The Origins of the Wizarding World

This is a fanfiction drawn from the Harry Potter universe on how wizards came to be-but starting in the caveperson era. It's meant as a chapter one in a full volume of the past of the Wizarding World.

The serenity of a room always breaks like crashing plates when the great scholars debate how Magic first came to the Earth. Some suspect that ancient druids of Europe’s storied past pooled their physical and mental energies into spiritual sites across the planet, seeding magic for all lifekind. Others believe it was handed down with intention, as if by a divine or higher being. Many yet have theorized that perhaps as humanity grew, they used their treacherous mechanical innovations to steal it from the elves, themselves long established to possess otherworldly powers. All of these are thoroughly wrong. In fact, for the true origins of wizardry, only two things are certain. One, is that magic is very selective and few are touched with the gift. The second, is that nobody particularly seems to like that very much.

PREHISTORY

Orm lumbered from his bed toward the mouth of his cave, shaking off drowsiness to investigate a commotion outside. His mate Puusk groaned after him, as if to say, “Where do you expect to be going without helping me to get these furs shaken out?” He grunted back an implicit “Lord, can’t I get a moment’s peace?” and pressed on. The light struck his face as he emerged from his den, tripping over some brambles and hobbling past the bushes. Several members of his tribe were set in a circle some yards ahead, scuffling over some large horned object.

Orm was hungry. But then again, everyone was always hungry. He thought for a moment that the group had found some food, but then again he hadn’t been summoned to the hunting party earlier that day so they must not have gone out yet. As he moved toward the other men they seemed to be jostling with each for a grip on their bony prize, itself raised by their tug-of-war at the center of a muddy pit. Whomever was the last one with object--whatever it was--would be the undisputed owner of the thing. It would then find its way to the winner’s home unimpeded. They were a  fierce kinship but not so desperate as to steal internally. 

Orm could see in his approach now; the item was barren from any trace of fat or protein. “It’s not food after all?” He reasoned, though without the benefit of verbal language. His hunger pains were strident now, he really wished there was a piece of meat on the prize that the men had been fighting over. Orm would not know this, but his stomach pangs felt elementally different than anyone in his immediate tribe as they did not just convey hunger. There was a unique tremble. A vibration. A spark of sorts, that resonated, twisted, called to his heart, and, at times telegraphed to his fingertips.

Orm reached the men, still tussling in a five-way tug-of-war over what was now identifiable as a quite remarkable cow skull. The men had come to this fight over the gathering pit, normally where fires blazed their hunter’s kills into hot meals, they held their women and children played in the moonlight. Today was a different scene; a visceral conflict between brothers and cousins. For just one weapon. Unspoken tribal rules regarded possession as ownership, and whoever possessed this particular skull with countless jutting, sharp projections would be catapulted to local stardom. For a skull like this could be broken down into horns, knives, blunt objects for grinding, and if parts were smashed, it would render a thousand sharp pieces for hunting, preparing food, and skinning fur. One of Orm’s brothers, still gripping onto his share, saw Orm approaching, and let out a growl as he shuffled himself to block Orm’s way into the circle. 

Orm blasted an unintelligible bray back at his brother and pushed his weight in by the shoulder, staggering a few of the closer ones out of the way. Orm saw an advantage and grabbed onto a thick piece of skull horn. Their strength was equal all around as the men were all rigid of body and well toned from years of laboring for their village. The fight went on for untold minutes, each growling, snarling at the other while pulling, pushing, throwing jabs to gain leverage, any effort to dislodge the skull from the rest. 

Orm was, in no way whatsoever, winning this fight. After five minutes his hands were red and blistering, his feet had been stamped on, and he had even been prodded by the skull itself, which drew scratches into his chest. The muscles in his arms, though far more enduring of punishment than a modern man’s, were starting to flag and go limp. Plus, he felt hungry. Very hungry. Or was it...? That spark within his gut signaled its presence once again, but for the first time it seemed to swell large inside. It was drawing energy, growing potent, becoming urgent. A globe of power was forming, diverting all forces directly to his torso, as he fought to pull back on the skull once more. 

Suddenly, the energy in his gut discharged in full force through his arms in a blast of blue fire which rocketed from Orm’s body, knocking all of the other men back. Some stumbled, some crashed on their bottoms, all looked back at him, completely bewildered, hopelessly frightened. As the discharge cleared away, Orm too, dropped to a seated position, but now it was he alone that had the skull.

That was the birth of magic.