Chapter 14: The Piercer’s Sting

March 1993 broke the winter's grip around Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole, the brook swelling with icy runoff as he stood in the barn, chalk clutched in his palm, the air sharp with the tang of thawing soil drifting through the open door. The kitchen table bore crumbs from a hasty breakfast of bread and jam, a kettle still steaming faintly by the hearth, but his thoughts were tethered here, fixed on spellmaking. Scutum Latens pulsed in his magic, a steady hum guarding against threats, Transitor Celer offered a swift leap from February's work, and Stupeo Celer waited for Theo, a gift penned last month. The Daily Prophet slumped unread beside his chair, its tales of chaos—glittering stags slashing Devon fields, fire rats blazing through Leeds, electric whales churning Cornwall's coast—fading to a distant murmur as he turned inward. Travel beckoned, Towers calling across continents, and his five pillars of craft needed balance: attack, defense, movement, healing, perception. Defense, movement, and a stun for Theo stood ready, but attack lagged, Hogwarts' Stupefy and Expelliarmus too soft for what lurked ahead. He needed a sting, fierce and piercing, to cut through chaos.

Spellmaking was a beast, no swift flick but a slog spanning weeks, and he drew on lessons still unfolding. In his seventh year at Hogwarts, he'd slipped into the Room of Requirement one restless night, the Ravenclaw Tower riddle cracked but sleep dodging him, and asked for a place to push past N.E.W.T.s' edges. The room had rumbled, walls shifting, and offered dusty tomes—Crafting the Arcane, Wand and Will, Spells of the Ancients—piled on crooked shelves, their pages brittle with secrets he was still learning to wield. He'd pored over them by wandlight, Lila's snores a soft backdrop, grasping intent's pull, Arithmancy's weave, Latin's pulse, and each spell since was a step up a jagged path. He began with intent, sketching it on parchment tacked to the barn's stone wall, the nail bent from prior notes. Stupefy dazed, Expelliarmus disarmed, but he wanted a spell that pierced defenses without killing, sharp as a hawk's talon mid-flight.

The chalkboard stretched wide, etched with Transitor Celer's ghosted sums, and he swept it bare, chalk rasping as he mapped wand movements. A five-point arc emerged: a jab upward to fix the target, a sweep left to gather force, a twist right to hone power, a curve downward to sharpen the blow, and a flick outward to unleash it. He scrawled equations beside it, numbers curling across the board as he juggled speed against strength, aiming for a 1.8-second strike with no drain until cast, active like a Quidditch feint he'd pulled in sixth year. Arithmancy gripped him, his mind sparking with patterns from late-night Ravenclaw debates, and he leaned into the workbench, quill trembling as lantern light danced on the wall. "Pierce, ten yards, clean," he whispered, plotting force and aim from Crafting the Arcane's cryptic grids he was still deciphering.

Parchment piled up, sheets thick with sums—energy burst versus penetration, focus threading angle through resistance, power to split wood but spare flesh, lessons from Wand and Will shaping his hand. Days bled into nights, rain pattering the roof as he shaved the cast from 2.2 seconds to 2, then 1.9, coffee mugs cluttering the workbench, their rims crusted from refills brewed over the hearth's embers. By late March, after ten days of tweaks blurring into sleepless stretches, he locked it at 1.8 seconds, a piercing arc hitting ten yards with no hum until fired, a spell to stretch his magic when he chose, seventh-year scraps from Spells of the Ancients lighting the way.

Latin came next, his wandcraft's root, and he cracked Magical Lexicon open, pages rustling under his fingers as he hunted roots by the lantern's glow. Punctum was too weak, Fodio too blunt like a second-year blunder; he chose Perforo, to pierce through, paired with Acutus, sharp: Perforo Acutus, Sharp Piercer. He tested it aloud, voice cutting the barn's hush as rain drummed, rolling the o in Perforo for depth until it snapped fierce, a spell with a predator's bite from Crafting the Arcane's chants he was still mastering. A sub-chant tied it—Fodio, Strike, whispered in mind—linking will to blow like Wand and Will's lessons he was piecing out. Weeks of muttering sharpened it, pacing the barn's length, wand sketching the arc as he chanted, each sound honed until it clicked, a call to slice chaos he was learning to wield.

Testing stretched from late March to April, a month-plus of grit with no shortcuts, just wand and will carving through the damp. Evan leaned against the workbench, ash and unicorn hair buzzing from his Hogwarts haul, and traced the five-point arc—jab up, sweep left, twist right, curve down, flick out—chanting Perforo Acutus, Fodio with a flick honed by Quidditch reflexes. A silver bolt shot, thin and swift, piercing a plank propped by the wall, splintering it with a crack, but it veered, grazing a shelf and spilling quills. He swore, breath fogging, and retooled the chalkboard, tightening the twist right by 15 degrees, recalculating the curve down with sums he was still learning to trust. The next try lanced the plank's core, a clean hole through oak, but fizzled against a steel plate from Hogsmeade junk, sparking harmlessly. "Deeper," he growled, tweaking the sweep left to a 25-degree arc, numbers shifting for force from Spells of the Ancients he was still unpicking.

Weeks blurred, coffee mugs piling by the lantern, rain softening to drizzle as he pressed on. He angled the jab upward to 40 degrees, pushing penetration to steel, and eased the flick outward to a slow sweep, cutting scatter. By mid-April, mud pooling outside, he cast again, Fodio picturing a steel plate ten yards off, and Perforo Acutus lanced out in 1.8 seconds, punching a sizzling hole, stopping shy of a straw dummy—no blood, just sting, as planned. He grinned, testing Scutum Latens' buffer, shield flaring as Perforo Acutus pierced a Protego-charmed plank, splintering wood beyond, Tier 6 by his growing guess. Evan slumped against the wall, drizzle streaking the window, triumph sharp as his wand buzzed, Perforo Acutus a piercing edge, active with no drain 'til cast, growing his magic each strike—a craft he was still climbing, lesson by lesson.