"Thank you, Grey Lady."
Sean offered a sincere thanks.
Behind him, puzzled first-years watched the ghost glide away and the staircase lock into place—then surged forward like a rising tide.
"Sean, how did you do that?"
Amid the chatter, Michael's voice sounded in his ear; Anthony and Terry pricked up their ears.
"Hogwarts Castle was founded in the tenth century. The moving staircases were designed by Lady Rowena Ravenclaw…"
At that, all three caught on.
It's just—who would think of that when you're panicking? And asking a ghost for help? Michael had assumed that was a prefect's joke.
"But how did you know the Grey Lady could actually influence the staircases?" Michael whispered.
"I didn't. But trying beats doing nothing," Sean said.
…
They still made it to Charms, the bell ringing just after they slipped in. Faces burning, the first-years dropped into their seats.
The classroom seating was distinctive: a central aisle with four linked rows fanning out on either side. Sean took the nearest seat—right beside Hermione, who had her head buried in a book. The place next to her had been empty until Sean sat, followed by Michael, Terry, and Anthony.
"You were nearly late," Hermione muttered into her book.
Sean nodded and looked toward a stack of books at the end of the aisle. The Charms professor was a remarkably small wizard—Professor Flitwick. He'd just popped up from behind the front row and immediately drew every eye: a professor barely a meter tall, with a fluffy white mop of hair and beard.
He turned and climbed the stack step by step until he stood atop it—jaw-dropping sight.
Once steady, a ripple of laughter swept the room.
"All right, all right—nothing wrong with a chuckle, is there?" Flitwick didn't seem to mind. He straightened his collar and spoke in an easy tone.
"Charms are the craft every witch and wizard must learn. If a wizard can't do charms, what right has he to be called a wizard?"
As he spoke, he flicked his wand. Without any audible incantation, books rose into the air. At his baton-like guidance they shifted—desk-sized one moment, thumbnail-small the next. One light sweep and they multiplied into dozens, then scampered as animals across the desks. Hermione leaned in to inspect a rabbit that hopped to the front—then, bang, every animal puffed into fireworks and vanished.
"Cool!"
"Wow!"
Excited cries rose from the class. Flitwick smiled and nodded.
The lesson began on that wave of excitement. As Sean remembered, Flitwick explained the theory clearly and simply, then moved to the most basic charm—Lumos.
"The key to Wand-Lighting is in the wrist. That decisive little pause must be firm…" Flitwick's voice carried around the room.
Everyone went at it with gusto, and most succeeded.
[You practiced Lumos once at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
[You practiced Lumos once at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
Sean's wand tip flared again and again.
"I did it!" After three tries, Michael's wand-tip glowed; he turned, just in time to see Terry's do the same. As for Anthony—he seemed to have learned ahead of time; he'd nailed it on the first go.
"Fine," Michael huffed, looking for another classmate. "Sean?"
[You practiced Lumos once at Novice standard. Proficiency +3]
"Sean?"
[You practiced Lumos once at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
"Uh? Sean, didn't you hear me?" Michael leaned in, head cocked.
But in Sean's head there was only Flitwick's voice:
"If you can't seem to cast Lumos, try this: imagine yourself in darkness, aching for light—ah, you want the light so badly…"
"Want…" Sean murmured. He thought of orphanage nights—power cut early, not even a candle—and fugitives still hiding in London, the wind and snow rattling the drafty window. He lay on the infirmary bed, unafraid, but that longing for light never left him.
"I have a wand now," Sean said. "Lumos!"
[You practiced Lumos once at Master standard. Proficiency +300]
"Merlin's beard! Everyone, look at Mr. Sean Green!" Flitwick bounded down from his bookpile, thrilled.
Soft radiance flooded the room. The students held their breath, staring at a globe of light at least ten times the usual size—and at the slim boy beneath it, silver glinting along his hair.
"A perfect Wand-Lighting Charm! Ten points to Ravenclaw!"
…
"Sean, Sean—how did you do that? Teach me—please, I really want to learn it," Michael babbled at his ear.
"It's emotion," Sean said seriously. "Magic is innate to a wizard. Its strength depends on your emotions or mental force."
"Emotion?" Michael echoed. Behind him, eavesdropping Anthony, Terry, and Hermione all looked thoughtful.
In that heartbeat of silence, Sean had already slipped into the Great Hall. Justin homed in like a radar and sat beside him—he always managed to find Sean. Sean poked curiously at steak-and-kidney pudding, wondering what state of mind had inspired British wizards to invent it.
He ate and thought. Magical Theory hammered again and again on "mental force" and "emotion." Lines like:
"Once you have learned a spell, to bring out its full power you still need sufficient mental strength."
Sean figured "mental strength" was a composite—part willpower, part emotion. Add them together and you get the upgrade path for the "I reckon" power.
Emotion's effect on magic is striking—perhaps the most idealistic thing about it. Molly Weasley—who had already lost a son and was protecting another—was goaded by Bellatrix with Fred's death, and roared:
"NOT—MY—DAUGHTER—YOU—BIT—"
Five silent curses later, she turned the duel and dropped Bellatrix. Or Harry on the shore of the Black Lake, to save his godfather, bellowing:
"Ex—pec—to—Pa—tro—num!"
and unleashing a Patronus strong enough to drive off a hundred Dementors.
Such moments made Sean realize how powerful emotion is in magic.
"If Lumos draws on longing, then what feeds Scourgify?" he wondered, and—without thinking—said goodbye to Justin and headed for the greenhouse.
Huh?
Justin?
Sean glanced back at him.
~~~
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