Reach Out

June 20, 1993, 2:00 PM, Twelve Grimmauld Place

Adam Clarke

I was practicing my footwork again, frustration bubbling under the surface as I prepared to cast wandless magic. Movement was the key, or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. It still felt ridiculous, after all this time— darting around like this, slashing my hands through the air.

There had to be a better way to simplify the process of channeling my energies, but until I found it, this was all I had.

The Severing Charm isn’t even that complicated!

Incendio: a simple incantation, a fire. With a wand, it was second nature. Without one, it was proving to be the bane of my existence— even with my breakthrough in the last few months.

“Focus.” I muttered, circling the room like a predator stalking unseen prey. My boots scuffed against the worn floorboards of the training room, but I barely noticed.

My thoughts churned too loudly for me to care. This was time I couldn’t afford to waste.

Grindelwald was still out there, somewhere, plotting. His forces were growing, his influence spreading. The tournament was over, but the war wasn’t. The visions of the Veil, the Abyss, and whatever the Hell that creature had been… I shuddered just thinking about it. The thought of that realm, of what Grindelwald could unleash if he succeeded, gnawed at the edges of my mind like a ravenous wolf.

And yet here I was, struggling with a spell that shouldn’t even be a challenge.

I stopped in the center of the room, took a deep breath, and forced my body into stillness. My hands trembled as I raised them, palms outstretched. The room was quiet except for the faint creak of the house settling around me.

“Incendio.” I hissed, pouring every ounce of focus I could muster into the command.

For a fleeting moment, I felt the magic surge. It was there, ready and roaring like a raging inferno, but it slipped through my grasp like sand through my fingers. Nothing happened.

I bit back a growl of frustration and lashed out with my hand anyway, a useless gesture that only made me feel more foolish. “Damn it!”

The echo of my voice filled the room, sharp and accusing. I clenched my fists and paced, my pulse hammering in my ears.

This wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough.

I couldn’t stop seeing the future that loomed over us all, like a shadow waiting to consume everything. The thought of being unprepared, of being powerless when the time came, tightened around my chest like a vice.

I glanced at the target I’d set up— a battered piece of wood propped against the far wall. It stood there, mocking me with its unburnt surface. My jaw tightened as I squared my stance again, forcing my thoughts into submission.

I moved— step, pivot, strike— channeling every ounce of focus I had left into the motion.

“Incendio!”

This time, the target burst into sparks and smoke. Not clean, nowhere even near effective, but enough to leave a mark.

I sagged, the rush of adrenaline ebbing as I stared at the minimal damage.

Not what I was hoping to get, but at least it’s something, I suppose. I thought before shaking my head. It wasn’t enough; never was, these days.

I rubbed a hand over my face and exhaled shakily, my shoulders slumping under the weight of everything I couldn’t say out loud. I had to keep pushing. If I stopped now, I didn’t know if I’d be able to start again.

“Again.” I muttered, dragging my feet back into position. The world wasn’t going to wait for me to catch up, so I couldn’t afford to stop.

After a few more attempts, I stopped, breathing heavily as I wiped the sweat from my brow. My arms ached, my legs felt like lead, and my magic— what little I’d managed to summon— was stubbornly uncooperative. I leaned against the wall, letting my head rest against the cool, cracked plaster, and tried to calm the swirl of frustration in my mind. 

I knew this wasn’t the best time for this kind of practice. I could practically hear Hermione in my head, lecturing me about priorities. She’d have been right, of course. My time might have been better spent poring over my books— even History of Magic— in preparation for next year’s OWLs.

They loomed on the horizon, another hurdle I couldn’t afford to trip over. 

But the thought of those textbooks made my stomach churn. I loved history— or at least, I thought I did. The topic itself was fascinating: the stories of ancient wizards and witches, the wars they fought, the spells they crafted, the worlds they built and destroyed. But somehow, the textbooks had a knack for stripping away all the wonder and leaving behind nothing but dry dates, dull names, and lifeless facts.

The failing of modern teaching, I suppose.

