Hogwarts (Year One) - Part 10

Professor Flitwick’s Classroom, Third Floor, Hogwarts. September 11, 1989.

Collapsing into my seat, I rested my weary head against the cool wood of the desk. A quick glance at the clock confirmed I blessedly still had another half an hour before class began—which meant that the classroom would remain peacefully empty for at least another fifteen minutes.

And since most of my classmates were still lingering over breakfast in the Great Hall, I decided to use the moment to gather myself a little.

The weekend had been… productive, to say the least.

Free from classes, I hadn’t hesitated to spend nearly every waking moment practicing spells, diving into arcane research, and reading ahead in History of Magic.

My routine quickly settled into a rhythm: I practiced spellcasting until my spark reserves depleted. Once they did, I retreated to the library, poring meticulously over historical texts and enchantment manuals. Whenever I felt like my spark reserves had replenished sufficiently again, I repeated the cycle.

My friends—Thalia, Cedric, and Eveline—had tried to keep pace with me at first, but eventually their focus began to drift. Idle chatter, gossip, and games steadily overtaking their attention as the weekend wore on.

Considering their age and dispositions, it reckoned it was an inevitable outcome.

Eveline, in particular, often groaned and complained that I studied too much—that I ought to leave some room for fun stuff as well.

Cedric—loyal like a Badger—naturally agreed with his cousin, going so far as to invite me to join him in exploring the vast Hogwarts grounds rather than staying cooped up in some dark, dusty classroom all day.

And that was when it struck me—my friends and I didn’t view magic the same way at all.

For Eveline, Cedric, and—though perhaps to a lesser extent—Thalia, magic was a constant, staple, and natural part of life. Coming from magical households, they’d been born into it, raised with it, and had never known a world without it.

I, on the other hand, carried a lifetime of Muggle memories with me every day. Even after discovering my magical talent, I’d spent most of my life hiding it—practicing in secret, always looking over my shoulder. Or worse, scared I would unintentionally hurt someone if I wasn’t careful enough.

Considering the manner in which I’d discovered my magical talent—and my ever-growing spark reserve—it was hardly an irrational fear.

Magic, to me, had never been—and would never be—ordinary.

It was precious, forbidden… and incredibly hard-won.

That being said, I also recognized the truth in my friends’ words—staying cooped up all day wasn’t healthy behaviour, especially for a growing eleven-year-old.

And so, I bit the bullet and spent Saturday afternoon exploring the grounds with Cedric and the girls, which admittedly had been more fun than I’d expected.

Though, given where I was, it was hard not to have fun.

Amidst our exploration, we eventually stumbled upon the Owlery, where I ended up mentioning—almost without thing—my wish to correspond with everyone back at the orphanage.

Thalia and Eveline, however, seemingly took my offhand comment as a personal challenge and offered to let me borrow their owls, insisting they needed the exercise anyhow—calling them fat and lazy.

Their earnest expressions left little room for refusal, so I hesitantly accepted, but with genuine gratitude.

I’d put off writing for far too long as it was already.

Thus, the same evening, I finally sat down and wrote about my life here at Hogwarts—though a carefully curated version, of course.

Figuring the letter would be read aloud, I focused on the little details I thought might make my family back home smile—a professor with only one ear, getting hopelessly lost in the school’s winding corridors, and how the food in the Great Hall was so good I half-expected to wake up only to find it had all been a dream.

That last part wasn’t a lie—sometimes, it really did feel like a dream.

Naturally, I wrote separate, more personal letters to Vera, Victor, and Alex. In their letters, I promised to bring snacks with me when I inevitably returned; I also told them to stay out of trouble and reminded them how much I missed them.

To Alex, I added a quiet reassurance, that there was nothing wrong with being adopted—and that even if he found a new family, I’d still be there. Naturally, I promised to stay in touch, no matter what.

Unwilling to end the letter on such a sombre note, I finished with a playful warning about what would happen if he ever started acting out like Gabe or Anton. If I returned only to discover that he’d become a delinquent…

Well, let’s just say I might be forbidden from using my wand outside of Hogwarts, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t use more… traditional means of disciplining unruly and misbehaving little brats.

