Author's Note: If you're here and you haven't read The Way of Kings stop reading this and go read The Way of Kings. Not because you need to have read it to follow along (you don't), but because it's an incredible book that pales in comparison to anything I could ever write. Despite me giving this advice, this was written assuming my reader was familiar with Harry Potter, but not the Stormlight Archives. I will not be attempting to recreate the incredible world building of Brandon Sanderson, both so as to not bore readers who have their priorities straight and have read better works before reading this and also because I wouldn't be able to do it justice. I have, however, tried to use the perspective of a transported outsider to bring a novel flavor to some basic world building such that a HP only reader will get the idea but someone who has read both will be reading something new. With that out of the way, thank you for joining me in what has proven to be a fun way of bringing life to a story that I developed as a way to alleviate boredom. I hope you enjoy reading it at least half as much as I am enjoying writing it.
Chapter 1: Storm's Edge
Harry knelt in a hollow, pulling his cloak tight against the biting Rosharan wind. Now, more than ever, he wished he could cast a warming charm. But the Connection that recharged his magic on Earth didn't work here; while he'd had no trouble with a spell that pulled the local language from the mind of the first person he met, his magic had been drained by his third day in this Merlin-forsaken land, leaving him unable to cast even a simple lumos.
The terrain was barren, dotted with jagged rocks and tufts of snarlbrush, its spiny foliage curling slightly as the wind stirred around it. Here and there, clusters of rockbuds clung stubbornly to the ground, their tough shells tightly sealed against the approaching storm. Harry's gaze lingered briefly on a vine-like growth retracting into a crevice as he passed—a sight that had once seemed impossibly alien but now barely registered. Before him, a faint trail of crushed moss and displaced rock buds marked the bandits' movements. A faint flicker of movement caught his eye, and he spotted a tiny, glowing spren flitting just above the trail. Its presence brought back a flood of memories from his first days on Roshar, when he had been baffled by the strange entities that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
At first, he had thought them to be akin to Earth's sprites or fairies, magical beings that interacted with the physical world in deliberate ways. But spren were different—omnipresent, ephemeral, and seemingly unconcerned with their surroundings. He had once spent hours observing a cluster of blue, rippling spren near a puddle, trying to make sense of their behavior. It hadn't taken long to notice how they responded to thoughts and emotions, appearing and vanishing like echoes of unseen processes. They weren't magical creatures, not in the traditional sense, but manifestations of something deeper, tied to the mind and the world itself.
To date, his thoughts on spren remained inconclusive. They intrigued him with their responsiveness, yet their elusiveness made them frustratingly hard to study. Were they a natural byproduct of Roshar's magic? A reflection of the people's consciousness? He didn't know. All he knew was that, whatever their purpose, they added yet another layer of complexity to a world that already made no sense.
He scanned the horizon, his patience wearing thin.
"They'll have to move soon," he muttered, eyes fixed on the darkening sky. A highstorm was approaching, its distant rumble a grim reminder of how little time he had left.
For nearly a day, Harry had been watching from his perch. Supplies were running low, and his options were grim. He spent a moment thinking about the situation that brought him to this. Without magic, the simplest tasks felt impossibly difficult. The absence of his power weighed on him like a physical burden. Every instinct screamed for spells that wouldn't come, leaving him to rely on nothing but his cloak and mundane tricks to remain undetected. The resentment festered, a quiet echo of the unspoken superiority wizards felt toward those without magic—though Harry was careful to think of them as "mundane" rather than the word he'd been taught. For all their resourcefulness, he couldn't help but see how much easier life could be with even the simplest of spells. Knowledge from his own world might have potential, but he doubted anyone here would believe him, let alone pay for them, and besides, he didn't want the attention such an attempt would bring. That left his invisibility cloak as his greatest remaining advantage. While there were many ways he could exploit it, stealing from thieves seemed the best option—it provided for him while denying ill-gotten gains to criminals. And now, rumors from a nearby village had led him to this group of bandits, known for ambushing travelers and disappearing with their loot.
