After letting them observe a few more duels—watching how spellwork evolved across centuries, how mistakes were punished and mastery rewarded—I raised my hand.
The hall responded instantly.
The murmurs faded.
I stepped to the center.
"Now that you've seen them," I said evenly, my voice carrying through the vast chamber, "tell me something."
I let my gaze move across each of them—faces lit by torchlight, eyes reflecting awe, ambition, and uncertainty in equal measure.
"Do you want to remain what Slytherin has been reduced to in recent years?"
A pause.
"Weak," I continued calmly. "Pathetic. A house spoken of in whispers. A name people mock while preaching 'balance' and 'harmony.'"
No one interrupted.
"Or," I went on, "do you want to train—properly—and become witches and wizards that Salazar Slytherin himself would look at and say: THESE are my pupils."
For a heartbeat, the hall was silent.
Then Nyx Calder stepped forward half a pace, spine straight, eyes sharp.
"We want to train," she said, voice clear and unwavering.
Something shifted.
Adrian Pucey nodded, stepping forward as well, his usual composure giving way to quiet fire.
"Yes," he added. "Let's show them we're not shadows of the past—but figures of the future."
A murmur of agreement followed.
Not loud.
Not chaotic.
Resolved.
I inclined my head once.
"Good."
I glanced briefly at the wall—at the founders locked in eternal motion—then back to them.
"It's two in the afternoon," I said. "I'll be here training until curfew. Dinner will be delivered by the house-elves."
A few eyebrows rose at that.
"Whether you stay the entire time," I continued, "or leave after two hours, is your choice."
I let that sink in before adding—
"In the future, except for two hours of mandatory practice on Saturdays and Sundays, Anything beyond that is up to you."
No protests.
No hesitation.
"This hall," I said, spreading my hand slightly, "is open to you."
I met their eyes one final time.
"You've heard the password."
A quiet understanding passed through the group.
This wasn't an order.
It was an invitation.
I didn't linger on their answers.
Resolve was meaningless without proof.
"Good," I said simply, letting the echo of their words fade into the stone. "Then today isn't about showing off. It's about measurement."
A few brows furrowed.
"Today," I continued, pacing slowly along the edge of the dueling circle, "is to grasp your current levels. To see how much—if anything—you've trained before coming to Hogwarts."
I stopped and looked at them directly.
"Because let me make something very clear."
The torches crackled softly.
"If you wait for professors to teach you everything," I said calmly, "you will start on the exact same line as muggleborn students."
A subtle reaction rippled through the group.
Not outrage.
Not agreement.
Calculation.
"The real advantage of being born into a wizarding family," I went on, voice steady, "is not blood purity."
That alone was enough to make a few students stiffen.
"It is knowledge," I said. "And wealth. Access. Preparation. Books your parents owned. Spells your grandparents practiced. Advice you heard growing up without realizing its value."
I let my gaze linger.
"If you don't use that advantage," I finished, "you deserve to be surpassed."
Silence fell—thick, thoughtful.
At the mention of muggleborns, expressions shifted.
Some of the neutral-family students frowned slightly, reassessing.
A few from darker households narrowed their eyes, clearly weighing implications.
Others—quieter, more observant—said nothing at all, minds turning.
I caught it immediately.
And cut it off.
"Before you start your little calculations," I said coolly, "let me clarify something."
I stopped in front of them.
"It is true that you have advantages over muggleborn witches and wizards."
No denial.
No sugarcoating.
"But don't mistake that statement for contempt."
Their attention sharpened.
"I am not against muggleborns," I said evenly. "I grew up among muggles. I lived as one of them. I've seen what it takes to step into this world with nothing but talent and effort."
That landed differently.
"I respect muggleborns who rise on skill," I continued. "What I do not respect is wasted potential."
I gestured around the hall.
"There will always be hierarchy in society," I said plainly. "Pretending otherwise is a lie adults tell children so they sleep better."
A few swallowed.
"I believe that hierarchy should be based on skill," I finished. "Not blood. Not name. Not who your parents were."
I met their eyes, one by one.
"If a muggleborn outworks you, outthinks you, and outduels you—then they deserve to stand above you."
A pause.
"But if you use every advantage you were given," I said quietly, "and still lose—then you were never worthy of Slytherin to begin with."
The words settled.
Not like a threat.
Like a standard.
"Now," I said, turning toward the nearest dueling circle, "wands out."
A few straightened instinctively.
"We start with basics. Casting speed. Control. Focus."
I glanced back over my shoulder.
"No judgement today," I added. "Only truth."
"Show me where you stand."
For the next half hour, I said very little.
I didn't need to.
One by one, they stepped forward into the dueling circle and showed me what they could do.
Not what they claimed they could do.
Not what their parents had promised they'd learned.
What their magic actually obeyed.
"Lumos."
Soft white light bloomed at the tip of a wand—steady in some hands, flickering in others. A few overcompensated, flooding the hall with glare before hastily dimming it. Control varied. Confidence did too.
"Alohomora."
Locks clicked open along the practice stands lining the hall. Some spells were clean and immediate. Others required repetition—wand movements too large, incantations rushed, intent unfocused.
"Langlock."
That one caused a ripple of unease.
Tongues stuck, spells fizzled, control wavered. A couple of students rushed the incantation, forcing power without precision. I noted it silently.
Then Montague stepped forward.