Watching Thalia’s owl—Blaze—fly away with my letters had been somewhat of a bittersweet moment. Two weeks haven’t even transpired since I left home, yet somehow, I couldn’t help but to feel like it was a lifetime ago.

The orphanage, Bath—and in extension, the real world, the Muggle world—felt like a galaxy away.

It surprised me how much I missed the little buggers.

Unfortunately, without Jessica’s address available, I couldn’t send her a letter directly—but I hoped the personnel at the orphanage would help pass along my words.

After I finished my business at the Owlery, I dove into my research with renewed vigour—spending the entire Sunday hunched over my notes and textbooks.

Mostly by my lonesome.

“In hindsight, maybe I went a bit too far…” I muttered with my eyes closed, messaging my temples gently. Even after sleeping, I felt a headache pounding against my eyeballs.

Though, it was hard to stop the corners of my lips to curl upward when I considered the fruit of my labour.

The Red Sparks Charm (Vermilious) – 6 ★ > 7 ★

The Green Sparks Charm (Verdimillious) – 0 ★ > 4 ★

The Alarm Charm (Alarmare) – 2 ★ > 3 ★

The General-Counter spell (Finite Incantatem) – 3 ★ > 4 ★

The Match-to-Needle Spell (Acusfigo)– 0 ★ > 1 ★

Given my prior experience with the Red Sparks Charm, acquiring the Green Sparks Charm had proven remarkably intuitive. The practical and theoretical similarities between the two spells made the transition pretty seamless, so all I really had to do was follow the instructions in the first-year spellbook.

All in all, it took me less than half a day to reach the level where I could reliably cast and tweak the spell matrix—further proof, I thought, of how transferable magical fundamentals could be.

Furthermore, even if it wasn’t quite there yet, I reckoned it wouldn’t take long before I could cast the Green Sparks Spell without having to rely on the incantation, just like with the Red Sparks Charm.

No wonder Professor Flitwick urged us to practice the fundamental wand movements so much.

But the majority of my spark energy and time had been devoted to Transfiguration.

Surprisingly, the Match-to-Needle Spell was proving stubbornly difficult to master—an unexpected setback, I must say. Given its first-year classification and my familiarity with wandless transfiguration, I’d presumed I would pick it up relatively effortlessly, like with other spells.

Yet, just like with free form Transfiguration, proper Transfiguration spells evidently demanded both sharper focus and a greater expenditure of spark energy.

The Match-to-Needle Spell was the first spell I’d learned that altered the intrinsic properties of an object.

Sure, I could wandlessly dye a small object a different colour, but there existed a world of difference between changing an object’s surface appearance and turning something made out of wood into metal.

Thankfully, the Match-to-Needle Spell’s effect was temporary—being a first-year spell and all. Nevertheless, I dreaded imagining about how much spark energy a permanent transformation of wood into metal would require. Not to mention the kind of intent it would take to make a spell like that stick.

Needless to say, it was a level my intent I wasn’t even close to reaching, not currently, anyhow.

My first couple of manifestations—practicing the basic Transfiguration spell—either produced a silver-coloured match that was very much wooden, or a needle-shaped object that for appearance’s sake looked metallic but still snapped like brittle wood would.

Fortunately, a combination of diligent wandwork and focused intent was able to fix these issues.

I also discovered that the General-Counter Spell was sufficient to undo the temporary transformation—reverting the changes on the dwindling supply of matches I’d quietly sequestered from Professor McGonagall’s classroom.

I sighed, thinking about Finite Incantatem.

The source of my current predicament—and pulsing headache.

Upon my return to the dormitory last night, I’d been startled to find my trunk standing wide open, with clothes strewn across the floor—a clear sign that someone had rifled through my belongings.

Luckily, I’d kept my most valuable possessions—my journals and wand—on my person. Still, a cold and uncomfortable weight settled in my chest when I realized what had gone missing.

My family photos.

They weren’t many—mainly birthday gifts I’d received from Father Beverely and Sister Taylor—but over the years of living at the orphanage, the collection had grown.