His current desperation reminded him of his first days on Roshar, when everything had been new, strange, and incomprehensible. The sturdiness of even the simplest structures had puzzled him, as had the way doors were sealed shut as if expecting an attack. But it was the way people looked at him—a lingering mix of curiosity and deference—that unsettled him most. He soon found out that his green eyes marked him as lighteyed, and though he didn't yet understand the significance, the way people spoke to him differently made it clear that being a lighteyes came with unspoken rules and expectations.
When he first arrived in a dusty village, disoriented and unsure, that attention had confused him. A merchant's son had muttered something about "lighteyes" and "dignity," words Harry barely registered at the time. But later, when the sky darkened and the villagers hurried indoors with an urgency he hadn't seen before, it saved his life.
He'd been lingering outside, baffled by the rush to seal doors and shutters. That's when an older man grabbed him roughly by the arm. "Are you daft, lighteyes?" the man hissed, his tone as much exasperated as fearful. "You'll get yourself killed."
Before Harry could argue or even ask what was happening, the man ushered him inside with a firm grip—a mix of obligation and deference, as though Harry's green eyes made him someone to be protected, whether he deserved it or not. Inside, as the walls rattled and the wind howled like an angry beast, Harry sat stunned in the corner, listening to the family trade stories of the storms' fury. Boulders thrown like pebbles. Homes ripped apart.
By the time the storm passed, Harry understood just how close he'd come to dying. The villagers looked at him afterward with wary confusion, as if unsure how someone with light eyes—someone who should know better—could be so ignorant. Their lingering stares were a silent reminder that while his green eyes had saved him that day, they also marked him as someone who didn't belong.
Afterward, as the winds faded and the world emerged battered but whole, the villagers looked at him even more differently. Their gazes were wary now, confused by his obvious shock at something so fundamental to Rosharan life. He hadn't yet understood the significance of that first highstorm—only that he was out of his depth. And though his green eyes had marked him as someone to be protected, they also made him someone who didn't belong. The storm's intensity had left him shaken, but the way the locals had looked at him afterward—confused and slightly wary of someone who appeared to be shocked by a highstorm—had stuck with him just as strongly. He understood the routine now, but the memory of that first highstorm lingered as a reminder of just how dangerous Roshar could be.
So while what he was doing now was far from the first risk he'd taken since arriving on Roshar, but this one felt more desperate. With a highstorm bearing down, he gambled that the bandits would retreat to their shelter soon. If he could follow them unnoticed, he could replenish his dwindling supply of spheres and provisions. Adjusting the straps on his pack, Harry reached inside his jacket to check his wand—an old habit, even though he knew it wouldn't help. His magic hadn't replenished since he arrived on Roshar, a loss he still hadn't fully come to terms with. But the habit of preparedness was ingrained in him. He sighed and refocused on the trail ahead.
It had taken a week to find this ambush site. He'd followed rumors and observed travelers until he finally witnessed the bandits in action. Now he crouched, waiting for them to break camp. The storm's approach ensured they wouldn't linger.
Movement caught his eye. The bandits stirred, shouting to one another as they hurriedly packed their stolen goods. The thunder grew louder, and the horizon darkened further. Even from miles away, the storm's ferocity was evident. "Finally," Harry whispered, adjusting his pack and preparing to follow. Each step was slow, calculated to keep him hidden.
The bandits moved quickly, their voices sharp but focused as they gathered their supplies. Harry stayed low, using the uneven ground and snarlbrush for cover. Now that he was close, he could finally see their shelter—a sturdy rock overhang reinforced with wooden beams and stonework. It wasn't much, but it would protect them from the storm. It would protect him, too, if he could time his approach just right.
A pebble skittered down the slope under his foot, and Harry froze, his heart pounding. One of the bandits stopped, scanning the area behind them with narrowed eyes. Harry held his breath, trusting in the enchantment of the Cloak of True Invisibility to keep him unseen. After a tense moment, the bandit muttered something about the wind and turned back to the group.
Harry exhaled softly, his hands steadying against the ground. The storm wall was still minutes away, but the pressure in the air had grown. He crept forward, careful not to disturb the brittle foliage around him. Timing was everything now. He needed to slip into their shelter unnoticed. The cover of the storm's roar would only help if he avoided detection beforehand.
