The sun peeked lazily over the horizon, casting golden ripples over the Black Lake.
Ted had already finished his morning run, his breath steady as he slowed to a walk.
Beside him, Neville panted heavily, hands on his knees.
Unlike the others—who barely lasted three days before abandoning the routine—Neville had stuck with it, showing up every morning without fail.
Rain or shine, he trained.
It wasn't that Neville was naturally athletic or gifted.
Quite the opposite.
But Ted had told him something once: "Even if you're not the fastest or the strongest, consistent effort beats raw talent when talent refuses to work hard."
That stuck with him.
Ted picked up a smooth pebble, rolling it between his fingers as he infused it with magic.
The stone hovered, rotating lazily in his palm, absorbing the energy bit by bit.
Curious, Neville mimicked him, scooping up a rock and staring at it.
He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing, but he went along with it anyway.
That was another thing about training with Ted—sometimes, you just had to trust the process.
After nearly a week of this routine, Neville finally blurted out the question that had been nagging at him. "Ted, why do we keep throwing stones here?"
Ted chuckled, tossing his pebble into the pile near the castle. "Magic experiment."
Neville blinked. "An experiment? What kind?"
"Ever heard of ritual magic?"
Neville frowned in thought. "Gran mentioned it once. Said it's a kind of magic that most wizards can't use. Too complex."
Ted smirked. "Well, we're already doing it."
Neville's eyes widened. "Wait—what? Where? I don't see any rituals!"
Ted crouched, tapping one of the many scattered stones they'd been dropping in this spot all week.
"This is how rituals work. Small actions, repeated with intent, building over time. I read an old wizarding story about something like this—five hundred years old, about a group trying to build a tower that reached the heavens, The Tower of Babel."
Neville sported a confused expression. "You're building a Tower of Babel?"
Ted burst out laughing. "Not quite! But I am testing if continuous reinforcement of magic in one place will create a tangible effect over time. Think of it as planting seeds of magic."
Neville still wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he nodded, deciding to trust Ted.
They finished up, heading back to the castle to clean up before breakfast.
By the time they arrived at the Great Hall, Harley and the others were already there, yawning into their plates.
That morning, Ted and Hermione shared Transfiguration class with the Hufflepuffs.
They were still working on turning beetles into buttons.
Ted's beetle transformed easily enough, but his button still had a few twitching legs.
He frowned. "Not perfect yet."
Beside him, Hermione squinted at her own attempt. The button was nearly there—except it still had a tiny beetle head.
She sighed. "Ugh."
Truth be told, Hermione's natural talent for Transfiguration was likely better than Ted's.
The only reason he had outpaced her last year was because of the system boosting his initial progress.
But now, with time and hard work, she was closing the gap.
The problem was, Ted wasn't just studying what was in the textbooks—he was researching beyond that, branching out into various magical disciplines.
He could afford to split his attention and still be ahead.
Hermione, on the other hand, threw herself into structured learning.
She was brilliant, no doubt, but she hadn't yet developed the habit of thinking outside the box the way Ted did.
That was the only reason he was still ahead.
Still, her progress was undeniable.
In Potions, Transfiguration, and even Defense Against the Dark Arts, she was creeping closer to him every day.
Ted was thrilled about that.
"Competing against someone sharp makes us both stronger," he had told her once.
"It's more fun this way."
Hermione had rolled her eyes but secretly agreed.
She had even awakened a talent of her own—[Scholar]—a rare gift that let her process information faster and retain it better.
Now, she was officially in the race.
During lunch, Harley scanned her class schedule, perking up. "Hey, we all have the same first class this afternoon!"
Ron grinned. "What is it?"
Jerry smirked. "Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Ron groaned, slumping over his plate. ╮(﹀_﹀")╭
Neville also looked utterly defeated.
Although last year's ordeal with Quirrell had proved the man to be a villain, Neville hadn't exactly hated him.
But this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor? He'd had enough.
Lockhart had an uncanny obsession with Ted, mostly because Ted knew exactly how to flatter him—offering just the right amount of praise to keep Lockhart basking in admiration.
If Lockhart could've given Ted an honorary award for "Most Appreciative Student," he would have.
Neville, on the other hand, was a different story.
Lockhart had been hounding him for weeks, insisting that they work together to "build Neville's public image."
The idea terrified Neville so much that even hearing Lockhart's name made his skin crawl.
When their group trudged to Defense Against the Dark Arts class, everyone turned expectantly to Ted.
"The peacock is your responsibility," Dean whispered.
Ted smirked. "Leave it to me."
Lockhart's ego was sky-high as usual, and today, he was feeling particularly theatrical.
When the students entered, they were greeted by an ominous sight: a large object, roughly human-sized, covered with a black cloth in the middle of the classroom.
"Take your seats, my dear students!" Lockhart announced grandly, flashing a dazzling smile as if he had just walked onto a red carpet.
A few enchanted camera flashes popped from nowhere, emphasizing his dramatic entrance.
Ted squinted.
Was he charming the room to create his own fanfare?
Lockhart swept a hand toward the mysterious covered object.
"Today, I shall unveil true darkness! A terrifying creature, unlike anything you have faced before!"
He paused for effect, his expression so exaggerated that he looked like the doomed first victim in a horror film.
"Fear not! For I, Gilderoy Lockhart, am here! And as you all know, I once vanquished a banshee with nothing but a smile!" He gave what he probably thought was a winning grin.
Ted, whispering to Neville, muttered, "Did he seduce the ghost to death?"
Neville snorted.
The class, though captivated by Lockhart's absurd confidence, remained skeptical.
But before anyone could question him, Lockhart yanked off the cloth with a flourish.
"Behold!"
Underneath was a massive iron cage—easily large enough to fit Hagrid.
The entire class leaned forward as the tension in the room shifted. Then—
"Wait… those are just Cornish pixies!" Seamus exclaimed.
Inside the cage, about a dozen tiny blue-skinned creatures fluttered on bat-like wings, their antennae twitching mischievously.
Some students groaned, unimpressed, while others exchanged amused glances.
"Just Cornish pixies?" Lockhart gasped, clutching his chest as if personally wounded.
"These little devils are not to be underestimated! They'll steal your belongings, upend your potions, hang your robes in the trees, and—worst of all—hide your socks!"
No one looked particularly convinced.
"Fine! Don't say I didn't warn you!" With an indignant huff, Lockhart flung the cage door open.
The result was instant chaos.
The pixies shot out like a swarm of angry bees, zipping through the classroom with shrill, cackling laughter.
Within seconds, books were torn from desks, curtains were shredded, ink bottles were upended, and an unfortunate Hufflepuff shrieked as two pixies lifted him a few inches off the ground by his robes.
One particularly bold pixie yanked at Parvati's hair, while another darted under a Ravenclaw's desk to snatch their wand.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU LITTLE SHIT?!" Dean shouted as a pixie attempted to pull up a girl's robes.
Meanwhile, the mastermind behind the disaster was faring no better.
The pixies, recognizing Lockhart as their captor, made him their prime target.
Three of them zoomed straight for him, one grabbing a fistful of his silky golden hair while another yanked his wand from his grip and hurled it straight out the window.
Lockhart screeched, flailing wildly. "Unhand me, you wretched creatures! I—OW!"
The third pixie had latched onto his ear, tugging with all its strength.
Abandoning any pretense of control, Lockhart bolted for the door, arms flailing as the pixies continued their relentless assault.
By the time he made it outside, his bangs were missing a sizable chunk, his robes were askew, and he had a rapidly swelling black eye.
The students were left behind in utter mayhem, dodging, ducking, and—if you were Ted—laughing uncontrollably.