Chapter 16: The Seer’s Eye

May 1993 brushed Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole with a tentative spring, the brook gurgling high with rainmelt as he paced the barn, chalk gripped loosely in his hand, the air warm with the scent of wet grass and budding leaves seeping through the cracked door. The kitchen hearth still glowed from a breakfast of eggs scrambled with herbs and a pot of tea, a mug cooling by the sink with a faint tea stain circling the rim, but his mind stayed rooted here, locked on spellmaking. Scutum Latens pulsed in his magic, a steady hum buying him time against threats, Transitor Celer offered a swift leap, Perforo Acutus gave him a piercing sting, and Sanatio Fortis mended wounds, all forged through months of chalk and will. Stupeo Celer sat ready for Theo, but the Daily Prophet piling up on his table spoke of a world needing more than mends or strikes—glittering stags tearing Devon fields, fire rats scorching Leeds, electric whales off Cornwall buzzing the coast. Travel loomed, Towers calling across continents, and his five pillars of craft demanded completion: attack, defense, movement, healing, perception. Attack through healing stood firm, but perception lagged, basic Homenum Revelio and sharp eyes from Quidditch too frail for a world where threats circled unseen. He needed sight, 360° and slow, to patch blind spots in chaos.

Spellmaking was an ardous procces, no quick flick but a grind stretching over weeks, and he leaned on his patchwork learning, still growing from scraps he'd gathered. In seventh year at Hogwarts, he'd slipped into the Room of Requirement one restless night, Ravenclaw Tower's riddle solved but sleep a stranger, and asked for a place to stretch beyond N.E.W.T.s' edges. The room had shifted, walls groaning, and delivered dusty tomes—Crafting the Arcane, Wand and Will, Spells of the Ancients—stacked on sagging shelves, their ink faded but heavy with spellmaking lore he was still unraveling. He'd studied them by candlelight, Theo snoring nearby, learning intent's pull, Arithmancy's math, Latin's beat, and he was still a student at it, each spell a lesson carved from trial and error. He began with intent, sketching it on parchment pinned beside Sanatio Fortis' notes, the bent nail creaking under the weight. Homenum Revelio found people, but he wanted vision—360° around him, time slowed to catch every glint, active with no drain until cast, a seer's eye for a wild road he was still learning to see.

The chalkboard loomed, smudged with old sums, and he wiped it clean, chalk squeaking as he plotted wand movements to shape his vision. A seven-point arc took form: three flicks upward for scope, a curve left for leftward span, a curve right for rightward span, a jab downward for focus, and a sweep outward for time's stretch. He scratched equations beside it, numbers sprawling as he balanced scope, clarity, and drain, aiming for a 2.1-second cast with no hum until fired, a spell to stretch his senses sharp and wide. He stood there, boots scuffing the dirt, jacket slung over a stool as the barn's warm air brushed his skin, muttering, "Full circle, slow it down," scribbling calculations for perception's reach from Crafting the Arcane's faded grids he was still learning to plot right.

Arithmancy took hold, his college logic humming like a lab puzzle demanding precision over late-night sums, and lantern light flickered, casting shadows over the board as he worked. Parchment piled up beside the workbench, each sheet dense with sums—energy burst versus vision arc, focus factoring speed against detail, clarity to slow time without strain, lessons from Wand and Will guiding his hand through tricks he was still grasping. Days stretched into nights, rain tapping the roof as he adjusted, cutting the window from 3 seconds to 2.5, then 2.3, tea mugs stacking in a teetering pile, their rims stained from refills he brewed over the hearth between chalkboard stints. By late May, after two weeks of tweaks blurring into sleepless nights, he pinned it at 2.1 seconds, a wide arc seeing all with no drain until cast, a spell to flex his senses without breaking them, his seventh-year notes from Spells of the Ancients proving their worth in margins he'd scrawled.

Latin followed, his wandcraft's beat, and he spread Magical Lexicon open, pages crinkling under his fingers as he sifted roots by lantern glow. He'd learned from the Room that sound carried will, a rhythm he was still refining, and he scratched options: Visum felt too flat, Specto too broad like a glance. He landed on Visio, vision, paired with Totus, whole, for its span: Visio Totus, Whole Sight. He tested it aloud, pacing the barn, voice bouncing off stone as rain drummed outside, tweaking the t in Totus for a sharp clip until it flowed crisp and full, a spell with a seer's weight that rang like Crafting the Arcane's chants he'd puzzled out. A sub-chant tied it, Tardo, Slow, whispered in the mind, linking will to time's stretch from Wand and Will's hints he was still piecing together. Weeks of muttering refined it, boots pacing a trench in the dirt, wand tracing the arc in the air as he chanted under his breath, each syllable honed until it clicked, a call to see the unseen he was learning to master.

Testing spanned late May into June, a month-plus of trial and grit with no tricks, just wand and will pushing through the warm air that clung to the barn's walls. Evan stood by the workbench, ash and unicorn hair buzzing in his grip, and traced the seven-point arc—three flicks up, curve left, curve right, jab down, sweep out—chanting Visio Totus, Tardo with a firm flick he'd honed since seventh year. A silver shimmer washed his eyes, vision snapping wide, but it blurred, 180° at best, raindrops outside streaking fast, so he cursed and returned to the chalkboard, tightening the curves left and right by 10 degrees for span, recalculating the jab down to sharpen focus with sums he was still learning to balance. The second try hit wider, 270°, rain slowing to a drift, but details muddied, leaves a smear, Tier 4 by his shaky guess. He stood there, breath sharp in the warm damp, and muttered, "Full round, clear, slow," adjusting the flicks upward to a 50-degree rise, numbers realigning for scope from Spells of the Ancients he was still unraveling.

Weeks blurred into a humid haze, tea mugs piling higher, the barn's lantern flickering low as mist curled outside. He stretched the sweep outward to a slow arc, boosting clarity to catch every glint, and sharpened the jab downward to a 30-degree drop, slowing time's flow without a hum 'til cast. By mid-June, grass thick outside under a hazy sky, he cast again, Tardo in his mind picturing the barn's full circle, and Visio Totus flowed, silver washing his eyes in 2.1 seconds. The world spun 360°, raindrops drifting like syrup, a spider's web glinting in slow arcs ten yards off, each thread sharp, Tier 6 strong by his growing sense from the Room's books. He grinned, head throbbing from the shift, and upped it with Perforo Acutus, testing Scutum Latens' buffer. The shield flared, buying breath, and Visio Totus caught the bolt's arc slow and clear, a silver pierce he could dodge if he chose.

Evan sank onto a stool, mist streaking the barn's window, triumph warm as his wand buzzed from the effort he was refining with each spell. Visio Totus hit Tier 6, active and full, a seer's edge for chaos, no drain until cast, growing his magic with each glimpse like the books hinted if he nailed the rhythm. The chalkboard sprawled with sums, a month's grind etched in white, and he exhaled, rain gone quiet outside. Travel loomed—worldwide Towers, a wild world to face—and this was his sight, Scutum Latens buying the breath to wield it when threats closed, his spellmaking a craft he was still climbing, chalk by chalk.