History should’ve been an adventure, a chance to step into the past and feel the weight of it. Instead, it felt like trudging through a desert, each page a new expanse of monotony. 

I sighed and pushed myself off the wall, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness creeping in.

“Back to it.” I muttered, trying to shake the distraction from my mind. Wandless magic wouldn’t master itself, and I couldn’t let myself slack off now. Not when the stakes were this high. 

I tried again, my movements more forceful, more desperate. My hand pushed through the air as I snarled the incantation. “Incendio!”

Nothing.

Once again, the target stood there, unmoved and unmarked, in mockery of my attempt. A familiar heat surged behind my eyes, a knot of frustration and shame tightening in my chest. My hands curled into fists at my sides as I struggled to hold back the growl that threatened to claw its way out.

The door creaked open behind me, and I spun around, tense and ready to snap at whatever— or whoever— it was. Harry stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised, his usual easy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey.” He said, as though everything in the world were perfectly fine. “Sirius sent me to see if you wanted to come down for lunch. He and Remus are waiting.”

I blinked at him, caught off guard. Lunch? The word felt foreign, like it belonged to some other life, some other person who wasn’t drowning in the weight of the future.

“I’ll be down in a bit.” I said curtly, turning back to the target. “Just need to finish this.”

But Harry didn’t leave. He lingered, leaning against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world.

“Sirius and I are heading out later.” He added casually. “Just for fun. You should come.”

I felt something snap. I turned to him sharply, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “I said no.”

The sharpness of my tone startled even me, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t.

Harry’s easy grin faltered, replaced by a look of cautious concern. “Adam… it wouldn’t kill you to take a break. You’ve been at this for— “

“I don’t care how long I’ve been at it!” My voice cracked, and I hated the way it sounded— raw and desperate. “I can’t stop, Harry. Not now. There’s a lot I need to get done.”

I trailed off, realizing how tightly I was gripping my fists. My nails dug into my palms, and I forced myself to relax before I broke my skin.

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground, you know.”

“I’ll be fine.” I said, but the words felt hollow even to me. “Sorry.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just looked at me like he was trying to figure out whether to push further. Finally, he shrugged. “Suit yourself. But don’t skip lunch, this time. Kreacher made some good stew.”

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stood there, staring at the empty doorway, my chest heaving like I’d just run a marathon. My shoulders felt too tight, my throat too dry, and all I could hear was the echo of Harry’s words.

“You’re going to run yourself into the ground.”

Was I? Maybe. Probably. What else was I supposed to do, though? The world didn’t stop spinning just because I needed a break. Grindelwald wasn’t going to take a day off, and neither could I.

I turned back to the target, the room suddenly too quiet. The thought wormed its way in before I could stop it.

What if this isn’t enough?

I shook my head violently, like I could banish the thought through sheer will. No. I wasn’t going to let myself think like that.

“Always forward.” I repeated the words of my old self. I stepped back into position. I couldn’t let myself stop. If I stopped now, I didn’t think I’d be able to start again.

I stood still for a moment, forcing myself to slow down and focus. My breaths came in steady, deliberate pulls as I closed my eyes and let everything else fall away— the ache in my legs, the sting of sweat in my eyes, the lingering frustration from hours of failure. All of it faded, replaced by a singular image in my mind: the spell, scorching hot, consuming the target like a starved man who just found some food.

I understood in my mind very clearly. My will, my desire, my intent— it all coalesced into a single point of focus. It wasn’t about the wand, the movements, or even the incantation.

I opened my eyes, my jaw tightening as I raised my hand, keeping my movements small and deliberate. No grand flourishes. No wasted energy.

Burn.

“Incendio.“

The word left my lips, low and steady, more a command than a plea. Magic surged through me, sharp and electric, like a wire pulled taut just before it snapped.

I felt it leave my hand, shimmering through the air, and watched as the target finally, finally, burst into a merry, though very weak flame. The sound was soft but definitive, a quiet victory against hours of stubborn resistance.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the billowing smoke. My heart pounded, and my breath hitched, but there was no rush of triumph, no wave of satisfaction.

