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Filch eyed her with deep suspicion, his cloudy gaze clouded further still by distrust.
Let the broom move on its own? That sounded far too much like one of those mischief-maker tricks the troublemakers loved to pull.
"Move on its own? And you expect me to believe they'll behave themselves? They won't go mad on me like those cursed biting brooms, will they?"
The unpleasant memory of certain Weasley twins' prank products, disasters that had left him with more work than he cared to recall, flashed through Filch's mind.
"Of course not! I'll be using magic that is perfectly precise and absolutely stable!" Kestrel thumped a hand against her chest in assurance, her tone brimming with confidence. "Come on then, hand me your mop and bucket!"
Filch hesitated, suspicion still lingering in his features, but at length he reluctantly surrendered them. The weathered old mop had been leaning against the wall, and the dented tin bucket bore edges that had clearly seen better days.
Kestrel took them at once and drew her wand with a practiced flick, murmuring an incantation under her breath.
The tip of the wand danced lightly over the mop's handle and the rim of the bucket, leaving behind a faint, thread-thin trace of blue light that shimmered for an instant before fading completely.
"All done!"
With a satisfied nod, she handed the tools back to him. "Go on, give it a try. All you have to do now is tell them: 'Begin cleaning!' and they'll go and find work to do all by themselves. Say 'Stop!' and they'll wait patiently for your orders. Easy enough, isn't it?"
Filch pressed his lips into a tight line as if she had just handed him something dangerous and illegal. His fingers curled cautiously around the mop handle, and he cast a wary glance about the corridor before settling his eyes on a stubborn patch of slush and mud not far away, where dirty water had frozen into jagged shards of ice.
Clearing his throat, he spoke in a low voice with a strange mixture of reverence and doubt, as though invoking some ancient rite. "Cl—cleaning… begin."
No sooner had the last word left his lips than the mop in Filch's hands gave a sudden, almost violent shudder, as if jolted into life by an invisible spark.
It wrenched itself free from his grasp, landed with a wet "plop" straight into the bucket, and soaked its ragged strands until they dripped with water. Then, with surprising agility for such a mundane object, it hopped back out, sprang toward the patch of grime, and began scrubbing back and forth with astonishing speed and precision, working as though it had been born for this very task.
Beside it, the dented tin bucket gave a quiet, bubbling gurgle, and the stagnant water pooled at its base seemed to vanish as though drawn away by some invisible sponge, leaving the metal surface perfectly dry and gleaming as if it had never been used.
Filch could only gape in mute astonishment at the scene before him. The mop he had used for over a decade, one that had never shown him the slightest courtesy, now seemed to possess a will of its own. It worked tirelessly without the faintest pause, its efficiency several times greater than his own on his best day.
For the first time in years, the perpetually shadowed lines of his face shifted, his expression caught somewhere between shock, bewilderment, and… the faintest trace of hesitant disbelief.
Perhaps… perhaps this eccentric, wild-eyed new professor really did know what she was doing.
Kestrel stood with her hands on her hips, pride written plainly across her face as she admired her 'masterpiece.' "Well then, Mr. Filch? Do you feel a bit more… impressed now?"
Filch did not answer at once. His gaze remained fixed on the mop, which was wriggling about with something close to glee, as if determined to outshine any human cleaner. He looked as though he were trying to puzzle out yet another of the wizarding world's endless mysteries.
At last, he gave the smallest, slowest nod, accompanied by a low, indistinct murmur from deep in his throat.
Well… at the very least, it was better than huffing and puffing away at the floors on his own… so long as the thing didn't start wandering the castle by itself in the dead of night.
"Oh, and one more thing…" Kestrel said suddenly, as though she had just remembered, turning to remind him, "these little helpers will need a fresh dose of magic about once a week. If you can't find anyone to help you with it, you can always come to me."
"…Thank you, Miss Lumina." Filch's voice was still rough and stiff, but for once it carried a note of genuine civility.
"You're too kind. This was, after all, a problem I caused," Kestrel replied with an easy smile, waving her hand as though brushing away the formality. "Well then, farewell, Mr. Filch."
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The Dueling Club was set for Wednesday and Saturday afternoons each week, with the Great Hall serving as its usual venue. Of course, if special circumstances arose, the location could be changed to suit the lesson's needs.
For the very first class, Sargeras had decided to begin with three simple yet reliable spells: the Disarming Charm(Expelliarmus), the Stunning Spell (Stupefy), and the Full Body-Bind Curse (Petrificus Totalus). They were straightforward and relatively safe to use, yet still produced quick, visible results… making them the perfect starting point for training novices.