He didn't announce himself. Didn't posture.
He raised his wand, took a breath, and cast.
"Stupefy."
The spell wasn't strong—but it was correct.
A clean red bolt shot forward, striking the practice dummy squarely in the chest. The dummy rocked back a step before settling.
Basic.
Unpolished.
But structurally sound.
Good foundation.
I nodded once. Montague's shoulders eased just a fraction as he stepped back.
Then Nyx Calder moved.
She didn't rush either.
Her stance was narrower than textbook, but balanced. She didn't shout the incantation—she placed it.
"Expelliarmus."
The spell didn't fully manifest.
But the air bent.
The dummy's wand jerked—just slightly—before the magic dissipated.
It wasn't enough to disarm.
But it was enough to tell me something important.
She understood the idea of the spell.
Force applied at the right moment.
Direction chosen deliberately.
Intent shaped, not forced.
Nyx lowered her wand, watching my face carefully.
I met her gaze.
"Good," I said simply.
That single word meant more than praise.
Around them, the others absorbed the unspoken lesson.
Not volume.
Not speed.
Understanding.
By the end of the half hour, patterns had emerged.
Most were exactly where I'd expected first years to be—basic utility charms, a few family-taught shortcuts, uneven confidence. No prodigies.
No disappointments either.
I stepped back into the center of the hall and let the silence settle.
"Alright," I said calmly. "That's enough for today's assessment."
A few shoulders slumped in relief.
Others straightened, hungry for more.
I nodded to myself.
Now I knew where to start.
I clapped my hands once, the sharp sound echoing through the hall and snapping everyone's focus back to me.
"We'll start today with the Leg-Locker Curse," I said evenly.
A few brows lifted. A few eager smiles appeared.
"Incantation," I continued, "is Locomotor Mortis."
I raised my wand but didn't cast immediately.
"This is a control spell," I said. "Not a brute-force one. If you shove power into it, it'll either fail or rebound in ways you won't enjoy. The intent is simple—bind the target's legs together by locking motion, not by freezing muscle."
I demonstrated the wand movement slowly. Clean. Precise.
"A short downward flick," I added. "You're closing a mechanism, not cutting one."
Then I cast.
"Locomotor Mortis."
The spell struck the practice dummy. Its legs snapped together instantly, wood clacking as it tipped over and hit the floor.
No sparks.
No excess light.
Just effect.
"That," I said, "is what you're aiming for."
They split into pairs and circles. The first attempts were predictable.
Spells fizzled.
One leg locked instead of both.
One dummy ended up glued to the floor rather than restrained.
I corrected them constantly.
"Nyx—less wrist, more intent."
"Montague—slow down. You're outrunning your magic."
"Don't shout the incantation. Command it."
Gradually, the hall filled with the dull, satisfying sound of legs locking and dummies falling. Sweat formed. Focus sharpened. Repetition replaced excitement.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By the end of the second hour, most of them could cast Locomotor Mortis cleanly—no backlash, no wasted motion. Not perfect, but reliable.
Good enough.
I gave them a short break—water only, no sitting—and then raised my wand again.
"Next," I said, "Lumos."
A few students frowned.
"We already know that," someone muttered.
"I know," I replied calmly.
That made them quiet.
"This is the first charm professors judge you by," I continued. "Weak light, flickering output, uneven control—they notice all of it."
I lifted my wand.
"Lumos."
A steady white glow bloomed—bright enough to light the circle, but smooth and unwavering.
"This," I said, "is basic Lumos. Foundation level."
I extinguished it with a thought.
"Now we move beyond that."
I raised my wand again.
"Lumos Duo."
The light split cleanly into two identical orbs, hovering near the tip of my wand, perfectly balanced.
"Dual-output Lumos," I explained. "Used for multitasking—reading while watching surroundings, guarding corridors, or working in low visibility."
I dispelled it.
"Lumos Solem."
Golden light burst forth, warm and radiant, filling the space with sunlight-like brilliance. The shadows retreated instantly.
"Counter to dark environments," I said. "Effective against creatures and spells that rely on shadow or damp magic. This is not about brightness—it's about quality of light."
Finally, I lifted my wand once more.
"Lumos Maxima."
A powerful, concentrated beam erupted forward, illuminating the far end of the hall like a focused lantern. Strong—but contained.
"This," I said, "is maximum output. Useful, but dangerous if you lack control. Overuse will drain you faster than you realize."
I lowered my wand.
"Same spell family," I said. "Different intent. Different applications."
That had their full attention now.
We practiced.
Basic Lumos first—steady, flicker-free.
Then Lumos Duo—many failed at first, the light collapsing into one unstable glow.
Then Lumos Solem—several produced pale imitations instead of true radiant light.
Only a few attempted Lumos Maxima, and I stopped anyone whose magic surged too wildly.
By the end of the session, the hall glowed with disciplined light—no chaotic flashes, no uncontrolled bursts. Just clean illumination shaped by will.
It wasn't flashy.
But it was impressive.
Exactly what I wanted.
I lowered my wand and looked at them—tired, focused, no longer restless.
"This," I said evenly, "is how we train."
"No shortcuts."
"No excuses."
"No waiting for professors to spoon-feed you."
A few nodded.
A few smiled.
All of them listened.
And for the first time since stepping into this hall, I knew—
They weren't just Slytherins by name anymore.
They were starting to earn it.