The stone floor under Magnus's shoes felt icy cold, even through his thick rubber soles.
He stood directly in front of the pedestal. The clear glass sphere sat in a carved brass ring, the silver mist inside shifting back and forth like lazy waves.
"Place both hands on the surface," Madam Vance commanded from the edge of the circle, her quill hovering over a blank sheet of parchment. "Do not push. Do not cast spells. Simply hold your hands flat."
Magnus extended his arms.
Flash.
A split-second future vision hit his brain like a cold splash of water.
In the flash, he saw himself pressing his palms flat against the cold glass. The moment his skin touched the surface, the silver mist inside instantly turned a harsh, burning crimson red, flashing so bright it lit up the dark stone room like a flare.
Magnus stopped his hands two inches above the glass.
Sweat broke out across his forehead. His vision had just shown him failing the test. The red light meant unstable. It meant getting his memory wiped and sent back to Surrey like a defective product.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Flower?" Madam Vance asked, her voice sharp with impatience.
"No," Magnus said, his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour.
Why did it turn red? Was it his strength? Was it the weird 2026 soul trapped in an 11-year-old's body? Or was it the fact that his magic wasn't normal wizard magic?
They are measuring your latency, not your strength.
Wilkins' note flashed in his head.
The sphere wasn't just measuring how much power he had—it was measuring how his magic reacted when pushed. If he slammed his hands down with all his physical force and panic, the sphere would register a sudden, violent spike and flag him as dangerous.
Magnus took a slow, deliberate breath. He relaxed his shoulders. He loosened his grip, unclenching his fists until his fingers were loose and calm.
He lowered his hands slowly, gently touching his palms to the cool glass surface.
For three seconds, nothing happened. The silver mist inside continued to swirl lazily.
Then, the sphere reacted.
The silver smoke didn't turn red. Instead, it began to spin rapidly, forming a tight, blindingly fast vortex in the center of the glass ball. The silver color darkened, turning into a deep, stormy steel-grey.
The glass began to hum—a low, vibrating tone that rattled Magnus's teeth in his skull.
Madam Vance stepped forward, her eyes wide behind her round spectacles. She scribbled frantically on her parchment. "Remarkable... zero heat output, but the kinetic resonance is off the chart."
The hum grew louder. The stone pedestal beneath the sphere began to vibrate, small chips of dust flaking off the edges.
Magnus kept his hands steady. He didn't push. He didn't fight it. He just let the weird energy flow out of his hands like water draining through a pipe.
CRACK.
A hairline fracture appeared along the top of the crystal sphere.
Madam Vance gasped. "Remove your hands! Step back!"
Magnus pulled his hands away instantly, taking three quick steps backward out of the runic circle.
The moment his hands lost contact, the steel-grey vortex inside the sphere vanished. The humming stopped abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in the stone room.
The clear crystal sphere sat on its pedestal, completely still, except for a thin, spiderweb crack running down its side.
Madam Vance stared at the cracked glass, then down at her parchment, then back at Magnus. Her thin lips were pressed into a tight, pale line.
"Well?" Magnus asked, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Did I pass?"
Wilkins stepped forward from the doorway, his boots clicking softly on the basalt stone. He looked at the cracked sphere, then at Madam Vance.
"The sphere did not turn crimson, Madam Vance," Wilkins said smoothly, his raspy voice breaking the quiet. "The magic showed no trace of dark corruption or emotional instability. The structural failure was purely a result of physical resonance."
Madam Vance adjusted her spectacles with a trembling finger. She looked at Magnus for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"The boy's magic is... unusually heavy," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. "It lacks the flexibility of a normal eleven-year-old, but Wilkins is correct. It is not classified as unstable under Decree 114."
She dipped her quill into her inkwell and signed the parchment at the bottom with a loud, aggressive flourish.
"Authorization granted," Madam Vance declared, flattening the paper. "Magnus Flower is cleared for enrollment at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the 1991 academic term."
Magnus let out a long breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"However," Madam Vance added, pointing her feather quill directly at Magnus's face. "You will be placed under Tier-Two monitoring during your first year. Any further destruction of property—whether it is a dining chair or a school desk—will result in an immediate hearing before the Board of Governors. Do you understand?"
"Loud and clear," Magnus said.
"Good," she snapped, rolling up the parchment and sealing it with a drop of red wax. "Take him away, Wilkins. Get him his supplies and get him out of my department."
"With pleasure, Madam," Wilkins said. He turned to Magnus and gave a brief nod toward the door. "Follow me, Mr. Flower. We have a train ticket to secure, and a very long list of books."
Magnus turned and walked out of the circular stone chamber, leaving the cracked crystal sphere behind.
As they walked back toward the golden elevators, Magnus glanced sideways at Wilkins. "So... Diagon Alley next?"
"Indeed," Wilkins said, his raspy voice sounding almost relaxed for the first time since yesterday. "And I suggest you pay close attention when we select your wand, Mr. Flower. After seeing what you did to that sphere, I pity the wandmaker who has to find something that won't snap in your hand."
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