The candlelight flickered softly in the library as I leaned back in my chair, a quill spinning lazily between my fingers. Across from me, Salazar sat with his usual composed posture, though I could tell he was listening more closely than he let on.
"I've been observing the students," I said, breaking the silence. "Patterns. Progress rates. Mistakes."
Salazar raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And you're wrong."
He didn't react outwardly, but I saw the slight tightening of his jaw. "That's a bold claim."
I smirked faintly. "Not really. Just accurate."
I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. "It's not blood. Not really. Not in the way you think."
His eyes sharpened. "Explain."
I gestured vaguely toward the castle beyond the walls. "Students from old magical families—they learn faster. They grasp concepts quicker. They make fewer catastrophic mistakes."
"Yes," he said simply. "That's obvious."
"It is," I agreed. "But not for the reason you think."
That got his full attention.
"In this era," I continued, "education isn't common. Reading, writing, basic comprehension—it's limited to nobles, merchants, people with resources."
I tapped the table lightly.
"Muggle-born students don't have that foundation. They're not slower because they lack magic. They're slower because they're learning everything at once."
Salazar frowned slightly. "You're saying their disadvantage is… educational?"
"Yes."
I let the word settle.
"They walk into a classroom where we're explaining complex magical theory," I continued, "and they don't even fully understand the language we're using. They're trying to learn magic, reading, writing, and critical thinking all at the same time."
He was quiet now. Thinking.
"That's why they make mistakes," I added. "Not because they're inferior. Because they're overwhelmed."
Salazar exhaled slowly, leaning back. "That… would explain certain patterns."
"Exactly."
I leaned back as well, folding my arms. "And in your case? Potions is precise. One mistake, and things explode. Of course they struggle. You're expecting precision from students who are still figuring out how to read instructions properly."
He gave me a flat look. "Are you implying my teaching is flawed?"
"I'm implying your expectations are," I shot back.
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, he let out a quiet huff of amusement.
"…Annoyingly logical," he admitted.
I smirked. "I usually am."
Silence settled between us again, but it wasn't tense this time. Just thoughtful.
"So," Salazar said after a moment, "your solution?"
"Simple," I replied. "We teach them the basics first. Literacy. Structure. Comprehension."
He frowned slightly. "That's… beneath advanced magical instruction."
"No," I said firmly. "It's foundational to it."
I leaned forward again, eyes sharp. "If you want competent students—if you want fewer mistakes, fewer failures—you don't lower your standards."
"You raise their starting point."
That one landed. I could see it.
Salazar tapped his fingers lightly against the table, considering.
"…Basic instruction before advanced teaching," he murmured.
"Yes."
"And you believe this will… improve their performance?"
"I know it will," I said confidently.
Another pause.
Then, slowly, Salazar nodded.
"…Very well," he said. "I will test this theory."
I smiled slightly, satisfied.
"Good," I said. "Because if it works, you'll have fewer explosions in your classroom."
He gave me a dry look. "A compelling incentive."
I chuckled softly, leaning back in my chair again.
Sometimes the problem wasn't magic.
Sometimes…
It was just education.