dubois and Mr. Novak, felt that he should be pushed up multiple grades immediately, while others, like Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Hartley, advocated for a more gradual approach.

As the discussion reached a fever pitch, Dr. Blackwell, the headmaster, entered the room, her presence commanding instant silence. She surveyed the gathered teachers, her keen eyes taking in the excitement that hung in the air.

"I couldn't help but overhear your discussion," she said. "And I must say, I share your admiration for young Harry's abilities. However, we must also consider the long-term implications of any decisions we make regarding his education."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the room, meeting the eyes of each teacher in turn. "I propose a compromise," she continued, her voice filled with quiet authority. "We will accelerate Harry's education, but gradually. He will move up one grade level at a time, with close monitoring of his emotional and social well-being. If, at any point, we feel that he is struggling to adapt, we will reevaluate our approach."