“Finally.” I muttered, my voice flat. It wasn’t enough. One successful cast didn’t mean anything. “It’ll need to be consistent from this point.”

Without missing a beat, I drew my wand and gave it a flick, dousing the flames clearing the remnants of the target. Stowing it away again, I began to move before my mind had a chance to hesitate, shifting into position for the next spell. There was no time to revel in success. There was only the next step, the next challenge, the next chance to push myself harder.

I would get stronger. I had to. Because if I didn’t, everything I was fighting for would be lost.

oooo

6:00 PM, London

Minerva McGonagall

Minerva strode purposefully through the streets of London, her shoes clicking softly against the pavement. The afternoon was crisp, and a light wind carried the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. Around her, Muggle London hummed with its usual bustle— cars honked, people chattered, and shopkeepers called out to passersby. Yet, to Minerva, it all felt strangely muted, like a distant echo of normalcy in a world teetering on the brink of chaos.

The events of the past weeks weighed heavily on her mind; they’d already sent ripples of fear through the wizarding world. Even Hogwarts, her home and sanctuary for many decades, had not been spared. She tightened her grip on her handbag, her knuckles whitening as she thought of the young students— so many of them mere children— caught up in the beginnings of a war they barely understood.

Her thoughts turned to the purpose of her visit. Sirius Black. He had displayed incredible resilience in his stint in Azkaban, and had gone further than her expectations in preparing the home for the children. It had become a far cry from the somber, hostile environment it had been under the Black family’s reign. The house had become alive with the chatter of his adopted boys.

Even so, Minerva knew the weight Sirius carried. He had his moments of lightness— moments that Harry seemed to bring out the most in him— but the haunted look in his eyes never truly faded.

And then there was Adam Clarke. That boy was a paradox, a storm of brilliance and recklessness, his potential undeniable yet fraught with danger and something which drew unnervingly close to madness, at times. Minerva had always prided herself on spotting talent in her students, and Adam was no exception.

His insistence on shouldering burdens far beyond his years, however, concerned her deeply. She hoped this visit might also give her some insight into his state of mind.

Troubled minds always seem to find each other, don’t they? It must be fate that those three came together.

As she rounded a corner, the familiar sight of Grimmauld Place came into view. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze sweeping the unremarkable row of townhouses. To any Muggle, there was nothing extraordinary about them, but as she stepped closer, a faint shimmer rippled across her vision. The outline of Number Twelve began to emerge, its façade dark and imposing yet oddly comforting.

Drawing herself up, Minerva squared her shoulders and approached the front door. With a deep breath, she knocked on the door and waited. The door unlocked on its own after a few moments, just as Sirius had told her. She stepped inside, the warm air enveloping her as the door closed behind her.

The hallway of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was dimly lit, the faint glow of a single chandelier casting long shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Minerva noted with faint approval that the house was markedly cleaner than the last time she’d visited— no doubt thanks to the combined efforts of the house’s occupants.

She barely had time to take a step forward when the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.

The door creaked open, and Remus Lupin appeared, his weathered face lighting up with a faint smile. He was dressed in his usual frayed robes, his appearance as unassuming as ever, though there was a warmth in his eyes that softened the lines of weariness etched into his features.

“Professor McGonagall.” He greeted, his tone a mixture of surprise and genuine pleasure. “What a nice surprise. Come in, please.”

“Thank you, Remus.” Minerva replied, stepping fully into the house as he closed the door behind her. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything— I let myself in.”

“Not at all; you’re always welcome here.” He assured her, gesturing for her to follow him toward the sitting room. “Sirius and Harry are out— they’ve gone to the theater, something about catching up on Muggle films. Adam’s downstairs practicing, as usual.”

Minerva nodded, her sharp gaze flicking over the details of the house as she walked. The faint scent of tea and parchment lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of the old woodwork. She noticed the absence of Kreacher, the Black family’s cantankerous House Elf, and silently appreciated the change.

