harry potter, rise from dust

chapter2

sorry for the wait little ones my laptop combusted and i just got it back.

20 August 1991.

Drenched in sweat, Harry frantically gasped for air. This was a living hell. No matter how much he had exercised in the past, his fourteen year old body simply couldn't maintain the amount of strenuous activity for six hours. His body was strained, stomach muscles burning, arms and legs throbbing in pain. It wasn't training, it was torture.

Despite the ragged breaths he was sucking into his lungs, Harry had a glorious feeling of satisfaction. Finally, after two months of daily training, the old man's ridiculous demands were finally paying off. Harry had successfully mastered the art of casting spells wandlessly. Give him even the most powerful of spells, and he could cast it proficiently without a doubt. Years of channeling and focusing his magic made casting spells an effortless task.

Damn Merlin. He was probably the kindest, calmest, nicest, most selfless and caring guy around, but he was strict in regards to training. One time, he had confessed to Harry that the boy was his first student, a shocking statement, or perhaps not so much.

Even though Harry had been training with Merlin since he was eight, he had not taken a single spell from Merlin. In the six years he had known Merlin, he had not learned a single spell from him instead all he got were lectures and more lectures. For the past six years he had been instructed in spell casting, conjuration, transfiguration and wandless magic. Merlin also coerced Harry to study the way Muggles were forced to defend themselves. A strange and difficult talent the Muggles referred to as martial arts. Believe it or not, Merlin's immense magical skills were equal to his knowledge of magic-less defense. Merlin had once twisted Harry's hand and to Harry's painful surprise, his whole body twisted as well. Because of the demonstration, Harry willingly underwent the study of martial arts without a single complaint or comment on its uselessness.

The moment Merlin told eight year old Harry of a spell that the old man had been forbidden by the Ancients to pass down, was the precise second he began to age like a mortal, albeit faster. Merlin knew that he was incapable of hiding his rapidly increasing age from Harry and therefore allowed himself to expose his true appearance. He looked no more than thirty, flaunting around a few white hairs.

"Excellent job, Harry. It would appear that you are quite efficient in casting magic without need of a wand. A congratulation is in order, I presume." Smiling, Merlin sat on a beautiful chair he had conjured, relaxing carelessly, his legs crossed. "Quite honestly, I do wonder how silly it is for magical people these days to insist on using a wand instead of exploiting their magic in normal way. I do say, hands are far more efficient in utilizing magic."

Harry was out of breath. "Easy for you to say."

"If one merely trained as diligent as you have, Harry, they could accomplish it in no time at all. Remember this... in my era, there were no wands. We relied solely on our superior enchantments and knowledge. In my young days, I had to rely entirely on my eyes to use my magical abilities. I did not wave my hand, or pronounce some spell incantation. I knew nothing of the strange art before coming to Camelot. Ah, the memory I recall the day I arrived, humiliating Arthur in front of his people with my magical abilities. Frankly, Harry, I was no different than the children of your age. I often abused my magic, especially if matters relating to chores."