Even after Voldemort reflexively dispelled the transfigured rope, the body he rode was still yanked forward by that outrageous force—hauled straight toward Theodore Ashbourne.
Theo's ancient staff was already in motion, the wind of the swing humming through the classroom.
In the next heartbeat, control snapped back to Quirrell.
"My lord—?" he blurted in panic.
Only a thin whisper answered in his skull.
"Something's… wrong with the magic. Handle it yourself."
Quirrell's jaw dropped. What? You're leaving it to—
He didn't finish the thought. The staff cracked across his cheek with a meaty thud. Blackness rushed in, and he toppled to the floor.
Silence crashed over the room.
"Theo…" someone breathed. "You—beat the professor?"
First-years who'd been dismantled moments ago stared like they were looking at a minor god. They'd known he was strong. They hadn't known he was this strong.
Theo shook his head. "He was holding back."
That wasn't false modesty. From start to finish, Quirrell—and the thing behind him—hadn't used black magic or faculty-level artillery. Given what Theo had shown, that restraint was the only reason the bout had ended so cleanly.
Not that the Gryffindors cared. Fact: Theo was standing; Quirrell was out.
Ron's eyes shone. "That fire stuff—what was it? Can we learn it?"
Half the class leaned in with the same hungry look. The flame-control had been absurdly cool; who wouldn't want it?
Theo smiled. "You can learn a version of it. But the entry bar's high. You need Incendio at a near-master's polish, and Transfiguration solid enough to touch living-form thresholds."
The hope in their faces dimmed. Living transfiguration was notoriously hard; most graduates never reached it. At their level, turning a matchstick into a needle was a triumph.
Theo spread his hands. "Look, you don't have to copy my path. The strongest magic is the one that fits you."
Puzzled looks met him, so he spelled it out.
"You heard Professor Quirrell earlier: black magic feels 'strong' because it's driven by emotions that are sharp and unforgettable. But everyone has something inside—talent, temperament, a buried feeling. If you find the feeling that's yours, certain spells will respond like they've been waiting for you."
He pointed gently across the room. "Seamus? He's a natural for Confringo and explosive effects. Other charms might fight him… but explosions? That's playtime. If he focuses there, he'll outrun most adults on that one axis."
Light dawned across the benches.
"So each of us might have a best-fit spell—"
"—and once we find it, we get strong faster?"
Theo nodded. "Wands choose wizards. Spells do too. You'll need to look inward. What do you want most? Usually, your 'fit' spell sits right next to that."
Hermione went quiet, eyes distant. Images flickered—Theo stepping between her and danger, more than once. Her fingers curled.
I don't want him always shielding me. Next time, I protect him—and everyone beside me.
In the back of her mind a single word glowed: Protego. A Shield Charm so demanding many adult witches couldn't summon it at all—yet it felt like hers.
Across from her, Harry was frowning at the desk, somewhere far away. Night after night: a flash of lethal green, laughter cold as ice, a baby's cry, a scar burning.
His eyes steadied. "I… want that thing to stop ever firing green again."
His wrist twitched. On the floor beside the unconscious professor, a wand spun of its own accord and skittered farther away.
Theo's brows rose. Wizarding folk didn't have a fixed "mana pool", but raw power density did cap what you could cast. Harry—made irregular by that shard of soul riding shotgun—had always clocked higher than his peers. From that little pulse alone, Theo guessed he'd take to Expelliarmus like a hawk to thermals.
At this rate, this timeline's Harry might graduate as a bona fide Disarming Charm master. And these Gryffindor first-years, when the real war arrived… perhaps far more of them would punch above canon.
The bell rang.
Gryffindors spilled into the corridor still buzzing about "finding your spell". Seamus launched into a breathless reel of childhood mishaps.
"Listen, lads, I never said this, but explosions are an art form. From today—call me Seamus, Detonation Virtuoso."
Groans and laughter.
"You'll detonate our House points, that's what."
"And the trophy room will have your name engraved on a hundred plaques—for detention. Better master Scourgify too, and do not blow up the trophies, or Professor McGonagall will eat you whole."
The merriment thinned as a knot of Slytherin first-years rounded the corner. The memory of the corridor brawl was still fresh; glares snapped into place on both sides. Then several Slytherins clocked Theo and immediately looked away, huffing and speeding their steps.
Theo would've let them pass—until he saw Draco Malfoy drifting at the edge of his own cohort, alone. Even Crabbe and Goyle weren't flanking him. In the press of bodies someone "accidentally" shoved Draco, stumbling him toward the Gryffindors.
Theo's brows pinched. So last week's choices cost him cachet.
He flicked his staff out just enough to brace Draco and stop the fall. Draco caught himself, glanced up at Theo, said nothing, and walked on.
Theo's gaze slid—just for him—to the System panel. An entry that had burned red under "enemies" had cooled to a lukewarm acquaintance.
He snorted inwardly. Tsundere, are we?
Either way, the boy's standing wasn't Theo's job to fix. Choices had prices. If Draco wanted to hop fences, he could live with the bruises.
He let the thought go. Something else mattered more—tomorrow night's "detention" (read: private tutoring) in Professor Snape's office.
Beyond Snape's personal spellwork and potion tweaks, that office held treasures. A Potions Master's private shelf was never anything less than a dragon hoard. With luck, Theo might spot a material or two that sang to his talents.
But if Theo asked to browse, Snape would sooner hex a fly than hand a first-year the keys. Harry, though…
Theo turned. "Harry, we've got 'detention' with Professor Snape tomorrow."
"How about we bring him a gift?"
Harry considered, then nodded. "He has been good to me. I should. But what?"
Theo's tone turned casual, eyes bright. "Notice anything? Professor Snape and your mum were classmates. Given how kind he is to you, I'd wager they were… close. If you copied that photo of your mum from the case—the one Seamus found—and gave him a print… as a keepsake?"
Harry went still, then softened—hopeful, a little shy. "You think he'd… like that?"
Theo smiled. "I think it would mean more than you know."
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