He was a hard one to like.

The sitting room was a marked improvement from its former state, the once-dark and dreary space now lit by a fire crackling warmly in the hearth. A tray of tea sat on the low table in front of the sofa, a teapot and two cups already prepared. Remus motioned for her to sit as he picked up the teapot.

“Tea?” He offered, tilting his head in that characteristic, gentle way of his.

“Yes, please.” Minerva said, settling into an armchair. She accepted the steaming cup he handed her, letting the warmth seep into her hands as she regarded him thoughtfully. There was an air of quiet humility about Remus that she had always found endearing, even when he was a student.

“It’s good to see you, Remus.” She said after a moment. “How are you holding up?”

He smiled faintly, taking the seat opposite her.

“As well as one can, given the circumstances. Sirius keeps the house lively, Harry’s been a good influence on him, and Adam…” He hesitated, his gaze flickering briefly toward the floor. “Well, Adam’s determined as ever.”

“Determined.” Minerva repeated, a trace of concern threading through her voice. “That boy has always been a force to reckon with. And yet, I suspect there’s more to your words than you’re letting on.”

Remus chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’ve always had a way of seeing through people, Professor.”

“Occupational hazard. And please, call me Minerva.” She replied, her tone wry but her expression soft. “Though I imagine we’ll get to the heart of it soon enough. For now, tell me— how are you feeling about the school’s… offer?”

His smile faltered slightly, and he lowered his cup, cradling it in his hands. “I’ll admit, I’m still not sure. Teaching— it’s a daunting prospect.”

Minerva tilted her head, studying him closely. “Perhaps, but I can think of no one better suited for the role than you, Remus. Hogwarts is lucky to have you, should you choose to accept.”

Remus sighed, leaning back into the worn armchair as he swirled the tea in his cup. The firelight danced across his thoughtful expression, casting flickering shadows across the room.

“I appreciate your confidence, Professor.” He said quietly. “Though I can’t help wondering if it’s misplaced. Teaching is… different from learning. And with my condition…”

Minerva raised a hand, silencing him with a look that brooked no argument.

“Nonsense. ” She said firmly. “You were one of the most diligent students I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching, Remus. Always prepared, always eager to learn, and quick to grasp even the most complex theories. Do you think those qualities have vanished simply because you’ve grown older?”

Remus smiled faintly, though his gaze remained downcast. “I might have been diligent, but I wasn’t perfect. There were… incidents.”

“You mean the escapades of your legendary Marauders?” Minerva’s tone was dry, but her eyes glimmered with amusement. “Yes, I remember those. James and Sirius were more trouble than Peeves on a bad day, and… Peter was rarely far behind. You, however, had the sense to keep them from setting the castle on fire— most of the time.”

A laugh escaped Remus despite himself, a sound that seemed to surprise even him. “You’re being generous, Professor. I was hardly a saint.”

“No one expects saints, Remus.” Minerva said, her voice softening. “We expect teachers. Guides. People who care enough to help young witches and wizards find their place in the world. That’s what you did for your friends, and I have no doubt you’ll do the same for your students.”

Remus ran a hand through his greying hair, his expression thoughtful. “It’s not just the teaching, though. There are… practical considerations. I’d need to take time off every month. The parents might find out, and the students would be frightened— “

“Then we’ll manage.” Minerva interjected briskly. “You know as well as I do that Albus wouldn’t have offered you the position if he hadn’t already planned for such contingencies. And as for the students, they’ll respect you if you respect them. The rest will come in time.”

For a moment, silence settled between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Remus stared into the flames, his fingers tapping lightly against the porcelain cup.

“You make it sound so simple.” He murmured.

“It’s not.” Minerva admitted. “But few things worth doing ever are.”

Remus looked up then, his gaze meeting hers. There was a flicker of something there— hope, perhaps, or at least the faintest stirrings of belief.

“Thank you, Professor.” He said quietly. “For believing in me.”

