Chapter 574: Blind Confidence
Old Frank Bryce had departed. He left behind a village fueled by rumors of his death and took with him only the gnarled walking stick that had been his companion for decades. His "nephews" remained in Little Hangleton, two more rough-faced farmers blending into the rural landscape.
By the end of December, with only two weeks left of the Hogwarts term, the sky finally cleared. The clouds vanished, replaced by a brilliant, dazzling pearl-white. One morning, a layer of shimmering hoarfrost coated the muddy grounds.
Sean walked across the lawn, glancing down at his boots. With a casual thought, the mud vanished, leaving the leather pristine.
[You have practiced the Scouring Charm at a Master level. Proficiency +300]
He carried his book, weaving through the small groups of students, his mind fixed on his recent operations. Saving Frank Bryce had been a necessity. They had applied a few precise Memory Charms—not to bury secrets, but to move him as far from Voldemort's path as possible. Sean believed Frank's sacrifice in the original timeline was a tragedy that could be avoided. Now, the old veteran had a new life and a new farm.
Thinking of this, a faint smile touched Sean's lips. But his expression soon returned to its usual mask of calm. There was still so much to do.
Nagini remained deep within the Wizard's Tome. She had completely forgotten her human identity, and the name "Nagini" elicited no reaction from her reptilian mind. Sean knew that while most spells like Sectumsempra or standard Transfigurations had counter-curses, powerful and ancient magic often lacked a "reversal."
The Killing Curse was one. The Maledictus Blood Curse was another. Even the archives of the wise Rowena Ravenclaw offered no direct cure for such a soul-warping affliction. However, Sean realized that just because a solution didn't exist in the "Wizarding World" didn't mean it couldn't be found in the "Soul World."
Beyond Nagini, Sean's thoughts were dominated by Magical Circuits. Since Dumbledore had revealed the secret to him, Sean finally understood the bizarre, runic symbols scattered throughout the Headmaster's personal journals. They were maps of the internal architecture of magic. It was clear Dumbledore had taught Minerva McGonagall using these same principles.
"Magical Circuits are the root of all Advanced Transfiguration..." Sean muttered to himself. He gave his wand a casual flick toward a squirrel by the Black Lake. In a burst of light, the animal transformed into a small, flickering fire-salamander.
[You have practiced Magical Transfiguration at an Expert level. Proficiency +50]
[Magical Transfiguration: Expert (50/30,000)]
[Material Transfiguration: Expert (300/30,000)]
[Soul Transfiguration: Proficient (50/3,000)]
Fifty points per cast... Sean calculated. If he practiced twenty times a day, that was a thousand points. At that rate, he could jump from Expert to Master in about thirty days. Of course, he couldn't spend all day on a single spell, so the timeline would stretch. He estimated that within four months, he would achieve Master of Transfiguration status across the board.
That level of proficiency was elite even among the staff. McGonagall's Transfiguration and Snape's Potions and Dark Arts were likely at the high end of the Master tier. Sean only hoped the requirements for the Legendary tier weren't impossibly high, or his schedule would truly become a nightmare.
During a particularly muddy December morning, the students were dreading their two-hour session on the grounds. To their delight, Hagrid had prepared a massive bonfire filled with fire-salamanders. It was a fascinating lesson; the students gathered dry wood and leaves to keep the fire roaring, watching the flame-loving lizards scurry through the crackling logs.
The afternoon Divination lesson was significantly less exciting. Professor Trelawney had moved on to Palmistry. She spent the hour darting between students, informing them that their lifelines were the shortest she had ever seen. Ron was her primary target today; he spent the rest of the evening looking morosely at his palm, wondering which specific line indicated his impending doom.
But the dread was short-lived. Christmas was only two days away.
The castle was filled with the frantic energy of holiday prep. Professor Flitwick had decorated his classroom with shimmering, multicolored lights that turned into real fairies, fluttering their wings against the glass. Students were huddled in the Great Hall, discussing their holiday plans.
Everyone in the Hope Cottage group had decided to stay at Hogwarts. Ron claimed he couldn't stand two weeks of Percy's Head Boy lectures; Hermione insisted she needed the library for her research; and Justin noted that Neville's "Auror Training" had reached a critical phase. Neville, deeply moved, had started secretly leaving various pies on their common table every night.
Sean, of course, wasn't going anywhere. His Time-Turner only functioned within the castle's unique temporal anchor, and he had a standing appointment with the Headmaster.
A week had passed since the trip to Little Hangleton. Sean found himself standing outside the gargoyle, eager for the lesson. Previously, his Transfiguration was at the high-end of [Proficient], but after comprehending the "Circuits," his magic felt deeper and more absolute. Even a casual cast now hit the [Expert] standard.
The office was quiet as he entered. The portraits were all feigning sleep, except for Headmistress Dilys Derwent. Unlike the others, she seemed to despise napping. She had always taken a shine to Sean.
"Ah, little Green! It feels like decades since I've seen you. If only Albus would hurry up and retire so we could get some fresh blood in that chair." She stood up in her frame, her silver curls bouncing, her eyes full of unshielded admiration.
"Good morning, Headmistress Derwent," Sean said respectfully.
"Few people are rooting for my retirement, Horace always says I'm past my prime... but as you see, the wizarding world still has a spot for an old man," Dumbledore chuckled as the door clicked shut. "Having a pleasant week, Mr. Green?"
