"Thank you, Lady Grey."
Sean said it with genuine warmth.
Behind him, the baffled first-years watched the ghost drift away, the stairs slotting into place,
and like a tide rushing in, they surged forward.
"Sean, how'd you pull that off?"
Amid the buzz, Michael's voice piped up close by,
Anthony and Terry perking their ears.
"Hogwarts Castle dates to the tenth century, and the moving staircases were designed by Rowena Ravenclaw herself..."
Sean trailed off there,
and the three got it in a flash.
But in a pinch like that—who'd think of it?
Worse: asking a ghost for help.
Michael had figured that was just prefect banter.
"But how'd you know Lady Grey could sway the stairs?"
Michael whispered.
"I didn't. But trying beats twiddling thumbs."
Sean replied.
...
They made it to Charms just as the bell tolled behind them.
The first-years, flushed and frazzled, scrambled to seats.
The Charms classroom had a clever layout:
a central aisle, with four linked rows of desks flanking either side.
Sean nabbed the nearest spot, plonking down beside Hermione—head-deep in her book.
No one sat by her till then,
followed by Michael, Terry, and Anthony.
"You nearly missed it."
Hermione's voice came muffled from the pages.
Sean nodded, gaze drifting to the stack of books at the aisle's end.
The Charms master was a wizard of oddly diminutive stature: Professor Flitwick,
who popped up from behind the front row, snagging every eye.
The first-years gawked at the one-meter-tall prof, his mop of fluffy white hair and beard.
He turned, clambering book by book to the top of the pile.
Jaws hit the floor.
Once perched steady, the class dissolved into giggles.
"All right, all right—a chuckle never hurt, eh?"
Flitwick seemed unbothered, straightening his collar with a breezy lilt,
"Charms are a wizard's bread and butter.
What sort of witch or wizard wouldn't bother with them?"
As he spoke, he flicked his wand—no incantation uttered—and the books took wing,
swaying to his baton like an orchestra,
now ballooning desk-sized, now shrinking to thumbnail,
then— with a casual wave—duplicating into dozens,
finally scampering about as rabbits and birds.
Hermione eyed a bunny hopping tableward, curious.
Pop!—all burst to fireworks and vanished.
"Brilliant!"
"Wow!"
The class erupted in thrilled whoops and gasps.
Flitwick beamed and nodded.
Charms kicked off in that electric hum.
Just as Sean remembered, Flitwick unpacked the theory with easy flair,
then dove into the simplest charm: Lumos.
"The key to Lumos lies in the wrist snap—that pause at the end must be decisive..."
Flitwick's voice rang clear.
The first-years gave it their all, most nailing it on the first few goes.
[You have practiced Lumos to novice standard. Proficiency +3]
[You have practiced Lumos to novice standard. Proficiency +3]
...
Light bloomed steady at Sean's wand tip.
"Got it!"
Michael nailed his third try, his wand sparking aglow;
he whipped round, spotting Terry's tip lit too.
Anthony? He'd clearly prepped—nailed it first crack.
"Fine,"
Michael huffed, scouting another victim,
"Sean?"
[You have practiced Lumos to novice standard. Proficiency +3]
"Sean?"
[You have practiced Lumos to adept standard. Proficiency +10]
"Eh? Didn't you hear?"
Michael leaned in, head cocked.
But Sean's mind echoed only Flitwick—
"If Lumos won't spark, try this: picture yourself in utter dark, yearning for light—oh, how you crave that light..."
Yearning...
Sean murmured, flashing to orphanage nights—power cut early, no candle to chase the gloom.
London still hid fugitives then; wind and snow lashed the rattling panes with sharp cracks.
Sean in his sickbed, unafraid, but that ache for light? It lingered.
"I've got a wand now,"
Sean said.
"Lumos!"
[You have practiced Lumos to master standard. Proficiency +300]
"Merlin's beard! Everyone—look at Mr. Sean Greene!"
Flitwick scampered down his book perch, alight with glee.
The room bathed in a soft glow,
first-years holding breath at the orb—ten times ordinary bright—and the boy wielding it, hair silvered to moonlight.
"Flawless Lumos! Ten points to Ravenclaw!"
Flitwick crowed.
...
"Sean, Sean—how? Teach me; I need this one."
Michael nattered on.
"It's emotion,"
Sean said gravely,
"Magic's innate to the witch or wizard. Its strength hinges on emotion or mental fortitude."
"Emotion?"
Michael echoed; Anthony, Terry, and Hermione—eavesdropping—went thoughtful.
In their daze, Sean had slipped into the Great Hall.
Justin radar-pinged beside him, as ever.
Sean prodded his steak-and-kidney pudding, bemused—what mindset birthed this?
Munching away, he mulled.
Magical Theory hammered mental strength and feeling time and again—
like: "To unleash a spell's full might, sufficient mental strength is key."
Sean reckoned mental strength bundled wizardly willpower and raw emotion.
Willpower: the grit sort of thing.
Emotion? Straightforward.
Together? The upgrade path for "positive thinking" power.
Magic's squishiest bit: how moods swayed it.
Molly Weasley, grieving one son, shielding the rest—
goaded by Bellatrix over Fred's death in the thick of battle,
fury boiling as she shrieked:
"Not my daughter, you bitch!"
Five silent Stunners flipped the fight; Bellatrix dropped.
Harry by the Forbidden Forest lake, desperate to save Sirius—
bellowing:
"Ex—pec—to—Pa—tro—num!"
A stag Patronus vast and fierce, scattering a hundred Dementors.
Those scenes hammered it home for Sean:
emotion's grip on magic was ironclad.
"If Lumos thrives on yearning, what's Scourgify's fuel?"
Musing, Sean absently bid Justin adieu, bound for the greenhouse.
Eh?
Justin?
Sean glanced back at him.