To put it blunt: the second Dylan cast that spell, he tapped into time itself, stacking days upon days of cheer-up charms like compound interest. All that built-up mojo finally punched through the barrier and hit the real world.
That time-bending idea got him thinking back to a late-night chat with Ravenclaw about house-elf rights. Way back when Hogwarts first opened, wizards and house-elves were kinda chill. Not family, but at least nobody was treating them like disposable trash.
Fast-forward a few centuries? Elves slid straight into slave status. Wizards got pickier, meaner—until "owning" them felt normal.
That shift in thinking spread like a virus, hardened into "common sense," and now most wizards just assume elves belong in chains.
Magic itself works the same way. Take the basic levitation charm. In the old days it could barely lift a teacup. Now? You can float a whole damn couch—or a small carriage. Every tweak, every theory, every wizard who pushed the limits—those tiny gains stacked up over generations until the spell itself leveled up.
Dylan's brain kept rolling. Memories are part of the soul, right? And soul energy can turn into visible magic—look at the Patronus Charm. Happy memory = silver guardian beast.
So what if collective human beliefs—built up over years—act like a giant memory bank? Could that pooled perception become magic?
Bingo. The house-elf situation fits perfectly. Wizards' "elves are slaves" mindset calcified into a magical force that enforces the status quo. It brainwashed elves into wanting servitude, chasing a pat on the head like it's the Super Bowl.
But a few rebels—like Hermione—push back. Their "elves deserve equality" vibe is forming its own (weaker) counter-magic. Dobby? He's the living proof—first elf to break the mental leash and chase freedom.
Too bad the progressive squad is tiny. Dobby's still the only breakout star.
This "cognition = magic" angle lit Dylan up like Christmas. Then it dragged him deeper—straight to wizard/Muggle origins.
He used to think: humans pop into existence, some feel magic, boom—wizards. Others don't—Muggles.
But now? The world was laced with magic from day one—traces left by gods, maybe. Rivers humming with energy, storms following secret rules.
Early humans stumbled on those traces. Curiosity hit like a drug. That raw wonder spread person-to-person, snowballing into a mega-spell that unlocked soul-level magic sensitivity in some folks. Boom—first wizards.
Mind-blowing? Hell yes. Most traditional wizards would clutch their robes and faint.
But Dylan's spent years dissecting souls. To him, souls are equal—zero hierarchy. No "born for magic" or "born for Muggle." Just how deep you dig into your own potential. Muggles without wands still crank out symphonies, rockets, iPhones—same soul juice, different outlet.
The system's pocket dimension backs it up. The deeper Dylan's knowledge and power get, the more he sees all human progress reflected there—wizard spells and Muggle science, side by side.
Souls equal. Perception = magic. Case closed.
He scribbled the theory down—future research goldmine.
Best way to test it? Engineer a brand-new magical species. Guide collective belief, channel the energy, design the creature's "blueprint" in magic. If a real critter pops up and its shadow twin shows in the mirror world? Theory proven.
Funny—he's already tinkering with artificial species. And there's one rare wizard who might be the perfect guinea pig.
Problem: setup's a nightmare. Steer mass perception, fine-tune energy flow, sculpt the creature's magical DNA—every variable needs obsessive tweaking. Screw up once? No second shot; wizards like this don't grow on trees.
Dylan packed his notes in the Map Chamber and headed for the common room.
Passing the second-floor corridor, yelling and screeching floated in through an open window. He stopped, leaned out.
Black Lake sparkled under the sun. Durmstrang's massive ship bobbed a stone's throw from shore—perfect view from this angle.
But the ship was rocking—wild, random tilts, slamming the water with chaotic splashes. Ripples muddied the lake for yards.
Not wind. Something underneath was ramming or yanking it.
Hours ago Dylan had been in the lake's mirror realm, trading spells with grindylow and merpeople shadows, leaving magical tags. Now? A crazy idea: did his meddling bleed through the energy bridge and mess with the real creatures' behavior?
To see the full picture, he jogged through a side door to the shore.
New angle revealed the chaos: dozens of grindylows swarmed the hull. Ink-green skin blended with lake weed, slimy, three black horns jutting from their heads. Half-submerged, claws gouging the wood, all pulling in sync to capsize the ship.
On deck, a dozen Durmstrang kids in navy uniforms fired spells—orange firebursts, rope-binding hexes, water-prison curses.
But every time a spell closed in, a shrill screech echoed from farther out—like a commander barking orders.
Dylan followed the sound. Twenty yards off, a pod of merpeople floated, gray-blue scales glinting cold. Jagged teeth flashed in snarls.
Each time a spell flew, a merperson barked. Grindylows reacted instantly—dive, dodge, or hug the hull to let the magic whizz past.
Merpeople weren't just directing. Some scooped fist-sized rocks or jagged shells from the lakebed and hurled them at the deck. Others clutched lobalugs—withered-vine bugs with bulbous venom sacs. Squeeze the sac, the bug spewed pale-green acid. Most splattered harmlessly, but a few drops ate dark pits into the railings, forcing students to duck.
In minutes the fight escalated. More Durmstrang kids poured from the cabins—some blasting, others hauling planks to patch claw-gouged hull.
Meanwhile, Hogwarts students noticed. Crowds spilled from the castle, books under arms, forming a peanut gallery along the pebble path. Everyone craned for a view, whispering about the madness.
To get the scoop fast, Dylan knew Hufflepuffs were the move—they noticed everything.
He spotted Ernie Macmillan in the crowd, gesturing wildly with friends.
Dylan jogged over. "Ernie—hey. What the heck's going on? Why are those creatures ganging up on the Durmstrang ship?"
Ernie spun, saw Dylan, and spilled what he'd heard: "Lakeside caretaker said about half an hour ago, some merpeople surfaced and started singing. A few Durmstrang guys thought it was hilarious—chucked pebbles, mocked the 'screechy' voices. Merpeople got pissed, gave a warning shriek. Kids kept clowning. Next thing—merpeople rally grindylows and lobalugs, full-on assault. Boom, chaos."
He scratched his head. "But honestly? The singing was weird. Not just ugly—there were almost words, then random beast growls. Total mess."
Dylan nodded. "Makes sense. It's afternoon—surface mist's burned off. Merpeople songs need water vapor to travel clean. Low humidity distorts the sound—turns lyrics into monster noise."
"Ah! That explains it." Ernie snapped his fingers. "Probably why the Durmstrang kids got annoyed—wanted to shut it down instead of listening to garbage."
He frowned. "Thing is, I've been at Hogwarts forever. Merpeople never surface to sing in groups. First time seeing this."
"Same here," a calm, familiar voice said behind them.
Dylan and Ernie turned.
Dumbledore strolled up, white beard catching the light like fresh snow.