Tucked at the back of the album was a photo of me and my parents, carefully mended with tape. From before the orphanage.

Needless to say, the album wasn’t worth anything to anyone except for myself.

This time, I didn’t hesitate and went straight to a prefect—reporting the crime.

That someone could bypass the alarm enchantment on my trunk suggested more than simple mischief—it hinted at intent, knowledge, and a concerning level of skill. At the very least, the culprit was someone capable of the General-Counter Spell, Finite Incantatem.

Consequently, I thought it was pretty safe to presume said culprit was one of my upperclassmen—someone competent and daring enough to knowingly enter a restricted dormitory and violate one of Hogwarts’ clearer rules.

Theft was grounds for expulsion, after all.

I froze, going still as a sudden sound cut through the quiet.

The door to the Transfiguration classroom creaked open, and the tension in my chest eased slightly when I saw it was only Rowena stepping inside.

Rubbing my eyes, I sat up straighter—my thoughts returning to the weekend.

To his credit, Prefect Quill had shown an admirable level of maturity and taken the theft seriously, combing through what was left of my belongings in search for any residual curses—of which there fortunately were none.

Even so, it was deeply discouraging to learn that my carefully prepared defences had been so effortlessly circumvented.

And I admit that I’d let the incident get to me a little.

Hence, I’d devoted the better part of last night to refining my Alarm Charm. While Finite Incantatem remains a reliable countermeasure to the charm, its efficacy diminishes when faced with enchantments of sufficient complexity.

In other words, if I could weave stabilising layers directly into the Alarm Charm’s matrix, it might just shrug off a few rounds of the General-Counter Spell before dissipating.

The only problem was that, to my knowledge, spell reinforcement wouldn’t be taught until the fifth year.

And, considering I was struggling with a fourth-year charm like the Alarm Charm, learning spell reinforcement wasn’t something I’d pick up over a weekend.

No, more and more, it was starting to feel like a pursuit that would take weeks, if not months to figure out.

A chair squeaked as Rowena sat down a few desks away—pointedly refusing to look at me.

“I wonder what her deal is…” I thought to myself, glancing at the aloof girl.

From what I’d gathered in the common room, the Blight family wasn’t exactly a name to boast about—being of standard magical stock and unremarkable lineage. So, it was little wonder some of my peers struggled to understand where Rowena’s attitude was coming from.

Needless to say, her behaviour wasn’t doing her any favours socially.

“Then again, who am I to talk about someone’s background…”

Shrugging, I planted my forehead against the cool wooden surface of my desk again. Between classes, spellwork research, and conniving upperclassmen with a penchant for theft, playing therapist to aloof classmates was hardly on the top of my to-do list.

“Maybe it’s finally time to learn the Summoning Charm….” I sighed, grabbing my hair in frustration.

“Just wait until I get a hold of you. Upperclassman or not, I will—”

“Ah—Mr. Morgan,” came a high-pitched voice that made me jump a little. “Excellent—you’re here already. I was hoping to have a word with you.”

Flitwick flashed a genial, almost apologetic smile as he gestured toward the door.

“If you’d be so kind, Mr. Morgan, to join me in my office? I believe there’s something we should discuss before class starts.”

With a nod, I shouldered my satchel and trailed after the small professor, unaware of the curious pair of eyes observing us.

…

Professor Flitwick’s office was tucked beside the Charms classroom—a small, warm space that reminded me of the professor it belonged to.

Lining the walls were shelves packed full of ancient tomes, rolled-up scrolls, and the occasional magical device whose function I could only guess at.

At the far end stood a low desk, cluttered with parchment and ink pots, while a narrow window let in filtered light from the courtyard outside.

Despite its modest size, the room seemed to hum with quiet, disciplined magic. Even a novice like me could tell that nearly everything in here was enchanted.

“Prefect Quill has informed me about last night’s incident,” Flitwick began gently. “But before we go any further, Mr. Morgan—how are you feeling? I understand something of sentimental value was taken.”

I nodded, answering honestly.

“Yes. A Muggle photo album—just a few pictures of my friends and caretakers from the orphanage.”

