Chapter 21: The Sense of Peril

October 1993 swept Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole with a golden chill, the brook glinting under a fading sun as he sat by the barn window, chalk in hand, the air crisp with the scent of fallen leaves and a faint dampness seeping from the earth outside. The kitchen held a pot from breakfast—stewed oats with a dollop of cream—and a kettle steamed low by the hearth, but his focus burned here, locked on spellmaking. Switzerland's stable hum lingered from two months abroad, its rune-lit streets and wolf-edged calm a contrast to England's fray, but that Muggle clash in Zurich—fists and steel sparking off Scutum Latens—had lit a need. His shield guarded spells, not blows, and he'd sketched a fix: Sensus Periculi, Sense of Peril, a passive danger-sense spell to catch threats before they struck, a craft he was still learning from seventh-year Room of Requirement nights with Crafting the Arcane and Wand and Will.

The barn's workbench stretched wide, parchment pinned with Sensus Periculi's intent: a faint hum, sensing danger—blades, fists, spells—before impact, passive like Scutum Latens but sharp, Tier 4 for its scope. He'd started in Zurich, refining it since Hogsmeade with Theo and Lila, and now aimed to finish, weaving it into his arsenal—block, leap, strike, mend, see—for a road growing wilder. Arithmancy flared first, his mind tracing webs like a Quidditch play, and he stood by the window, quill scratching a five-point arc: two sweeps upward for range, a twist left for intent's spark, a flick right for focus, a curve downward to alert. Numbers sprawled—range versus drain, focus threading speed to sense, a low hum 'til triggered—aiming for a 1.5-second wake, a craft he was still piecing from Spells of the Ancients' faded grids.

Weeks stretched, sunlight slanting shorter as he balanced the arc, parchment piling by the lantern, sums tweaking range to ten yards, drain faint like a held breath. By mid-October, after sleepless nights with tea mugs stacking high, he locked it at 1.5 seconds, a tight weave sensing threats with a hum he was still learning to tune. Latin followed, his wandcraft's root, and he cracked Magical Lexicon open, pages rustling by the window's draft, hunting roots—Caveo too broad, Sentio too soft. He chose Sensus, sense, paired with Periculi, peril: Sensus Periculi, Sense of Peril. He tested it aloud, voice cutting the barn's quiet as wind rustled outside, firming the s in Sensus for a hiss until it flowed crisp, a spell with a watcher's edge from Crafting the Arcane he was still grasping. A sub-chant tied it—Cave, Beware, whispered in mind—linking will to warning like Wand and Will's threads he was still threading.

Testing spanned late October into November, a month-plus of grit with no tricks, just wand and will slicing through the chill. Evan stood by the workbench, ash and unicorn hair buzzing, and traced the five-point arc—two sweeps up, twist left, flick right, curve down—chanting Sensus Periculi, Cave. A faint hum settled, then flared as he charmed a plank to swing, a ping in his skull ten yards out, sharp but fleeting, Tier 3 at best. He swore, tweaking the twist left by 10 degrees, recalculating focus with sums he was still learning to trust. The next try caught a charmed knife's arc, a jolt warning him five yards off, but blurred, so he angled the sweeps upward to 40 degrees, boosting range to fifteen, a hum he was still refining.

Weeks blurred, tea mugs piling by the window, wind rattling the panes as he sharpened it. He stretched the flick right to a slow sweep, cutting blur, and by mid-November, frost glazing the fields, he cast again, Cave picturing a charmed axe flung from the barn's far end. Sensus Periculi hummed, a jolt spiking ten yards out, clear and steady, Tier 4 by his growing guess as Scutum Latens flared, blocking it clean. He grinned, testing with a mock fist—Theo's prank from Hogsmeade replayed—Sensus Periculi pinging as Scutum Latens held, a weave he was still learning to stitch. Evan sank into a chair, frost glinting outside, triumph firm as his wand buzzed—Sensus Periculi a watcher's edge, passive with a low hum, growing his magic each spark—a craft he'd honed for the wild road ahead.