Being a Greengrass after all should sound pretty serene.
But being a part of "the Emeralds" should not, especially when hearts become entangled with the infamous Regulus Black.
Goodness, lawfulness, or evilness. Which path will they tread in the ti...
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May 3rd, 1978
The classroom smelled faintly of parchment and old spellbooks as sixth-year students filed in and took their places. The high arched windows of the Charms corridor cast golden light across the desks, illuminating the polished brass fixtures and the meticulous handwriting on the blackboard:
Lesson Plan: Advanced Nonverbal Charms
Aguamenti
Transmutation
Drought Charm
Knitting Charm
Reductor Curse
Cleaning Charm (Scourgify)
Atop a stack of three thick books stood Professor Flitwick, wand at the ready, beaming.
"Good morning, class! Today we'll challenge your concentration, wandwork, and intent—all without saying a word." He clapped his tiny hands. "Let's begin with Aguamenti—nonverbal execution only!"
A murmur passed through the class. Nonverbal spellwork wasn't new — but perfecting it still rattled most students. Across the room, someone's wand sputtered with a splash. A puff of mist erupted from another.
Avery's was clean. She angled her wand over her goblet, let her shoulders relax, and cast with intention. A narrow, steady stream of crystal-clear water poured directly into the glass. No spill. No excess.
Professor Flitwick whirled around, saw the gleaming water, and practically bounced on his toes. "Miss Greengrass! Exemplary work—ten points to Ravenclaw!"
She nodded once, a small thank-you, before moving on to the Drought Charm without waiting for instruction. The water in her goblet vanished with a silent hiss of steam.
Dorcas whispers behind her, "Of course you get it on the first try."
Next came the Knitting Charm. Around the room, floating needles tangled with yarn, some simply fell to the desk. Avery conjured neat rows of Ravenclaw-colored wool between two hovering needles. The charm was a bit old-fashioned — but in her hands, it was methodical. Clean lines. Even tension.
By the time Flitwick moved on to the Cleaning Charm, most of the class was already behind. Avery wasn't. Her nonverbal casting flowed without pause. She gave her wand the smallest, almost imperceptible motion, and the ink-stained tabletop before her gleamed as if it had been freshly polished. A faint lemon scent followed in the wake of her charm.
Some of the charms had taken her three nights of practice in the library — stubborn, meticulous nights hunched over forgotten tables. Worth it.
Professor Flitwick noticed, of course. He always did.