Flitwick’s expression softened. “And Prefect Quill mentioned this isn’t the first time one of your belongings has gone missing?”

“Correct,” I said with a sigh. “Last week, my shoes disappeared from my dorm. I later found them hanging from the common room chandelier.”

Professor Flitwick paused thoughtfully, taking a moment before continuing.

“Rest assured, Mr. Morgan—we’ll be looking into this matter thoroughly. And once the individual or individuals responsible are identified, I can promise you: they will be held accountable. Theft is not tolerated at Hogwarts.”

Flitwick paused, his tone softening just slightly.

“But if I may ask—why didn’t you report the missing shoes to a prefect or professor the first time?”

Opening my mouth, I hesitated.

“To be honest with you, Professor…” I scratched my chin, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I wanted to deal with it myself.”

At the orphanage, it wasn’t unusual for things to be misplaced every now and then. And whenever something went missing, it wasn’t like we went to one of the Sisters—or worse, the Matron—for help.

No, we dealt with it ourselves. And now, I guessed it had turned into something of a habit.

“Oh, yes—I heard about that,” Professor Flitwick said, his eyes twinkling with interest. “Prefect Quill mentioned you suspected an upperclassman managed to bypass your… defensive enchantment?”

“Yes,” I confirmed without hesitation. “My Alarm Charm wouldn’t have dispelled itself. And I’m confident that if it had gone off, someone would’ve noticed. As such, the culprit must’ve been someone capable of identifying charmed objects and dispelling them.”

Flitwick raised a bushy eyebrow, his voice laced with curiosity.

“When you say Alarm Charm, you’re referring to the fourth-year Alarmare Charm, correct? And just to be clear—are you saying you personally enchanted your trunk?”

“Yes, Professor,” I replied.

Flitwick folded his hands, his voice calm but edged with seriousness.

“You do realize, Mr. Morgan, that—even with your skill—what you’re saying is quite a bold claim, especially so for a first-year barely a fortnight into his first term.”

“It’s the truth,” I said, not looking away from Flitwick’s gaze. “I’ve always liked to read ahead, especially when it’s a topic that fascinates me.”

Professor Flitwick’s smile returned, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“On that point, I couldn’t agree more. Charms is undoubtedly a fascinating subject.”

Then his tone shifted—still kind, but firmer.

“What I don’t agree with, however, is the notion of attempting advanced enchantments unsupervised, particularly ones beyond your current year level. Surely, you understand the risks involved. The Alarmare Charm is taught in the fourth year for a reason, Mr. Morgan.”

“But—”

“That said,” Flitwick interjected gently, lifting a hand, “if what you’re telling me is true, then what you’ve accomplished is nothing short of extraordinary.”

For a moment, a meaningful silence descended on the room.

“Ah, I’m afraid time’s getting away from us, Mr. Morgan,” Flitwick finally said, checking the clock. “If you’re amendable to the idea, let’s revisit this matter after class. I’d be delighted to see your work firsthand.”

Following his gaze, my eyes widened in surprise—only two minutes left before class began.

“Let’s do that, Professor,” I said without hesitation, already looking forward to picking his brain about some of the challenges I’d encountered while practicing the Alarm Charm.

Evidently pleased with my answer, Professor Flitwick excitedly led me back to the classroom.

…

Today, Professor Flitwick taught us about binary magic, and the difference between activation and deactivation spells—a topic I was already quite knowledgeable about, thanks to my independent studies.

Still, I found—listening to the professor speak—that Flitwick often elaborated and clarified on some of the things the textbooks took for granted.

For instance, the importance of knowing when to apply restraint, and why.

Of course, the pairing spells Flitwick decided to teach us in conjunction with this topic turned out to be The Wand-Lighting and Wand-Extinguishing Charm, Lumos and Nox.

Needless to say, Thalia and I earned ten points each for our impressive mastery of the pairing charms.

Matilda, Quentin, Roger, and Rowena had also learned the spells ahead of time, though their casting evidently wasn’t quite as refined as ours. Nevertheless, the points racked up—to the growing excitement of my peers.