There was, however, a practical challenge standing in his way: the students gathered in the Great Hall spanned from several different years.
For the older years, these three spells were likely so familiar as to be effortless, offering little in the way of challenge. For the younger years, particularly those who had not yet completed a full term, some might still fumble with their wands, entirely unfamiliar with the incantations or the methods required to cast them.
Yet this did not trouble Sargeras in the slightest, for he had his own way of ensuring that every young witch and wizard, regardless of their current skill, could learn these spells quickly and even master them with surprising speed.
The key lay in Mechanical Mind. With it, he could temporarily sharpen his students into cool-headed, sharp-witted prodigies with flawless recall, ensuring that every precise detail of wand movement, every subtle nuance of spellcasting, was caught and imprinted perfectly into their minds.
Once the knowledge was flawlessly "downloaded" into their memory, all that remained was repetition — hundreds, even thousands of times — until instinct took over and muscle memory made the motions second nature.
His goal for this first lesson was clear and unshakable: before the session ended, every single student in the Great Hall, no matter their year, would not only understand but successfully cast each of these three spells.
To some, that might sound impossibly ambitious, yet to Sargeras, it was far from an unattainable task.
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On Wednesday afternoon, the Great Hall had been expanded by a Undetectable Extension Charm, creating a wide, open practice space. The oak flooring gleamed like polished glass, reflecting the golden shafts of afternoon sunlight streaming in through the tall windows.
The air was alive with the restless energy of excited anticipation, a faint buzz of tension threading through it. Students in their house robes clustered in small groups, whispering among themselves about Professor Greengrass and his Dueling Club.
It was clear from their animated expressions that the memory of the last duel was still fresh in their minds. Professor Greengrass's calm precision, Snape's fluid resilience, and Lockhart's… well, a rather textbook example of what not to do. Each performance, in its own way, had been more than a little instructive.
Every single professor had shown up to the Great Hall without exception that day, and even Snape had not excused himself. Kestrel, having somehow caught wind of Sargeras's impressive performance in their earlier duel, had latched onto Snape like a terrier with a bone, relentlessly peppering him with questions one after another, seemingly oblivious to the way his expression was growing darker and more severe with every passing moment.
"Come on, Professor Snape, tell me more… what happened next?" Kestrel leaned in so close her two curious eyes were practically brushing his face.
Snape's features hardened into a stony mask, and without a single word, he cast a discreet Muffliato on himself.
Several of the surrounding professors, unable to contain themselves, covered their mouths to stifle quiet laughter at the sight.
In the end, it was Sargeras who came to Snape's rescue… right on cue, the moment the clock struck, he stepped into the Great Hall.
Today he wore a set of deep grey wizard's robes, perfectly tailored to his frame, the cut sharp and clean, giving him a tall, commanding presence. Without indulging in unnecessary greetings, his steady gaze swept once across the room, a single silent glance that seemed to draw all attention toward him. The low murmur of conversation faded at once.
"Good afternoon." His voice was not loud, yet it carried to every corner of the hall, clear as a bell and edged with a quiet authority that settled the restless air. "Welcome to the Dueling Club. The original intention for establishing this class is simple: to teach you how to survive when faced with a real fight. That means every flashy flourish and every bit of showmanship is to be thrown out. Put plainly, there is only one thing you are here to learn… survival."
In the past, the students might have scoffed at such words, dismissing them as overly grim. But after the Chamber of Secrets incident, their attitudes had shifted. Perhaps, at last, they had begun to understand that even within the walls of Hogwarts, safety was never absolute.
"Class begins."
Sargeras raised his wand. He spoke no incantation, yet at its tip, a cold, sharp blue light flared to life.
And the instant his words fell, that point of light burst outward, spilling into countless fine, silken threads of shimmering blue that streaked through the air with pinpoint precision, piercing into the space between each student's brows.
A strange and indescribable coolness surged into their minds, as if delicate clockwork gears had clicked neatly into place, sweeping away in an instant every stray thought, every anxious tremor, every ingrained habit of thinking.
The world seemed to slow, as though someone had pressed a "slow motion" key. Senses sharpened to a startling clarity, and their thoughts turned cold and lucid, like ice crystals under winter sunlight.
This was the first time Sargeras had ever cast Mechanical Mind on so many people at once. It was still far from the outer edge of his limits, yet even so, the effort pressed heavily against him, a weight he could not quite ignore.
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[Chapter End's]
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