Chapter 13: The Traveler’s Step

February 1993 cloaked Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole in a relentless snow, the barn's roof creaking under a thick white blanket as he paced its dirt floor, chalk dust swirling in the glow of a lantern hung from a rusty nail on the wall. The kitchen hearth still crackled from a breakfast of oats and tea, coffee long gone cold in a mug by the sink, but his mind stayed rooted here, locked on spellmaking. Scutum Latens pulsed in his magic, a steady hum buying him time against threats with its faint drain for constant watch, and Stupeo Celer waited on parchment for Theo, a gift yet to be sent from last month's work. The Daily Prophet piled up unread on his kitchen table, its tales of chaos—glittering stags tearing through Devon fields, fire-spitting rats scorching Leeds warehouses—fading to a dull rumble as he turned his focus inward. Travel loomed on the horizon, a pull to the Wizards' Towers scattered across the globe, and the five pillars of his craft demanded attention: attack, defense, movement, healing, perception. Defense stood firm with his shield, but movement lagged, Apparition's crack and lurch too clumsy for the road ahead. He needed something smoother, farther, precise—a traveler's step to outpace a world growing wilder each day with every Muggle sparking magic and every beast glowing feral.

Spellmaking was no quick flick, a grind of will and wand stretching over weeks, and he began with intent, sketching it on parchment pinned to the barn's stone wall with a bent nail he'd hammered in last fall. Apparition worked as a Hogwarts staple, shifting him from cottage to Diagon Alley in a blink, but it jolted like a bad broom landing, limited by range and focus, a stumble at best when he needed grace. He wanted a spell that flowed, stretching miles without the gut-wrenching twist, landing exact as a Chaser's dive to the hoop, active with no drain until cast, unlike his shield's passive watch. The barn's chalkboard loomed large, smudged with Stupeo Celer's faded sums from weeks past, and he wiped it clean with a rag, chalk squeaking as he plotted wand movements to start. A six-point arc took shape: two twists upward for range, a sweep left for focus, a jab right for destination, a curve downward for stability, and a flick outward to land. He scratched equations beside it, numbers sprawling across the board as he balanced speed against distance, aiming for a 1.3-second shift with no hum until the moment of casting, sharp and active like a broomstick's glide when he kicked it into gear.

Arithmancy swallowed him whole, his old college logic firing up like a lab experiment demanding precision over late-night coffee back in Ohio. He stood there for hours, boots scuffing the dirt floor, jacket slung over a stool as the barn's chill bit into his knuckles and turned his breath to faint clouds. Lantern light flickered, casting jagged shadows over the board, and he muttered to himself, "Range first, fifty miles, no drift," scribbling calculations for magical reach that wouldn't sap him until he chose to move. Parchment piled up beside the workbench, each sheet dense with sums—energy burst versus shift speed, focus factoring line-of-sight against memory of a place, stability to counter the recoil that could spill him into a wall if he misjudged. Days stretched into nights, snow piling thick outside as he adjusted, cutting the window from 2 seconds to 1.5, then 1.4, coffee mugs stacking in a crooked tower on the workbench, their rims stained brown from restless refills he brewed over the kitchen fire. By mid-February, after a week of sleepless tweaks standing in the barn's dim glow, he pinned it at 1.3 seconds, a smooth arc stretching fifty miles with no drain until cast, a spell to leap when he willed it, leaving his magic untouched until the moment of flight.

Latin came next, his backbone for wandcraft, and he hauled Magical Lexicon from the shelf, its leather creaking as he spread it open on the workbench, pages crinkling under his chalk-dusted hands as he flipped through them by lantern light. He sifted through roots, quill scratching options on a scrap of parchment: Apparo felt too flat, like a sudden pop, Translocatio too rigid like a textbook rule he'd memorized for O.W.L.s. He settled on Transitor, meaning traveler, and paired it with Celer, swift, for its snap: Transitor Celer, Swift Traveler. He tested it aloud, pacing the barn's length with boots kicking up dust, voice bouncing off the stone walls as snow tapped the roof outside, tweaking the r in Transitor for a rolling depth until it flowed crisp and commanding, a spell with a wanderer's weight that carried his intent. A sub-chant tied it to his will, Eo, Go, whispered in the mind, linking thought to destination like a compass point pulling him north. Weeks of muttering refined it, boots wearing a groove in the dirt floor, wand tracing the arc in the air as he chanted under his breath by the flickering light, each syllable honed until it clicked, a call to leap across the world with no strain until he spoke it.