Minerva’s lips curved into a rare, gentle smile. “It’s not belief, Remus. It’s certainty. And for the record, I would remind you once more that you’d do well to start calling me Minerva, at least when we’re not in the classroom.”

Remus chuckled, nodding. “I’ll try, but no promises.”

The lightness of their exchange was interrupted by a sudden, resounding crash from below, followed by a string of muffled curses.

Remus winced, setting his cup down and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“That would be Adam.” He muttered.

Minerva arched an eyebrow. “What, pray tell, is he doing?”

“Overdoing it, as usual.” Remus replied with a sigh. “He’s been pushing himself relentlessly ever since the tournament ended. He barely eats, barely sleeps. If he’s not practicing spells, he’s pouring over books or working on that chain magic of his. I’ve tried to talk to him, but…”

He shook his head.

Minerva’s expression grew grave. “That boy’s brilliance will be his undoing if someone doesn’t rein him in.”

Remus gave a weary nod. “I know. He’s carrying so much— far more than he should. And he’s started pulling away from all of us. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.”

Minerva set her cup down with deliberate care, rising to her feet. “Then it’s high time someone spoke to him. Where is he?”

Remus hesitated. “Downstairs, in the study. But—”

“I’ll handle it.” Minerva said firmly, cutting off his protest. With a swish of her robes, she turned and made her way toward the basement door.

Minerva descended the narrow staircase, her steps light but purposeful. The basement air was cooler, tinged with the faint metallic tang of magic. Flickering light from a single enchanted lantern illuminated the stone walls. As she neared the bottom, the faint hum of magical energy grew stronger, vibrating in the very air.

Rounding the final corner, she froze in place. The room was filled with an intricate web of glowing, ethereal chains. They writhed and twisted through the air like living things, their movements precise yet strangely hypnotic. Adam stood at the center of it all, his wand in one hand and his other hand outstretched, fingers trembling slightly as he directed the chains with minute gestures.

Her sharp eyes caught the strain in his posture— the taut set of his shoulders, the slight wobble in his legs. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow, and his breath came in shallow gasps, though his focus never wavered.

The chains snapped into a new formation, weaving into a complex pattern that hovered mid-air like a three-dimensional diagram. Minerva’s breath caught as she recognized the structure— an intricate lattice mimicking a Protego shield, layered with additional defensive spells. It was a feat of magical control that would have challenged even an experienced Duelist.

A good exercise in control, this may be, but as a spell, this particular use is utterly futile, considering the ease of which one can use the Shield Charm.

The strain on Adam was palpable. His wand arm trembled, and his free hand clenched into a fist as though willing himself to continue.

“Enough.” Minerva said sharply, stepping into the room.

Adam started, his concentration shattering. The chains flickered and dissolved in an instant, the magic dissipating like mist in the air. He turned to face her, his face a mixture of surprise and exhaustion.

“Professor McGonagall.” He said, attempting a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

She crossed her arms, her stern gaze boring into him. “I came to visit, but it seems I’ve walked in on something far more pressing. Care to explain what, exactly, you think you’re doing?”

Adam wiped his brow with the sleeve of his robe, avoiding her gaze.

“Practicing.” He said simply, his tone clipped.

“Practicing. ” She repeated, her voice laced with disapproval. “You call driving yourself to the brink of collapse practicing?”

“I’m fine.” Adam insisted, though his pale complexion and the unsteadiness of his stance betrayed his words. “I need to do this. There’s no time to waste.”

Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “No time to waste, you say? And what good will all this practice do if you’re too exhausted to wield your magic when it truly matters?”

“You too? I have to be ready.” Adam snapped, his voice rising in frustration. “If I’m not— if I fail— then what was the point of everything I’ve done?”

Minerva’s expression softened, though her tone remained firm. “You’ve done more than enough, Adam. No one is asking you to carry the weight of the world alone.”

Adam scoffed, looking away. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like— “

“Don’t I? ” She interrupted, her voice cutting through his protest like a whip. “Do you think you’re the first to feel the burden of responsibility, the fear of failure? I’ve seen more students like you than I care to count— brilliant, talented, and utterly blind to the fact that they’re their own worst enemy.”

