HP: The Son of Tom

Aurelian walked through the stone corridors with his Defense Against the Dark Arts book tucked securely under his arm. Torches flickered as he passed, casting wandering shadows on the enchanted walls of Hogwarts. In the distance, the door to the classroom in the east wing was already open, and some students were settling into their seats with curious and tense murmurs.

Defense Against the Dark Arts.

A subject that represented everything Aurelian knew he would one day have to face.

The professor in charge of teaching it was Lucan Rowle.

"A name with weight," Aurelian thought as he entered.

From the first class, Professor Rowle had made an impression on him that was difficult to describe. He was a man who appeared to be middle-aged, with dark hair combed back, an angular face, and permanently furrowed eyebrows. He had a different air about him, but his movements were martial, as if his body could not help but remember old battles.

He was not a warm man. Nor was he friendly. But he was not a monster either.

In previous classes, Rowle had not wasted time with unnecessary greetings. He had started the course directly with basic defensive techniques and obscure theory, mixing brief explanations with compelling examples. His eyes scanned the students as if measuring their potential with every sentence he uttered.

Aurelian watched him closely.

The professor was neither an Auror nor a pure theorist. He moved and spoke like someone who had seen things. Someone who taught not out of vocation, but out of necessity.

"He's a warrior who found refuge in teaching," Aurelian had concluded a few days earlier. That inspired respect... but also questions.

As he took his seat next to Cedric, Aurelian looked over at the desk. There was Rowle, sorting parchments without looking up.

"Have you ever seen him smile?" Cedric whispered.

"No. But if he did, it would probably be even scarier," Aurelian replied calmly.

Class was about to begin, and Aurelian, without taking his eyes off the professor, thought:

"In this vast and dangerous world... knowing how to defend yourself is not an option. It's a necessity."

"Close your books," Rowle ordered in a firm voice, pacing in front of the class with his hands behind his back. "Today, we're going to talk about something that isn't in your textbooks. But if you ever want to survive outside these walls... you need to understand it."

Heads rose, expectant.

"There are five officially recognized ranks of magical power," he began. "An ancient classification system, perfected by the wizards of Avalon and confirmed centuries later by the International Confederation of Wizards. It has nothing to do with your house, your lineage, or your grades. It has to do with what you are capable of doing with your magic."

He raised his wand and with a gesture drew five words in the air, shining like white fire:

Initiate – Conjurer – Invoker – Archmage – Sage

"The first rank, Initiate, is that of every child who begins by doing magic accidentally," he explained. "This level represents a basic connection to magical energy. Most wizards and witches are here before attending an institution like Hogwarts."

Aurelian watched in silence. It was information he had not seen in such detail even in the books he had read.

"The second rank, Conjurer, is the most common among adult wizards. It represents the ability to cast formal spells, create basic enchantments, and defend oneself with some ease. I would say that more than 70% of the world's magical population will never exceed this rank."

Cedric raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Rowle continued:

"Why, you ask? Because this is where most people stop. Out of convenience. Out of fear. Out of ignorance." His eyes scanned each of the students. "The barrier between Conjurer and Invoker is not magical, it is mental and spiritual."

"Spiritual?" whispered a Hufflepuff girl in the back.

"Yes," Rowle nodded without turning around. "To become a Invoker, the third rank, skill alone is not enough. It requires deep understanding, discipline, and a conscious relationship with your own source of power. It involves summoning magic from within and controlling it from without, creating and manipulating complex spells, artifacts, entities, and forces with your will."

The room was completely silent. Only the echo of his voice floated in the air.

"And the Archmages?" asked a Slytherin student.

Rowle's eyes hardened for a moment. Then, with a gesture, he made the floating words disappear and conjured a single image: a large, ancient arcane symbol floating above the blackboard.

"The rank of Archmage is so rare throughout the world that there are currently only seven living Archmages. One of them is your headmaster, Albus Dumbledore."

A murmur ran through the classroom.

"Archmages don't just cast spells. They create new magical paths. They alter the structure of spells, bend the laws of nature, and become one with the currents of magic itself. They can live for centuries. In some cases, more than two hundred years without losing their lucidity.

Aurelian barely moved. His face was a mask of concentration.

"And finally... there is the fifth and final rank," Rowle lowered his voice, "the Sage. Throughout recorded history, fewer than ten individuals have reached this level. Many believe that Sages no longer exist... or that they have hidden themselves behind the veils of the world."

