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Today, Sargeras' lesson focused on the magical node distribution and the evolving structure of the Shield Charm.
For lower-year students, this was considered a rather challenging spell… so difficult, in fact, that even quite a few Ministry of Magic employees could not cast a decent, reliable Shield Charm.
Yet, under the enhancement of his Mechanical Mind, it took him less than half an hour to pour every crucial point of knowledge about the spell directly into the young wizards' minds.
Of course, this did not mean they had mastered it. Between "knowing" and "applying" stretched a vast chasm, like a map that could point the way forward, but could never carry you to your destination. One still had to take each step on foot, traversing the long and uneven road before reaching the end.
There was another obstacle as well: for many of the younger students, their magical power was still unstable, making it difficult to form a shield strong and solid enough to hold.
So Sargeras decided to change his approach.
Earlier in the lesson, he had used the Mechanical Mind to filter away the distracting noise of countless scattered thoughts, leaving the classroom rational and focused, every mind working with sharp efficiency. Now, however, he intended to use the same magic once more… but not to quiet them. This time, he would transform that clarity into something far stronger: steadfast determination.
With a simple wave of his wand, invisible ripples of magic spread outward, washing over the room. At once, every student felt as though their thoughts had been plunged into a cold, unyielding forge.
"You may have heard," Sargeras said, his gaze sweeping across the faces below, which were slowly taking on a look of resolve, "that magic is a power that originates from the mind. When emotions are actively stirred and harnessed with precision, the release of magic becomes twice as effective while requiring only half the effort."
As his final words faded, his wrist gave the slightest, almost casual twist. A nearly transparent circular shield began to bloom before him, its edges shimmering with a faint silver glow.
The barrier was flawless in shape, its magic refined to perfection. The sight alone made every student hold their breath, their eyes filled with pure, unguarded yearning.
"This is why I believe," he continued, letting the radiant shield dissolve into nothing, "that what you need right now is not absolute calm, but unshakable will."
He turned his attention back to the eager young witches and wizards, their gazes burning with anticipation.
"The Shield Charm is the reflection of one's will. Hesitation, fear, or doubt… these are cracks in its surface."
"And the heart of a successful Shield Charm," Sargeras went on, his voice quiet and even, as still as water and so unlike the fiery determination now shining in the students' eyes, "lies in unwavering belief. You must believe, without question, that this barrier can keep out every threat. You must believe your will alone is strong enough to guard your own safety. That belief, in itself, is the firmest foundation a spell can ever rest upon."
Under the forceful guidance of the Mechanical Mind, and with Sargeras' words hammering at their hearts like a smith shaping steel, the cool and distant rationality they had felt earlier in the lesson was slowly being consumed. In its place rose a fervent, almost zealous determination that burned bright in every gaze.
"Remember this feeling you have at this moment," he told them, his tone carrying the weight of command, "because it will be the key to casting the Shield Charm successfully."
His steps were slow and deliberate as he descended from the podium, the sound of his boots faint but measured on the stone floor. His gaze, sharp and authoritative, swept from one young witch or wizard to the next, lingering just long enough to make each of them straighten unconsciously under its weight.
"Now—"
It was as if the air in the entire classroom had grown still. Every student instinctively sat up straighter, their backs taut, their eyes stripped of all hesitation. What remained was only pure focus, a readiness to obey without question.
"Raise your wands!"
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The next morning, on his way to the library, Sargeras happened to walk straight into the middle of a tense scene. Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall stood in the corridor ahead, effectively blocking Headmaster Dumbledore's path, the two ladies speaking in urgent, overlapping voices.
"You must put a stop to this at once!" Madam Pomfrey's tone was laced with clear exhaustion and irritation, the signs of a sleepless night evident in her face. "The hospital wing is practically overflowing, and it's all little ones coming in black and blue! Their injuries may not be serious, but I'm only one person, and I can hardly keep up…"
Sargeras understood at once. There was no mistaking it. They were clearly complaining about the Kestrel's "unique" teaching method, which had managed to turn the already overstretched hospital wing into a place teetering on the brink of chaos.
It was, without question, a problem. The entirety of Hogwarts' hospital wing was supported solely by Madam Pomfrey, a single pillar holding up the weight of all medical care in the school. When a sudden tide of injured students arrived all at once, even the most capable healer could only do so much before her strength was spent.
Deep in thought, he approached. The three of them noticed him and paused their discussion.
"Good morning, Professor Greengrass," Professor McGonagall said first, inclining her head in greeting.
Sargeras inclined his head in return, exchanging a polite greeting with them before smoothly steering the conversation toward the newly arrived professor, and from there, to the abundance of injured students they had been discussing.