Adam flinched, his defiance faltering. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of residual magic lingering in the air.

Minerva stepped closer, her expression softening further. “You have nothing to prove to me, Adam— to anyone. But if you insist on pushing yourself like this, you’ll do more harm than good. There’s a difference between training and self-destruction, and you are dangerously close to crossing that line.”

Minerva remained still as Adam turned away, pretending to busy himself by organizing the scattered notes on his desk. She watched him for a moment, her sharp eyes taking in the slight slump of his shoulders, the stiffness in his movements.

She had always prided herself on her ability to read people, and this boy was no exception. Beneath his carefully constructed facade of control, she saw a storm of emotions— frustration, exhaustion, and a deep, gnawing guilt that weighed on him more heavily than any twelve-year-old should have to bear.

Her gaze flicked to the remnants of his spellwork. The chains had dissolved, but faint traces of their magic still lingered, pulsing faintly in the air like dying embers. She stepped closer to the desk, glancing down at the intricate diagrams he had scrawled across a large sheet of parchment. They were meticulous— every line precise, every annotation clear and concise.

“Your work is impressive. ” She said at last, her tone even. “Your chains have improved since the last time I have witnessed them.”

Adam turned to her, surprise flickering in his eyes. “You think so?”

Minerva nodded, though her expression remained stern. “The complexity of the spell you were working on would challenge even the most seasoned practitioners. But tell me, Adam— what is it you’re trying to achieve with this… this—”

“Riposte Charm.”

“Riposte…” McGonagall mused for a moment. “Oh, I see. A Croatian incantation?”

“Seemed a good idea at the time.”

“Hm.” She acknowledged before returning to her former question. “What is it you’re trying to achieve?”

He hesitated, glancing down at the parchment as though searching for an answer.

“They need to be better.” He said finally. “The chains need to be stronger than diamond, and faster than lightning. If I don’t push myself, how can I ever hope to reach that point?”

Minerva’s eyes softened, though she kept her voice firm. “Laudable goals to strive towards, but you must realize the hubris in your words— to expect the apotheosis of your skill in a few short years? That is folly…”

Adam looked at her for a moment before grunting out an acknowledgment. “Point taken, Professor.”

He doesn’t sound convinced.

“You have natural talent, Adam— more than most.” She tried again. “But talent without guidance is a recipe for disaster.”

Adam frowned, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I don’t have the luxury of time to wait for guidance in the school year.” He muttered. “Grindelwald isn’t waiting.”

Minerva stepped closer, placing a hand gently but firmly on his shoulder. “And what happens if you collapse from exhaustion during an important event? Or if your spell fails because you pushed too hard, too fast? You’re no use to anyone if you destroy yourself before the fight even begins.”

Adam stared at her, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, but then his shoulders slumped, and he let out a weary sigh.

“I just… I don’t know how else to be.” He admitted quietly.

Minerva’s expression softened further, and she gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Then it’s time you learned. If you’re going to tap into your true potential, you need discipline. Focus. And above all, balance.”

Adam looked up at her, a flicker of hope mingling with doubt in his eyes. “How do I do that?”

Minerva straightened, her expression shifting to one of quiet determination. “You let someone teach you. If you’re willing to trust me, I’ll help you hone your magic— not just your chains, but everything. Starting with the art you’ve been neglecting most.”

“Transfiguration.” Adam said, his tone flat but his eyes betraying a mix of emotions.

“Precisely.” Minerva replied with a faint smile. “Through your understanding of Charms, you’ve mastered the generation and animation of your chains, but they lack a certain refinement. With Transfiguration, you’ll learn to mold them into tools— not just weapons. It will require patience and hard work, but I believe you’re capable of it.”

Adam hesitated, his gaze flicking between her and the parchment on his desk. Finally, he gave a small nod. “All right. I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.” Minerva said, her smile widening just a fraction.

She had reached him.