Chapter 15: The Healer’s Touch

April 1993 draped Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole in a steady drizzle, the brook swelling with rainmelt as he stood in the barn, chalk dangling from his fingers, the air heavy with the musk of wet straw wafting through the half-open door. The kitchen table held a plate from breakfast—eggs fried with bacon, crusts left behind—and a kettle whistled faintly by the hearth, but his thoughts anchored here, fixed on spellmaking. Scutum Latens pulsed in his magic, a hum warding threats, Transitor Celer offered a swift leap, and Perforo Acutus gave him a piercing sting, all forged through months of grit. Stupeo Celer waited for Theo, but the Daily Prophet slumping by his chair spoke of a world needing more—glittering stags slashing Devon, fire rats blazing Leeds, electric whales off Cornwall churning waves. Travel loomed, Towers calling across continents, and his five pillars of craft needed balance: attack, defense, movement, healing, perception. The first three stood, but healing faltered, Hogwarts' Episkey and Ferula too frail for wounds that cut to bone. He needed a touch, deep and sure, to mend chaos' toll.

Spellmaking was a slog, no instant cure but a craft stretching over weeks, and he built on scraps he was still learning. In seventh year at Hogwarts, he'd wandered into the Room of Requirement one sleepless night, Ravenclaw's riddle solved but rest dodging him, seeking a place beyond N.E.W.T.s' reach. The room had shifted, stone grinding, and yielded tomes—Crafting the Arcane, Wand and Will, Spells of the Ancients—heaped on dusty shelves, their secrets half-learned as he'd studied by wandlight, Theo's snores a faint drumbeat. Intent, Arithmancy, Latin—he was still piecing it together, each spell a rough lesson. The Towers sold spells, tiers 1 to 10, and he'd nabbed Sanatio Amplius, Broad Healing, a Tier 4 fix for cuts, trading Galleons mid-April at London's spire, its rune-panel flashing the arc—two flicks up, sweep left, flick down—into his mind. Back in the barn, he tested it, nicking his forearm with a blade, blood beading red, and chanting Sanatio Amplius. A blue glow sealed it fast, clean but thin, Tier 4 at best. It wasn't enough; he'd push it higher, a healer's touch he was still learning to forge.

Intent took root, scratched on parchment pinned beside Perforo Acutus' notes, the nail groaning as he smoothed it flat. Sanatio Amplius patched skin, but he craved depth—bones knit, burns soothed, gashes closed—active with no drain until cast, a spell to wield when Scutum Latens bought breath. The chalkboard stretched wide, etched with old sums, and he swept it bare, chalk rasping as he mapped a six-point arc: two flicks upward for depth, a sweep left for breadth, a twist right for strength, a curve downward for focus, and a flick outward to seal. He scrawled equations beside it, numbers sprawling as he juggled speed against potency, aiming for a 2-second cast with no hum 'til fired, a spell to stretch his craft beyond Episkey's quick patches.

Arithmancy sank in, his mind threading patterns like a seventh-year rune puzzle, and he perched on a stool by the workbench, quill steady as daylight filtered through the drizzle outside. "Deep, five seconds mend," he murmured, plotting healing depth from Crafting the Arcane's smudged charts he was still decoding. Parchment piled up, each sheet thick with sums—energy burst versus tissue mend, focus threading bone against flesh, potency to soothe burns without strain, lessons from Wand and Will shaping his strokes. Days bled into nights, rain drumming the roof as he shaved the cast from 3 seconds to 2.5, then 2.2, tea mugs cluttering the bench, their rims stained from refills brewed over the hearth's coals. By late April, after two weeks of tweaks blurring into restless nights, he locked it at 2 seconds, a deep arc with no drain 'til cast, seventh-year scraps from Spells of the Ancients lighting the path he was still following.

Latin followed, his wandcraft's pulse, and he cracked Magical Lexicon open, pages rustling as he hunted roots by daylight's slant. The Room taught him rhythm was will, a craft he was still refining, and he swapped Amplius, broad, for Fortis, strong: Sanatio Fortis, Strong Healing. He tested it aloud, voice slicing the barn's hush as rain drummed, firming the s in Fortis for a hiss until it rang resolute, a spell with a healer's heft from Crafting the Arcane he was still grasping. A sub-chant tied it—Cura, Heal, whispered in mind—linking will to mend like Wand and Will's threads he was piecing out. Weeks of muttering sharpened it, pacing the barn's width, wand sketching the arc as he chanted, each sound honed until it clicked, a call to heal he was learning to wield.

Testing stretched from late April into May, a month-plus of grit with no tricks, just wand and will slicing through the damp. Evan perched on the workbench, ash and unicorn hair buzzing from his Hogwarts haul, and traced the six-point arc—two flicks up, sweep left, twist right, curve down, flick out—chanting Sanatio Fortis, Cura with a flick honed by Quidditch dives. A blue glow washed a shallow cut on his arm, sealing it fast but thin, so he swore and retooled the board, tightening the twist right by 10 degrees, recalculating the curve down with sums he was still learning to trust. The next try hit a burn—poker-heated, teeth clenched as skin blistered—and the glow sealed it, smooth but slow, Tier 4 still by his shaky guess. "Bones, faster," he growled, tweaking the sweep left to a 30-degree arc, numbers shifting for potency from Spells of the Ancients he was still unpicking.

Weeks blurred, tea mugs piling by the lantern, rain easing to mist as he pressed on. He angled the flicks upward to 45 degrees, boosting depth to bone, and eased the flick outward to a slow sweep, cutting scatter. By mid-May, mud pooling outside, he snapped a finger with a hammer—pain sharp, curse loud—and cast Sanatio Fortis, Cura. A blue glow lanced out in 2 seconds, knitting bone and flesh in five, no scar, Tier 5 by his growing sense. He grinned, testing Scutum Latens' buffer with a deeper gash, shield flaring as Sanatio Fortis sealed it, a sure mend he was still learning to perfect. Evan slumped against the wall, mist curling outside, triumph steady as his wand buzzed, Sanatio Fortis a healer's edge, active with no drain 'til cast, growing his magic each mend—a craft he was still climbing.