The Tome of Intentions
Percy and Harry stepped out of the fireplace and appeared once again among the ruins of the island. The moment their feet touched the ground, they had to stop for a few seconds to recover from the dizziness.
Harry was once again sprawled on the floor, hands braced against the ground, eyes half-closed as he fought the urge to vomit. Beside him, Percy leaned against the chimney with one arm, breathing deeply to steady himself.
"So, you came back again."
Holmre's calm voice echoed from somewhere in the shadows.
Both boys slowly turned their heads. There he was, standing quietly, watching them with the same serene expression as always, as if he had been expecting them.
Neither of them replied. Judging by their faces, they could barely stay upright without emptying their stomachs.
The man seemed to understand their state and spoke with a faint smile.
"You should work on your stamina."
His tone was teasing, but patient—almost kind.
It took several seconds before they both managed to recover completely. Percy, who was the first to regain his balance, took a step forward.
"What's your name?" he asked directly.
"Oh… only now do you realize you never asked me that?" the man replied with a hint of amusement. "Even after you attacked me yesterday, when I was only playing with you so nicely."
"We already apologized for that," said Percy, rubbing the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed.
"We brought you breakfast," Harry cut in, beginning to pull several paper bags out of his enchanted bag. The aroma that escaped was warm and comforting—clearly freshly made.
The man's eyes widened in surprise, and he stepped forward, visibly trying to contain his excitement. He grabbed one of the bags, and upon seeing the perfectly assembled, still-warm sandwich inside, he didn't hesitate to take a big bite. His expression immediately changed—it was pure bliss. From another bag, he took out a closed jar of juice, popped the lid open, and drank straight from it while continuing to eat.
He ate as if he hadn't had a meal in years, devouring everything with remarkable speed, eyes shining with satisfaction. Harry and Percy just watched in silence, not daring to interrupt. After all, interrupting someone who was enjoying their food was terribly rude.
Several minutes passed before the man finished the last sip of juice and let out a satisfied sigh. His face looked genuinely happy.
"Hmm… strange that they let you come back," he finally remarked, glancing at them curiously.
Harry and Percy exchanged a confused look.
"Mom made the sandwiches for you," Harry explained.
"Your mother, huh? No… I—well, never mind," the man murmured, waving a hand dismissively.
"So, will you tell us your name now?" Percy asked with genuine interest.
"You can call me Dred," he said calmly, a faint smile curving his lips.
"Dred? Is that your full name?" Percy asked.
"Part of it," the man replied simply, offering no further explanation.
Harry nodded as if that answer was enough for now. "Well, we have to go back. We've got school today."
Percy instantly frowned. "What if we just hide here?" he asked quickly, almost hopeful.
"Mom will be mad," Harry replied without hesitation.
Percy sighed, clearly frustrated, but still walked toward the fireplace in resignation.
"See you later, Dred. We'll bring you more food next time," said Harry with a friendly smile.
Percy waved without much enthusiasm—not because of Dred, but because of the annoying fact that they had to go back to school.
The man waved them off with a calm smile, watching as they disappeared into the green flames. Then, glancing down at the crumpled paper bags on the ground, he picked them up carefully and tucked them away, the faint smile still lingering on his face.
…
Hours later, at school, the contrast couldn't have been more obvious.
Harry and Percy were sitting at their desks, working on their assignments with relative focus. Well, at least one of them was; the other was staring out the window, completely bored.
"Mr. Jackson, could you please tell me the answer to the second question?" asked the teacher with evident irritation, looking straight at Percy.
"Eh?" Percy blinked, snapping out of his daydream and glancing at the front.
He looked down at his paper, then over at his brother, who was subtly signaling with an open hand—five fingers extended, moving slightly.
"Five?" Percy guessed with an uncertain smile.
Harry instantly facepalmed.
"That would be correct… if we were in math class. Or if you had correctly interpreted your brother's hint," the teacher replied with thinly veiled exasperation. "But no, Mr. Jackson. We're in biology. And the question was: where are the phalanges located?"
Percy swallowed hard and slumped in his seat. Even Harry avoided looking at him, knowing full well that both had just been caught red-handed.
"The young Mr. Jackson should understand," the teacher continued sternly, "that his brother won't be able to keep helping him if he keeps failing his subjects. He won't be repeating the same grade as you."
The comment made Percy lower his head even more, while the teacher went on with the lesson.
Harry simply sighed, glancing sideways at his brother, who stared up at the ceiling, clearly remorseful… though not enough to stop him from trying again next time.