While I chose to stick to the basic charm, Thalia had no qualms about switching between colours—even showing off the elusive aurora variant.

Funnily enough, while no one was surprised that Thalia could perform the spells so well, my own success seemed to attract more animosity than admiration.

Quentin and his friend Lucien, in particular, didn’t take it well when I effortlessly replicated Professor Flitwick’s white hue on the tip of my wand.

“Are you sure?” I asked, glancing sideway at Thalia. “I can just meet you at the greenhouse afterward.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Thalia said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Why, you don’t want me to wait for you?”

I raised my hands in mock surrender.

“I didn’t say that, now did I?” I sighed. “I’m just worried the conversation might take a while. I’d hate for you to be late because of me.”

“Well, too bad, because I’m staying.” Thalia said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Besides, it’s about time you talked to a professor about what’s been happening.”

I exhaled.

“Like I said, I get the feeling Flitwick cares more about my enchantment than the fact that someone broke into my trunk.”

“I wonder why?” Thalia asked dryly, her voice laced with sarcasm.

I replied with a mirthless smile, before once again casting another Lumos Charm, tweaking the intensity minutely while ensuring the hue stayed the same.

…

“Impressive work, Mr. Morgan.” Flitwick said, leaning in to inspect my charmed satchel more closely, adjusting his glasses. “Ah—and you’ve managed to integrate a key mechanism as well? Absolutely astonishing!”

I stayed silent, not responding well to such genuine praise.

“That said, tethering an object to the Alarmare Charm as a trigger mechanism does present a vulnerability. You see, any sufficiently skilled witch or wizard could simply target the key object itself—severing the tether or even displace it—and thereby bypass the charm entirely.”

He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his chin, observing the invisible charm.

“It’s a clever workaround, to be sure—but not as secure as embedding the trigger condition directly into the enchantment matrix. Still, for a first-year? Remarkably inventive.”

“Thank you,” I said, committing his comments to memory. “I’ve also been struggling with spell reinforcement.”

“You’re already thinking about protective layering?” Professor Flitwick asked, two bushy eyebrows raised in surprise. Then he shook his head gently.

“Far too early, I’m afraid. Even if you possessed the skill necessary to weave reinforcements into the matrix, I fear your current construct is too unstable to support any additional layers.”

Professor Flitwick paused.

“Moreover,” Flitwick continued, his tone more serious now, “an enchantment matrix in that state would be prone to destabilisation—or worse, detonation. No, no—adding protective layering is far too dangerous at this stage.”

I sighed, accepting the answer. Truthfully, I’d already experienced something similar.

“Still—remarkable. Absolutely remarkable.” Professor Flitwick murmured, almost to himself, exhaling in quiet amazement. “To witness this level of charmwork and intuition from a first-year… I can’t recall a precedent.”

Taking a steady breath, Flitwick looked at me with quiet determination.

“Ordinarily, I’d award house points for work of this calibre—even for students beginning their fourth year. But in this case, I fear house points feel rather mundane given the nature of your work. Instead, might I interest you in something more fitting?”

“Reward?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Flitwick nodded, reaching into one of his desk drawers and retrieving a sheet of parchment.

“Have you ever heard of the Advanced Charms Circle?” He asked, preparing the parchment before rolling it neatly into a scroll.

“No, I don’t believe I have, Professor.” I admitted.

“Not surprising,” Flitwick said with a small sigh, handing me the scroll. “Given how little time you’ve spent at Hogwarts, most first-years wouldn’t have.”

“The Advanced Charm Circle is a small, invitation-only group,” he explained, watching my reaction closely. “We meet weekly to study charmwork beyond the standard curriculum—experimental casting, historical spells, theoretical applications… that sort of thing.”

He smiled, gesturing toward the scroll in my hand.

“It’s for pupils who show a particular aptitude for charms and enchantments—and a hunger to learn more,” Flitwick said, his tone both kind and firm.

“If you’re serious about learning charms, Mr. Morgan, I strongly encourage you to join—preferably before you attempt something you can’t undo.”

Staying silent, I looked at the scroll in my hand.

