The class bell rang.
The students scrambled to pack their things, relief washing over them like a royal pardon.
"Clean your workstations! I don't want to see a single trace of residue!" Snape snapped.
He turned to Douglas, scrutinizing him.
"Professor Holmes. I trust today's observation made up for your..."
"Extremely enlightening, Professor."
Douglas rose to his feet, cutting him off.
"Your laboratory renovation is a genuine success. Precise, efficient — there's real artistry in it."
The compliment was sincere.
The corner of Snape's mouth hooked upward. Before he could respond ,
Douglas pivoted.
"That said, your ventilation system doesn't handle dragon blood fumes particularly well. I'd recommend adding a directional adsorption charm to the runic array. And the temperature-control runes on the obsidian workbench , they're running about a half-second slow on response. For advanced potions, that could be lethal."
He said it the way a senior inspector delivers findings: mildly, matter-of-factly, pointing to flaws that were small but absolutely real.
Snape's face twitched.
"Don't trouble yourself, Holmes!"
"Mutual improvement."
Douglas patted down his robes and turned to leave. As he passed the lectern, his steps slowed for just a moment. His body angled , just enough to block Snape's line of sight. His hand moved at a speed most people would have missed entirely, brushing clean across the surface.
"Goodbye, Professor."
He smiled, and walked out.
The iron door slid shut behind him.
Snape stood alone in the empty classroom.
Something was off. He could feel it.
He began his sweep , his usual habit. Every material accounted for, every cauldron scrubbed clean. He was especially thorough with the valuable ones.
Salamander blood. Bicorn horn powder. Mandrake root.
All present.
Snape exhaled. Good. That man had a history, after all.
He returned to the lectern to sort his notes. His hand moved to where the spectroscope sat.
His fingers closed around nothing.
He went still.
He looked down.
The recessed slot where the Dark Spectroscope was kept , empty.
A single piece of parchment lay pressed in its place, written in elegant cursive:
Borrowing for further study. , D. Holmes.
"Hol. Mes."
The name came out low, strained, riding a thin current of something that might, almost, have been reluctant admiration , quickly buried.
---
Douglas hummed to himself as he strolled down the corridor toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, tossing the black crystal prism from hand to hand. The Dark Spectroscope. He turned it over, watching the light fracture through its facets.
He had to admit , the design was elegant. Using an instrument to make magical energy visible. That was a gap in his own thinking he hadn't noticed until today.
He pushed open the classroom door.
The sixth-years were already mostly seated. The moment he stepped inside, they straightened up.
The classroom looked much the same as last year, except for the slogans. New term, new additions.
One second faster on the draw , one more day alive on the battlefield.
Magic is finite. Precision is not.
Slack off today, become someone's rations tomorrow.
Time is magic. Efficiency is life.
And at the back, where the professor stood, a banner hung over everything else: N.E.W.T. Exam Countdown: 661 Days.
School had barely started, and the room already had the atmosphere of a place where underperformance had consequences.
Douglas walked to the lectern. He dropped a stack of parchment onto the desk.
SMACK!
The room went quiet instantly.
"Class begins." His voice was calm. It didn't need to be loud.
"Stand," the new class monitor called immediately.
The students rose as one.
"Good morning, Professor."
"Good morning. Sit down."
Smooth. Practiced. Clean.
"New term." Douglas looked around the room. "New stakes."
"Welcome to sixth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Starting this year, you will face the most important challenge of your wizarding careers."
His gaze moved from face to face.
"Your N.E.W.T.s."
The air shifted the moment he said it.
"I know what you're thinking. Exams. Pressure. Boring theory." He walked to the edge of the lectern. "But in this subject, your exam score is your survival rate. Directly and literally."
"The core topic for sixth year — I trust you previewed it over the summer."
He paused.
"Non-verbal spells."
"In a real fight, no one gives you time to leisurely finish incanting Stupefy. No one waits for your wand movement to be textbook-perfect."
"Sound is a vulnerability."
"Non-verbal casting is the line between an elite wizard and an ordinary one."
He spoke quickly. A lot of information, compressed tight. Students who wanted to keep up had to pay attention.
Douglas snapped his fingers.
Text appeared in the air:
Non-verbal Spells: A Primer , Mind. Will. Wand.
"I know your summer assignment was to preview the material." He stepped down from the lectern. "But previewing and understanding are not the same thing."
"And understanding and mastery are separated by a gap you cannot simply step across."
"Today, we build the bridge."
His eyes sharpened.
"This is also, consistently, one of the highest point-loss areas on the N.E.W.T. exam. Every year."
He lifted his wand and tapped the air.
A golden beam spilled from the tip. In the center of the classroom, it wove itself into a complex, three-dimensional image , a translucent human figure, hovering in place.
"Watch."
Every eye went to it.
"When you cast verbally, magical energy is pulled from your core, travels along the meridians of your arm, and drives toward the wand." As he spoke, a turbulent stream of bright red energy surged through the figure's outline , rushing like a river that had broken its banks. At the throat, it divided. One branch slammed against the vocal cords, then rejoined the main flow, and the whole surge burst from the wand tip. The path was long. The waste was visible. Every bend, every branch, every unnecessary loop bled energy.
"You see it? Sound is the first leak in the system."
"Non-verbal spells..."
He moved his wand again. The red current vanished.
In its place: a single blue beam. Condensed, direct, unwavering. It left the magical core and traveled in a straight line , no branches, no detours , like a bolt of light, through the arm, to the wand tip in an instant.
Shorter path. Higher speed. Concentrated force.
"But the demands it places on the conduit are far greater."
His voice dropped. It carried in the quiet.
"Your body is the vessel. It holds the magic. It channels it."
"A powerful non-verbal spell is a high-pressure torrent , violent, compressed, with nowhere to bleed off."
He scanned the room. A few faces looked confused.
"Let me simplify."
"Imagine you're trying to carry water from a fire hose — using a drinking straw."
"What happens?"
➤ Next: The Most Intense Assignment in History! What the Hell is a Hand-Drawn Will Fl...
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