Chapter 22: The Scholar’s Reach
November 1993 swept a brittle frost over Evan Grayson's cottage near Ottery St Catchpole, the brook a thin shimmer beneath a pale sun as he stood in the barn, wand resting on the workbench, the air crisp with the scent of pine needles and a faint whiff of frost clinging to the wooden walls. The kitchen held a bowl from breakfast—porridge studded with dried berries, a spoon stuck to the edge—and a kettle steamed low by the hearth, but his focus burned here, locked on Sensus Periculi. The spell hummed in his magic, a faint pulse sensing danger—blades, fists, spells—forged over a month-plus of chalk and will, a passive Tier 4 companion to Scutum Latens. Switzerland's rune-lit calm lingered from summer's two-month stay, England's fray sharpening his edge since returning, and he'd tested it yesterday, a charmed axe pinging clear ten yards out, shield flaring in sync. It was ready, but a thought simmered: this wasn't just his. Chaos nipped at everyone—Zurich's fists, England's echoes—and Sensus Periculi could shield more than one wanderer.
He'd learned spellmaking in seventh-year nights at Hogwarts' Room of Requirement, tomes like Crafting the Arcane and Wand and Will spilling secrets by wandlight he was still piecing together, a craft that had turned his spells into Galleons—now mostly gold in Gringotts—via the Towers years back. This one felt broader, a gift for all, and he cast Transitor Celer, Eo, shifting seventy miles to London's Tower by the Thames, landing on cobblestones under a gray sky. The spire loomed, Europe's lone beacon, and he stepped inside, the rune-panel glowing warm, automated hum steady without clerks. "Sell a spell," he said, tracing the five-point arc—two sweeps up, twist left, flick right, curve down—chanting Sensus Periculi, Cave. The panel pulsed, etching it in, a chime ringing as runes flared: "Registered—30% per sale." He pocketed a pouch of Galleons, the Tower's glow a quiet thrill—open to all now, a choice he was still learning to weigh.
Weeks later, fame crept in, a slow swell he hadn't sought. A Daily Prophet thudded onto his porch mid-December, ink sharp: "Grayson's Sensus Periculi Opens Towers to Masses—Spellmaker's Boon." Letters stacked—thanks from Muggle-born traders, a Swiss farmer who'd ducked a bear's swipe—and scholars penned notes, citing his work, a name from Hogwarts' shadows now murmured in rune-lit circles. He grinned over tea by the barn window, frost glinting outside, fame a ripple from need, his craft still growing from Spells of the Ancients' faded pages. Word spread: runes outshone wands—etched fast, no crafting slog—and Switzerland carved them into trams, the US into radios and engines, magitech leaping where wands lagged. England stumbled with Aether, but Evan's gold held, his spells a spark he was still learning to stoke.
Property tugged next, London's Tower a hub he couldn't ignore. Late December, he Apparated to Diagon Alley, streets quieter under Aether's churn, and met a rune-stitched broker by the Tower's shadow. "That one," Evan said, nodding at a three-story townhouse a stone's throw from the spire, brick and glass gleaming, charmed windows pulsing faint. "Prime spot," the broker rasped, "Tower's pull—value'll climb as folk want in." Evan traded a hefty pouch of Galleons—his spells' yield—and took the key, a rune unlocking the door with a hum. Inside, high ceilings and a view of the Thames stretched wide, a base for travel and a bet on the Tower's rise he was still learning to play.
Mid-January 1994, an owl swooped through the townhouse window, parchment sealed with Ilvermorny's crest—North America's school, its own Tower humming. "Esteemed Spellmaker Grayson," it read, "Sensus Periculi has reached us, a gift amid unrest. Speak on spellmaking, vital now, February 15th." Evan sat by the hearth, frost glinting on the Thames, fame's heft settling—a name tied to spells he was still refining, a road stretching wide he'd walk next.