Testing spanned late February into March, a month of trial and grit with no shortcuts, just wand and will pushing through the cold that seeped through the walls. Evan stood by the workbench, ash and unicorn hair still in his grip from Hogwarts days, and traced the six-point arc—two twists up, sweep left, jab right, curve down, flick out—chanting Transitor Celer, Eo with a firm flick of his wrist. A soft hum swallowed him, no harsh crack like Apparition's jolt, and he landed by the barn door, five feet off his mark, boots steady but skewed into a pile of old straw that crunched under his weight. He cursed, wiping sweat from his brow despite the chill that frosted the air, and returned to the chalkboard, tightening the jab right by 10 degrees for precision, recalculating the curve down to anchor the landing spot without tugging his magic until he cast. The second try shifted him ten yards to the brook outside, smooth but off-course, snow crunching underfoot as he stumbled into a drift, icy water seeping into his boots and soaking his socks. He stood there, breath fogging in the gray light under a heavy sky, and muttered, "Focus, you prat, tighter," adjusting the sweep left to a sharper 20-degree arc, numbers realigning to lock onto memory instead of guesswork, keeping the spell dormant 'til he willed it live.

Nights blurred into a haze, coffee mugs piling higher on the workbench, their handles chipped from careless stacking as the barn's lantern flickered low, casting long shadows over his work while wind howled outside. He sharpened the twists upward to a steep 50-degree rise, pushing the range to seventy miles with no hum until cast, and slowed the flick outward to a deliberate sweep, cutting the recoil that had tugged him off last time like a bad Quidditch turn. By early March, snow thawing into slush outside and dripping through the roof in soft plinks, he cast again, Eo in his mind picturing the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, seventy miles north beyond the hills. Transitor Celer flowed, a hum whisking him in 1.3 seconds with no drain until that moment, and he landed in the pub's alley, boots firm on wet cobblestone, no lurch or stumble, the air sharp with the scent of butterbeer and woodsmoke drifting from the open door nearby. A barmaid gaped through the window, broom paused mid-sweep as she stared, but he grinned and Apparated back with the old crack to dodge her questions, landing back in the barn exact, snowmelt pooling on the dirt floor.

He wasn't done, though—Apparition needed no wand, a flick of will, and he craved that ease. Back at the chalkboard, he sketched a new goal: Transitor Celer without moves, pure intent like a breath. He stood there, wand still, chanting Transitor Celer, Eo in his mind, picturing the brook ten yards off. Nothing stirred, no hum, just silence, and he cursed, pacing anew. Arithmancy stretched further, numbers sprawling as he calculated will against motion, stripping the arc's six points to a mental map—range up, focus left, destination right, stability down, landing out. Weeks crept on, rain replacing snow, and he tested daily, voice steady, wand still, Eo sharp in his skull. By late March, a faint hum flickered, shifting him a foot, then two, but it faltered, sweat beading as focus slipped. He muttered, "Close, not there," and kept at it, refining the chant's rhythm, stretching the c in Celer for mental grip.

Evan sank onto a stool, triumph warm despite the damp seeping through the walls, wand buzzing from the arc's success. Transitor Celer hit Tier 5, active and sharp, a traveler's edge over Apparition's jolt, no drain until cast, growing his magic only when he leaped. The wandless dream lingered, a month's grind etching sums across the chalkboard, and he exhaled, watching his breath fade as rain tapped the roof. Travel loomed—worldwide Towers, a wild world to face—and this was his step, Scutum Latens buying the breath to wield it, the wandless goal a spark he'd chase further.