At last, his gaze came to rest on the school's sole healer. "Madam Pomfrey…" he asked with quiet directness, "have you ever considered bringing on a few assistants?"
"…Assistants?"
Both the Headmaster and Madam Pomfrey, along with McGonagall, wore identical looks of mild confusion, their eyes settling on him with a silent question.
So Sargeras elaborated, his tone measured and thoughtful. "By the sixth or seventh year, many of our young witches and wizards have already become proficient with basic healing spells. Yet it's clear they rarely get the chance to put that knowledge into practice. Wouldn't this be an excellent opportunity for them?"
He gave a meaningful blink, the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes. "It would greatly lighten your workload, and at the same time allow the students to refine their spellwork in real situations. And I would say it would be of considerable benefit to their own growth as well."
Even Professor McGonagall seemed slightly moved by the idea, though her habitual caution prompted a follow-up question. "And their spell-casting skills… can you guarantee their work will be safe?"
"Even if their results fall short of perfect," Sargeras replied with quiet certainty, "Madam Pomfrey would still be here to oversee everything and make sure nothing goes wrong. And besides, we would only be talking about minor injuries like sprains, chilblains, the occasional nosebleed. The risk is negligible."
Then, with a tone almost too light for the seriousness of the discussion, he added, "In the worst-case scenario, the patient might end up with a few harmless rashes or a couple of trivial blisters…"
Madam Pomfrey's eyes lit up almost instantly. "That's an excellent suggestion! It would even give me the opportunity to see if we have any promising young talents in healing magic, students who might be nurtured toward a future at St. Mungo's."
Turning eagerly to Dumbledore, she pressed, "Headmaster, what do you think?"
"Ah… an excellent idea, and a rather creative solution at that," the old headmaster said with a warm, approving smile. "Though tell me, Sargeras, do you truly believe the young witches and wizards will be willing to spend their time helping out in the hospital wing?"
"You needn't worry about that in the slightest," Sargeras replied, the corner of his mouth curling into a knowing smile. "If anything, I suspect they'll be hoping for more 'patients' to come along, just so they can finally put their newly learned skills to good use."
And so the plan was settled. Fortunately, in the wizarding world, one did not need a formal medical license to cast a few spells for mending, and treating the odd scrape or bruise was hardly likely to cause any major trouble. At worst, an overly enthusiastic "young healer" whose skill still needed refining might leave a poor, unlucky patient with a harmless but memorable little souvenir… a rash that would fade in a day or two, or perhaps a faintly glowing blister that would be gone by morning.
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Meanwhile, Argus Filch, the castle caretaker, also had his hands more than full in recent days. The corridors and courtyards were littered with the messy aftermath of winter mischief: slushy shards of melted ice and fragments of burst snowballs scattered like casualties across the flagstones.
As a Squib who couldn't use magic, cleaning up these magically created messes was exhausting work.
Still, Filch did not go to Dumbledore to complain. Instead, he confronted the newly arrived Defence Against the Dark Arts professor directly, Professor Iresa Lumina.
"Professor Lumina," he rasped, his voice hoarse and thick with suppressed anger, "I think you'd better do something about this problem…"
His words came fast, the bitterness in them barely restrained. "Ice shards, puddles of filthy snowwater… everywhere! And as if that weren't enough, I'm left to deal with those cursed rat intestines, toad entrails, and all sorts of foul, unidentifiable muck! I scrub and scrub from morning until night, without even a moment to sit down for a bite to eat!" His sallow face twitched faintly, the muscles tightening with his anger.
"Oh… my apologies, Mr. Filch." Kestrel's response was swift and earnest, her face an open picture of guilt. "But don't worry. I can teach you two incredibly practical cleaning spells that will clear all of this in an instant!"
Filch's expression froze into something hard and unmoving, his voice turning sharp. "Professor Lumina, I think you must have forgotten, or perhaps you never knew at all, I'm a Squib. I can't use magic."
Ever since the incident when Mrs. Norris had been petrified, Filch had practically revealed his identity as a Squib in front of all the teachers and students in the school. He no longer flinched when he spoke of it, even though deep down it still stung more than he would ever admit.
"Oh… I see…" Lumina's face drew tight at once, as if she were working to swallow down a particularly thorny problem.
Then, all at once, her eyes lit up. "I've got it!" She clapped her hands together with a sharp, ringing sound that bounced along the corridor, startling Filch so much that he actually took a step back.
"I can enchant your cleaning tools to move on their own. Just imagine, they will sweep, scrub, and mop without you having to lift a finger. That way, you can finally have some of the load taken off your shoulders."
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[Chapter End's]
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