The classroom fell into reverent silence.

"A Sage does not merely understand magic. He is magic. His mere presence alters the environment. With a single thought, he can summon a storm or silence a city. But that power comes at a cost... one that very few are willing to pay."

Rowle walked to his desk and rested his hands on it, looking at everyone.

"Most of you will never advance beyond Conjurer. Not because you can't. But because the world has taught you to fear the unknown. If you want more, you must desire it with all your being, and above all, you must be willing to lose things along the way."

No one dared to reply.

Aurelian lowered his gaze for a moment. "Invoker... Archmage... Sage."

He had a long way to go. But he was more than determined to pass each level.

He stood behind his desk for a few more seconds, staring at the students. Then he raised a hand, fingers spread.

"Many wonder... how do you know when you've crossed a magical threshold?" His voice resonated as if coming from somewhere deeper than his throat. "You'll know... because everything changes."

He walked slowly back in front of the desks, continuing to speak:

"When you go from Initiate to Conjurer, it feels as if the world suddenly responds. Spells become precise, obedient. Magic ceases to be an accident and becomes a tool."

He paused briefly.

"But when you become a Invoker..." his voice grew deeper, "it's different. It feels as if something inside you awakens. As if you were a channel for something greater. The air vibrates differently around you. Magical creatures sense you. The world hears you."

The students were so attentive that they barely breathed.

"In case you were wondering..." he added with a barely visible half-smile, "I am a Invoker."

Then he spread both hands out to the sides.

In an instant, the pressure in the classroom changed.

A chill ran through everyone present. The air became denser, charged. The feathers and scrolls vibrated slightly. Even the walls seemed to whisper.

Aurelian narrowed his eyes, sensing that subtle but imposing expansion of energy. It was not a spell being cast, it was pure presence. Manifest magical authority.

Cedric swallowed and shrank a little in his seat. Other students looked around restlessly.

"What you are feeling... is the minimal manifestation of a Summoner's mastery," Rowle said calmly. "I do not cast spells, I do not impose my will. I am simply present. And the magic... responds."

The air returned to normal with a slight crackle.

"Now imagine," said the professor, sitting back down, "what it would be like to be in the presence of an Archmage."

No one said anything.

"The reason I teach you this is simple," he added harshly. "If you don't understand how vast the path of a magician is... you will remain stuck. Like millions of wizards around the world."

He leaned forward.

"But if you understand it... and desire it... perhaps one or two of you will go further than all those who came before you."

Lucan Rowle watched silently as the students continued to digest what they had just experienced. Some were still tense, others simply amazed.

Then he stood up straight once more and raised his voice, firm but calm:

"Before you leave, there is something else you must understand."

The classroom fell completely silent.

"Saying that I am a Invoker does not mean that all Invokers are the same," he paused. "Rank does not determine a mage's total power, only the threshold they have managed to cross. Some can barely summon their magic beyond their bodies. Others... could move mountains if they wanted to."

His eyes scanned the class.

"The same applies to each level. There are Conjurers who could defeat inexperienced Invokers and Archmages who are nothing more than glorified politicians." He let his words sink in.

"Real power... is not given by title. You forge it yourselves."

An invisible bell rang in the distance, marking the end of class.

"That's all for today. You may leave."

The students rose silently, processing every word. Some left faster, others slower, but they all knew that this class had been different.

Aurelian was one of the last to leave the classroom, silently. The professor's words echoed in his mind. Not all Summoners were the same... and the path to the top, even with talent, would be steeper than he imagined.

The Great Hall was filled with the constant murmur of plates, cutlery, and conversation. Floating candles flickered above the long tables, casting soft light on the students' faces. Aurelian ate silently at his usual place at the Slytherin table, his thoughts wandering.

Professor Rowle's voice still echoed in his mind.

"Real power is not given by title. You forge it yourselves."

Aurelian looked down at his glass of pumpkin juice, where the shimmering reflection of the lights watched him silently.

He knew it.

He was already a Conjurer. He had felt it months ago, when his magic ceased to depend on forced gestures or overflowing emotion and began to flow as a natural extension of his will. He knew it every time he trained to the limit. Every time he created something new. Every time his magic responded without hesitation.

But no one else knew, and that was for the best.

He calmly took a spoonful of meat pie into his mouth, while around him the voices of other students filled the space with laughter and gossip.

He had time. Plans. The title didn't define him, but it was a step along the way.

And Aurelian Gaunt intended to cross that path completely.