The bandits piled into the shelter, yelling to secure their loot and brace the wooden supports. Harry edged closer, his cloak tight around him, and darted into the shadow of the overhang just as the wind began to whip more fiercely. He pressed himself against the stone, his breath held, listening to their frantic movements. The storm wall hadn't hit yet, but he could feel its intensity nearing. He needed to move quickly. A few breaths after the last bandit disappeared, Harry slipped in, careful not to disturb anything and give himself away.
Harry's successful infiltration came not a moment too soon: the roar of the storm wall drowned out all other noise as it finally struck, shaking the ground and sending loose debris hurtling through the air. Harry remained perfectly still, the shelter groaning but holding firm around him. For now, he was safe, though the storm's full force was just beginning.
Inside, the bandits cursed and shouted as they secured their barricade. The shelter was more solid than Harry had initially guessed, with walls built into the rock and only narrow gaps letting in any of the howling wind. Harry's eyes darted to their stash—a pile of small chests and satchels tucked near the back wall. Perfect. The roar of the storm was sure to cover any sound made by his movements as he edged closer, careful to avoid the beams supporting the structure.
He reached the stash and began inspecting the containers. His hands hovered over a chest brimming with spheres, their faint glow pulsing in the dim light. A grin tugged at his lips. This could keep him going for weeks, maybe longer.
With practiced precision, Harry slipped a handful of spheres into his pack, careful not to let them clink. The roar of the storm outside masked the faint sound, but he still moved cautiously, aware of the bandits only a few strides away. The glow of each sphere felt like a promise of survival, a small assurance in this precarious world. He transferred a few more, his movements deliberate. But he stopped himself before taking too much. Now that he had found their hideout, he could almost certainly come back for the rest later. For now, it was enough to keep him going without raising suspicion.
The shelter groaned under the strain of the storm's fury, a sound that seemed to resonate in Harry's chest. For all its sturdiness, nothing felt completely safe in a highstorm. Harry stayed crouched, his pack secured at his side, watching as the bandits worked to secure their supplies. He slowed his breathing, focusing on blending into the chaos under the cloak's cover, the shouts barely audible over the roaring winds.
A particularly fierce gust sent a cascade of loose dust and debris raining down from above, drawing another round of curses from the bandits. Harry flinched and pressed tighter against the wall, willing himself to stay absolutely still. The sight of the falling debris, however, caught the attention of one of the bandits, who turned sharply toward Harry's direction: some of the debris had fallen up against Harry and Harry realized that it must appear to the bandit to be resting at an impossible angle. Thankfully, after a few moments of staring at the strange sight, the bandit must have dismissed it as something strange, for his posture relaxed somewhat even if he didn't fully divert his attention.
The highstorm was in full force now, shaking the shelter but failing to break it. He was sheltered—but with the attention of one of the bandits focused in his direction, even the smallest mistake could ruin everything. He tried to settle in and wait for the storm to run its course, but a loud crack echoed through the shelter, sharp enough to cut through the storm's roar. Unfortunately, Harry had spent too much of his life forced to react to such noises and was unable to prevent his instinctive reaction. He flinched away from the noise, instinctively shifting his position. As he did, the debris that had been resting on his cloak slid to the ground with a faint but unmistakable thud. The bandit who had been watching stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he turned toward the sound. "Oy! Did you see that?" he shouted, pointing toward the pile of dust and debris now lying awkwardly near Harry's hidden form.
Before the others could respond, a deafening crack reverberated through the shelter, louder than the storm's roar. One of the beams buckled under the storm's relentless pressure, sending a cascade of loose stone and dust crashing down. The bandits' attention snapped to the compromised structure, their shouts filling the air as two of them scrambled to stabilize the sagging beam. Harry froze, his heart racing, knowing he had seconds to act before the chaos revealed his presence—or the storm claimed them all.
The sagging beam groaned again, and one of the bandits shouted, "Hold it steady, or we're all dead!" His voice was frantic, barely audible over the roar of the storm. The others scrambled to reinforce the structure, dragging loose stones and bracing against the buckling support. The dust in the air thickened as more debris tumbled from the overhang, stinging Harry's eyes and throat.
Harry crouched lower, pulling the cloak tighter around himself as the chaos unfolded. He inched backward, trying to shift away from the unstable beam without disturbing anything else. His pack, laden with stolen spheres, felt heavier now, its weight pressing against him like a reminder of the risk he'd taken.