“You will find the time and place for our meetings detailed in the invitation,” Flitwick said, casting a quick glance at the clock.

“But I’m afraid you’ll need to hurry to the greenhouse now—I wouldn’t want to be the reason Professor Sprout is kept waiting.”

“Thank you, Professor,” I said with a nod, tucking the scroll safely into my satchel before turning to leave.

As I stepped out of his office, I felt his gaze linger on my back—watchful and measuring.

…

“The Advanced Charms Circle?” Thalia echoed, frowning. “But don’t you need to be a second year to join any of the clubs?”

“Clubs?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “There are multiple?”

Thalia nodded seriously. “Every subject has some kind of advanced club, except History of Magic and Flying.”

“Really?” I frowned thoughtfully. The only “club” I could recall from canon was Slughorn’s little potion society… and maybe Dumbledore’s Army—but that one hadn’t even been run by a teacher.

“Though to be fair, the books weren’t exactly thorough when it came to extracurriculars.”

Most of the attention had gone to Quidditch, which, frankly, never really interested me.

“Yes… but they usually hold off on club invitations until the end of the second year, like with Quidditch,” Thalia said, shaking her head.

“But then again, I suppose forcing a Defence professor to deflect your spell puts you on a different track.”

I smiled wryly, opening the invitation.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Professor F. Flitwick

Dear Mr. Morgan,

It has come to my attention—both through observation and trusted accounts—that you possess a remarkable aptitude for Charmwork, particularly for a student so early in his magical education. Such promise does not go unnoticed.

With that in mind, I would be delighted to extend to you an invitation to join the Advanced Charms Circle—a small, inter-house group of pupils who share a keen interest in exploring spellcraft beyond the standard syllabus.

We meet weekly, and while participation is entirely voluntary, membership is highly selective.

Should you be interested in furthering your skills in Charmwork, I believe you would make a fine addition.

Please let me know by the end of the week if you would like to attend our next meeting.

With warm regards,

Professor Filius Flitwick

Charms Master

On the next page were the logistical details, including the time, place, and duration of the weekly Circle meetings.

“I wonder who else is part of Flitwick’s club…” I thought to myself.

“You’ve got that stupid ‘spell theory is better than lunch’ look on your face again," Thalia said, sighing. “You don’t even need to say anything—I can already tell you’re going.”

I feigned anger, furrowing my brows as I glanced at Thalia.

“What do you mean again? I don’t have a stupid look.” I defended myself.

“Yeah, you do. And it’s definitely stupid.”

…

As expected, Herbology with the Lions was utter chaos. Professor Sprout spent more time chasing after Fred and George than actually teaching, as the twins darted around the greenhouse with reckless abandon.

One would think, after the incident with the dungbomb in the Great Hall, that Fred and George would’ve learned to reign in their impulsivity, but alas.

It seemed their tenacity for mischief was simply too great.

Again, I suppressed the urge to groan as I was paired up with Lee Jordan, who was very evidently more interested in what was going on with his friends than the subject at hand.

Still, as long as he didn’t provoke our plant, I was willing to let his behaviour slide.

Professor Sprout had introduced the Biting Bulb as being known for its mildly aggressive behaviour. But unlike the Venomous Tentacula, the Biting Bulb was relatively harmless to wizards, despite its admittedly disconcerting appearance.

Roughly the same size as an onion, the plant was bright green with a glossy surface and flexible leaves. The most distinctive characteristic, however, was the mouth-like opening that snapped shut when disturbed or startled.

Fortunately, the carnivorous plant’s primary prey were insects—not humans.

The key to handling the plant was a gentle touch and rhythmic speaking.

Though the Biting Bulb’s pulpy interior was mainly used to brew the Focus Elixir, it was actually more commonly employed in magical crossbreeding to develop plants with reactive traits.

Utterly fascinating, if you ask me.

Unfortunately, most of my peers didn’t share my interest for the bulbous plant.

Many of the Gryffindor girls—particularly—seemed to find the plant menacing and revolting. And, true to the Gryffindor spirit, they made sure everyone knew it.