Percy frowned instantly but tried this time to focus on what the teacher was explaining, resisting the urge to drift off again.
Harry, meanwhile, felt a little bad for his brother. Around them, several classmates couldn't help but laugh, mocking Percy either quietly—or not so quietly. The boy just bowed his head in irritation, ignoring them as best he could.
When they got home that afternoon, Percy was still in a foul mood. Without saying a word, he grabbed his sword and went out to the backyard.
The metallic sound of steel cutting through the air mixed with the whisper of the wind. Each strike was clean and fluid, though still somewhat clumsy in strength. Despite his youth, Percy moved with admirable focus and discipline.
Harry, leaning against the doorframe, watched him in silence for a moment before turning his gaze toward the living room wall, where the portraits of his grandparents hung.
"Grandpa, Grandma… is there any way to help Percy with his study problem?" he asked hopefully. Maybe there was a magical solution that could help him improve.
"Hmm… perhaps a potion of intelligence," suggested Fleamont thoughtfully.
But Euphemia immediately gave him a firm smack on the shoulder.
"Don't give him dangerous ideas," she scolded sharply. "Even if the potion worked, it's not good to rely on that sort of thing all the time. It could do more harm than good—especially at their age."
Her tone softened as she turned to Harry.
"Dear, it's better not to look for magical answers to everything. At least not until you're both older and your bodies can handle the side effects."
Harry lowered his gaze at those words, visibly disappointed. He walked toward the backyard, where Percy continued to train. His movements were simple but precise, filled with determination—like a small, steadfast warrior.
Yet Harry could see it clearly: when it came to studying or doing homework, Percy always ended up feeling frustrated, almost inferior.
Then Harry's eyes wandered to the kitchen table. There lay his magic tome, open among other books. He approached, picked it up carefully, and flipped it open.
The first pages contained three simple spells:
a Clone Illusion Spell, a Fire Illusion Spell, and an Electric Spark Illusion Spell.
Beyond them, only blank pages remained.
Under each spell, there was some empty space, and Harry remembered what his Aunt Mor had told him:
"When you're ready to make the illusions real, the pages will continue on their own."
Harry stared at the empty pages with determination. If the book added new spells according to his needs, maybe this time one would appear that could help his brother.
He closed the tome with a soft thud, then opened it again.
Nothing.
He repeated the process several times, but the pages stayed exactly the same—silent and white.
With a sigh of frustration, his eyes drifted toward the refrigerator. On it were several magnetic pencils and his mother's note papers, used to write down phone messages.
He grabbed one of the pencils and went back to the tome, opening it once more.
"If there's no spell to help me," he murmured with determination, "then I'll create one."
Of course, writing a spell and creating one were two entirely different things—but his resolve was genuine.
However, before the tip of the pencil could touch the paper, a hand gently pulled it away.
Harry turned around in surprise and saw his Aunt Mor standing there, frowning slightly.
"What are you doing?" she asked in a serious tone.
Harry blinked, innocence all over his face.
"The book didn't give me any more spells, so I'm going to write one," he said matter-of-factly.
Mor let out a small laugh at his honesty.
"To create a spell, you need much more than just writing it in the magic tome," she said with a smile, giving him a light tap on the head with the pencil.
"But the book won't give me more spells, and I can't get past the illusions," protested Harry with a little pout, visibly frustrated.
Mor looked at him with amused affection.
"That's because you're not ready yet. Remember when you tried to cast fireballs and they went flying everywhere?"
Harry remembered immediately—the chaos of small flaming illusion spheres zipping across the room, hitting walls while he stood helplessly in the center. Luckily, they had only been illusions. His face grew more serious at the memory.
"But I want to help Percy," he muttered quietly.
"Ah… that," Mor said, nodding slowly. She had clearly heard about it from Euphemia.
"Let me think…"
She walked toward the living room, with Harry following close behind. She stopped in front of the old bookshelf in the corner and pulled out a random storybook. Holding it in her hand, she studied it for a moment, then tapped it lightly with her finger.
The letters on the pages began to move, swirling and reshaping before Harry's eyes. The text changed completely, written now in a strange language—and yet, somehow, Harry could understand it perfectly.
"There. Now he'll be able to read this," Mor said calmly, handing him the book.
Harry took it with a confused look. When he opened it, he confirmed that every letter was different, as if written in some ancient tongue.
And still, his mind could read it effortlessly.
Without fully understanding what had just happened, he closed the book carefully and nodded. Then he turned and walked toward the backyard with a faint smile, determined to show it to his brother.
Mor watched him go, thoughtful, as if something deeper was on her mind.