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Harry wore his cape every single day. He knew one secret nobody else knew. “Magic is real,” he whispered. “I know it is.”
One night, the moon rose big and bright. Something in Harry's room began to hum. Tiny sparks floated up from the bookshelf.
The sparks were gold and violet and warm. They smelled like cinnamon and cool rain. Harry held out his hand — and they landed softly.
“Hello,” said the sparks, tinkling like tiny bells. “We only come when the moon is up.” Harry's eyes went wide. “I KNEW it!” he said.
Harry spun his hands and sparks spun too. He hummed — and they hummed back, higher. They made a glittering spinning ring together.
He tried to make the sparks into a dragon. They fizzled. They popped. They drooped. Harry laughed. “Not yet,” he said. “I'm still learning.”
The sparks shimmered — and turned into a tiny star. It floated over Harry's head and glowed. “You made something real,” the sparks tinkling said.
Then the moon dipped lower in the sky. The sparks began to fade, one by one. “We have to go,” they chimed, softer now.
Harry felt a small, quiet ache inside. “Will you come back?” he asked. “Every time the moon is big and bright,” they promised.
The last spark landed on Harry's cape. It pressed itself onto a patch — and stayed. Shimmering, glowing, soft and warm.
Harry looked at his cape in the moonlight. He wasn't sad. He felt brave and full. He knew magic was real — and now his cape did too.