Naturally, this prompted the eleven-year-old boys to start showing off—an impulse that inevitably ended in brused hands and curses as the startled plants snapped at their fingers.

Needless to say, no points had been awarded during this class.

…

During lunch, despite the disorderly Herbology class, my headache had lessened to a degree where I felt comfortable practicing spells again.

Thus, with my stomach full, I headed to my disused classroom.

Earlier, Professor Flitwick had given me some valuable advice: attempting to add protective layering to the spell matrix right now was pure folly. As it stood, my enchantment simply wasn’t stable enough to bear the extra strain.

Which only meant one thing: I had to spend a lot more time practicing enchanting.

The only problem was my spark reserves. Unlike ordinary casting, binding a charm to an object required more juice and focus.

“And with Defence Against the Dark Arts about to start…” I sighed, reluctantly deciding to postpone practicing the Alarm Charm until after classes had wrapped up for the day.

It seemed like the wise choice.

And since I knew I’d get to practice the Red Sparks Charm during Crowe’s class, I decided to dedicate my lunch break to a spell I’d been neglecting lately.

Flipendo, the Knockback Jinx.

Truthfully, it irked me that my Flipendo Jinx wasn’t on the same level as my Levitation and Red Sparks Charm.

Once, the Jedi Push had been my favourite manifestation. Now, it felt like a forgotten firstborn—left behind while I doted on newer, flashier creations.

And given the thefts, I figured it was time to start brushing up on actual combat jinxes. In a real fight, I couldn’t exactly throw red fireworks at someone and hope for the best.

With no better practice dummy present, I drew my wand and targeted my emptied satchel—figuring that the Knockback Jinx wouldn’t be able to damage it, not seriously at least.

“Flipendo!” I said, using the accompanying wand movements despite not having to.

Surprisingly, I found that the movements hindered me more than they helped.

“I guess I really haven’t practiced the Knockback Jinx’s wand movements before…” I sighed, lowering my wand and jotting the observation into my journal.

It was a curious, if not odd, realization—my consistent practice with free form magic hade made the traditional scaffolding feel redundant.

But if I wanted to improve on the spell, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to relearn the basics—starting from the ground up.

“Flipendo!”

…

The first-year Ravens sat in uneasy silence, all of us waiting for Professor Crowe to show up.

He was late—an occurrence without precedent, which only served to heighten the tension.

“Where do you think he is?” Ophelia whispered behind me.

“I-I don’t know,” Selene replied.

“He’s clearly not fit to be a teacher,” Thalia offering her opinion, clicking her tongue. “I don’t know what Dumbledore was thinking hiring him.”

“Maybe he’s—”

“That’s enough chattering. Stand up, form pairs, and ready your wands.” Crowe said, briskly entering the classroom. With a flick of his wand, the furniture began rearranging themselves to form an open space suitable for spellcasting.

Briefly, Crowe and I locked eyes—before he summarily pretended like I didn’t exist.

“Today, I expect everyone—” Crowe’s eyes landed on Thomas Winslow. “To have mastered the Red Sparks Charm sufficiently for dodging purposes.”

“And to make things more interesting…” Crowe’s gaze swept over the class, his lip twitching. “Whoever gets hit the most will have to write a detailed essay. Title it: ‘How to Not Dodge in a Duel.’  I expect at least two feet of parchment. Due tomorrow. Any questions?”

When no one said anything, Professor Crowe snarked.

“Then what are you waiting for? Start!”

Before Thalia and I could take our positions, someone interrupted us.

“Do you mind if I borrow Michael today?” Matilda asked with a sly smile. “Or are you planning to keep him all to yourself?”

“You—” Thalia paused, narrowing her eyes at Matilda. “Unlike you, I don’t treat my friends like possessions. Michael is free to make his own decisions.”

“Good!” Another voice chimed in. “Because I was hoping you’d be up for a duel.”

Quentin Avery flashed a challenging grin. “Sacred-blood to sacred-blood. Let’s make it interesting, shall we, Miss Fawley?”

I stifled a groan at the obvious ambush.