"Of course, sir. And you?" Sean took his seat.
"Peaky," Dumbledore glanced at Dilys's portrait. "I have a very respected lady constantly hounding me to step down. But I suspect the time has not yet come, wouldn't you agree?"
Sean nodded. Dumbledore beamed and exchanged a look with the portrait. Headmistress Derwent sat back in her chair, watching Sean with a gentle, maternal gaze.
The circular office was still, save for the soft rustle of the wind. Snowflakes the size of feathers began to cling to the windowpanes.
"Today, we shall study an exceptionally unique branch of Transfiguration," Dumbledore said, waving a hand to let the teapot pour. "I suspect you have already guessed what it is."
"The Vanishing Spell?" Sean asked.
"Correct—Evanesco. Sometimes called the magic that requires the most 'Wizarding Confidence.' It is simpler than the Inanimatus Conjurus you'll tackle at N.E.W.T. level, yet it remains the most difficult spell on the O.W.L. curriculum."
Dumbledore leaned forward. "Now, consider the theory. Most students are taught that the item simply 'ceases to be.' The Guide to Advanced Transfiguration claims a wizard merely needs to be confident. But I believe you require a deeper understanding."
The theory of Evanesco? Sean pondered, cradling his cup of pumpkin juice. Dumbledore never taught a lesson in isolation. The first lesson was about Focus (Concentrating on a single point). The second was about Structure (Magical Circuits).
Focus strengthened the Order. Circuits provided the Wisdom.
So what did the Vanishing Spell represent?
"The Vanishing Spell... it is the absolute destruction of environment," Sean mused, staring at the frosted glass. "Its principle is the wizard's desire to unmake. The wizard forms the intent to erase, and the magic obeys."
"Oho! I'm glad you didn't give me a lecture about 'breaking the circuits,'" Dumbledore said, his beard twitching with delight.
"Not all magic requires a mechanical 'how,' sir. Magic is not always logical," Sean said seriously.
He remembered Miranda Goshawk's words in The Standard Book of Spells: "If a wizard has a need, a spell will exist. If it does not, it simply hasn't been discovered yet."
Libatius Borage had said the same of Potions. Their words revealed a fundamental law: The scope of magic is limited only by the depth of a wizard's desire.
"Wise words..." Dumbledore stood up. "And with that, we conclude our lessons for the year."
Sean blinked. It was indeed the end of December.
"Wizards who seek wisdom find it. Wizards who seek power find it." Dumbledore smiled meaningfully. "But what is the most important element of the search?"
"A wizard's 'barbaric' confidence," Sean offered after a moment. "Perhaps even... Blind Confidence."
"The best answer I have heard in years. Exactly. Do not always let your 'Wisdom' tell you what is possible. Sometimes, you must be a bit more barbaric. A bit more blind."
Dumbledore's eyes locked onto Sean's. "It depends on you, child."
He raised a hand. The copy of The Wizarding Magical Annals on the desk began to flip its pages rapidly. It stopped at three specific chapters:
The Age of Blindness
The Age of Order
The Age of Wisdom
Sean felt a jolt of mental pressure. He realized he was looking at the roadmap of a Legend.
"How does a wizard maintain that level of confidence?" Sean asked.
Dumbledore didn't answer with words. He raised his wand and gave a tiny flick. A miniature stream of water appeared in mid-air. It flowed naturally until it hit a conjured obstacle. It surged, crashed over the barrier, and its speed increased. It hit a second, higher barrier, and because it was already moving with momentum, it leaped over that as well.
Soon, the stream was circling the room at high speed, a roaring, liquid loop that seemed unstoppable.
"Your magic is too 'proper,' little Green. It lacks the wildness of a true wizard," Dumbledore said, waving the water away. "A wizard should be capable of doing things that are... improper."
Christmas had arrived.
The castle was a festival of light and greenery, though few students remained to see it. Thick garlands of holly and mistletoe were draped across the corridors, and every suit of armor glowed with mysterious interior lights. In the Great Hall, the twelve traditional trees stood tall, their golden stars shimmering.
The scent of roasting turkey and plum pudding filled the air, but for once, Sean was immune to the distraction. Parchment floated around him, and his quill was scratching at a frantic pace. Justin and Hermione followed him through the hall, looking at the words on the page: "Magical Plasticity" and "Limit Resonance Theory."
"We can conclude that magic possesses infinite potential," the quill scrawled. "This potential is not just in variety, but in the infinite tiers of power. History rarely mentions 'advancement,' but that does not mean it doesn't exist. Magic, as a soul-based force, grows as the wizard's conviction hardens. When a wizard establishes a firm Order and truly believes he can shatter a limit... the limit ceases to exist."
The quill moved faster. Sean was energized. "This is Magical Plasticity. Being a conceptual power means it can be broken and rebuilt in the wizard's heart. If a wizard can consistently break his own limits, then 'The Limit' becomes a myth."
"What limit?" Ron asked, joining the group and peering at the parchment.
"Hush—I'm almost there..." Hermione snapped, her eyes scanning Sean's notes with intense focus.
"Right... well," Ron muttered, backing off. "I just wanted to say... if you look at your Magic Hand Mirrors, you'll see the M-Net is absolutely mental today."
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