Another crack split the air, and the beam gave way completely, splintering under the storm's relentless pressure. A jagged piece of wood struck the ground near Harry, sending shards scattering in every direction. The bandits cursed, their panic palpable as they dove for cover. Harry realized too late that the collapse of the shelter had pushed the bandits toward his hiding spot.
One of them stumbled, his foot skidding over the loose debris. The man's hand shot out for balance, brushing against Harry's pack. His brow furrowed, confusion crossing his face as his fingers met something solid but invisible. Harry didn't wait to see what happened next.
The man shouted, "There's something here!" and lunged toward him. "I told you!" cried the man who had seen the debris shift earlier. Harry jerked backward, his movement sending more dust and pebbles tumbling to the ground, drawing the attention of the two remaining bandits. Before he could fully retreat, another violent gust shook the shelter, and the rock above began to shift. A massive crack appeared, running through the overhang.
Harry's instincts screamed at him to move. The bandits were shouting, their attention split between the collapsing shelter and the strange sensation of something unseen. While Harry knew that being out in the open during a highstorm was almost certain death, the shelter was rapidly degrading to a point where soon it would be no different and he would soon have to deal with its inhabitants even if some miracle preserved the scant protection it offered. With no other choice, Harry darted toward the opening of the shelter, crashing over an unsuspecting bandit as he went.
The storm wall hit him like a hammer the moment he emerged, the force of the wind tossing him into the air and nearly tearing the cloak from his body. Pain seared through him as he crashed to the ground, but it was overshadowed by something far greater—a presence, raw and electric, that throbbed in the air around him.
Magic. It saturated the storm, wild and untamed, radiating with a power that dwarfed anything Harry had ever known. It pressed against him, tangible and alive, making his skin tingle and his breath catch. For a fleeting moment, awe eclipsed fear, the sheer magnitude of the storm's magic filling the void he'd felt since his own power had gone silent. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
A deafening crack shattered his reverie. Harry turned, his eyes widening as a massive tree trunk hurtled toward him, spinning violently through the air. Instinct took over. Before he could think, his wand was in his hand, and he shouted, "Protego!" with a certainty he hadn't felt in weeks.
The shield burst into existence before him, brilliant and shimmering, just as the tree trunk collided with it. The impact sent shockwaves through the air, splinters flying in every direction. Harry staggered but held firm, his arm trembling as the spell absorbed the blow. His shield dissipated just as the trunk crashed to the ground, leaving him stunned but alive.
His mind reeled. The spell had worked. He stared at his wand, gripping it tightly as his thoughts raced. Since arriving on Roshar, he'd realized his magic didn't replenish the way it had on Earth. He'd wondered if it was lost to him forever. Roshar was steeped in magic—its currency, glass spheres with small gemstones, was infused with power, glowing brightly after a highstorm and slowly dimming as the energy faded. Harry could sense the strength of that magic diminishing as the light ebbed, but he had yet to figure out how to make use of it. Strange, spirit-like entities called "spren" appeared everywhere, tied to emotions, forces, and phenomena, but no matter how desperately he tried, he had been unable to connect to them or any other source of power.
Yet now, in the heart of the storm, he had achieved the impossible. He had channeled raw magic without a Connection. It wasn't his magic; it belonged to the storm—wild, unrestrained, and overwhelming. It surged through him, replenishing his reserves in a way he'd never experienced before. This power wasn't truly his, but it responded to his will when he needed it most. The storm's magic wasn't something he could claim as his own, but it was something he could wield—for now. Only time would tell if this fleeting gift would remain once the highstorm passed.
Harry barely had time to register what had happened before another gust slammed into him, threatening to once again toss him into the air. Refocusing his attention, he gritted his teeth and cast another shield, the barrier flaring to life just in time to deflect a shower of debris. Crawling against the wind, he pushed toward a nearby rock formation, hoping it would provide some relief from the storm's relentless onslaught. Each movement felt like a battle, the monstrous winds clawing at his cloak and battering his body.
Yet amidst the chaos, he carried a spark of hope. The storm's magic—raw, wild, and untamed—had coursed through him, refilling his reserves and igniting a spell he had long thought beyond his reach. For the first time since just a few days after arriving on Roshar, his magic had worked.