“Since when does dodging practice constitute a duel?” I said, exchanging a meaningful glance with Thalia.

I smiled as she gave me a firm, deliberate nod.

“But since you’re itching for extra homework,” I added. “We’ll gracefully oblige.”

Quentin clicked his tongue, his voice dripping with venom.

“You think you’re something special just because Crowe slipped up,” Quentin snapped. “But if you were really any good, he’d have given you points.”

Before I could retort, Thalia took a step forward.

“We’ve already accepted your challenge, Avery.” Thalia said, drawing her wand. “Now, are we doing this or not?”

…

Thalia and Quentin each assumed distinctive stances, making it painfully obvious to any and all onlookers that they’d been trained in magical duelling long before setting foot at Hogwarts.

Then again, what else would you expected from Sacred scions?

Unsurprisingly, the duel between two Sacred scions quickly became the centre of attention. Several of our peers even paused their own practice to watch, wands lowered, eyes flicking between the two with a mix of awe, curiosity and wariness.

Even students like Thomas Winslow and me, people unfamiliar with magical duelling, couldn’t help but be drawn in by the intensity radiating from the pair.

And for reasons unknown, Crowe allowed it—his muscular arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he observed the match unfold.

Like a fencer poised to strike, Thalia studied her opponent with icy focus, her expression unreadably calm.

By contrast, Quentin’s stance was considerably more aggressive—wand raised high, angled toward Thalia, and a confident smile playing across his face.

“A-hem,” Matilda coughed, reminding me of her presence. “If you’re quite finished fawning over the Fawley heir, I believe we were in the middle of something.”

Matilda’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she added.

“But I’m glad to know where your priorities are.”

I let out a sigh, turning to give my opponent the focus she deserved.

“I don’t know what the issue between the two of you is…” I said, drawing my wand with deliberate care—it hummed in response to my spark, “but I’d rather not be used as a proxy in your silly little argument.”

I shifted into a stance that felt natural—steady, if unremarkable. Compared to the Sacred scions, I knew I still had a great deal to learn before I could call myself a proficient dueller.

“Tsk,” Matilda clicked her tongue, drawing a wand of her own. Unlike mine, hers was elegant—perfectly symmetrical, yet surprisingly spartan.

“There’s nothing silly about it.”

Before I could ask her to elaborate, she narrowed her eyes at me.

“Ready?”

Noting the sudden shift in her expression, I took a steadying breath and loosened my stance.

“Yes.” I said.

“Vermilious!” Matilda snapped, her wand flicking toward me in a crisp, practiced arc.

Rather than watching the spell itself, I followed the arc of her wand and moved to avoid the ensuing charm—though “dodged” might be a bit generous for what basically amounted to a messy pirouette.

Still, I’d successfully evaded the surprisingly fast projectile—much to Matilda’s apparent dissatisfaction.

“A good charm,” I offered, choosing to give credit where it was due. And it wasn’t a lie, even compared to Cedric and Thalia—students whose talent I reckoned was only a notch under that of Harry Potter’s—Matilda’s charm had been really good.

If I had to guess, based on just this one charm, I reckoned her mastery of the Red Sparks Charm was somewhere around four stars, maybe even approaching five.

But instead of appreciating the compliment, my opponent seemed almost irritated by it.

“In a real duel, the worth of a spell is measured by its impact, not its elegance,” she snapped, but her words sounded rehearsed, like something some had drilled into her. “And unlike some people, I don’t need your validation.”

I let out a quiet sigh.

“What is it with all these intense eleven-year-old girls?”

“You ready?” I asked, looking at my opponent.

Matilda nodded in response; her eyes locked on my form.

I raised my wand and aimed directly at her torso—not hiding my target in the slightest.

“Vermilious,” I said evenly, channelling spark energy into my wand. Following Matilda’s advice, I focused solely on speed—even at the cost of power and stability.

What erupted from the tip of my wand wasn’t so much a bolt as a spear of red light. Matilda barely had time to widen her eyes before the modified Red Sparks Charm struck her square in the chest.

“One, zero.” I said, smiling at my dumbfounded opponent. “Your turn.”