The staff room was a large, wood-paneled chamber filled with mismatched dark wooden chairs.
Professor Flitwick paced back and forth, too excited to sit still.
"Wizarding Magical Chronicles? You gave it a magnificent name! Green, my brilliant student, you are going to become a legend!"
Flitwick unrolled a parchment covered in dense handwriting, eyes shining.
"Professor, do you really think my idea is possible?" Sean's eyes were bright too.
"Of course! Such a precise description—chaos and blindness gave birth to order and wisdom…
If ancient wizards could create ancient magic, then… oh, an entirely new field!"
Flitwick kept pacing, beaming at the young wizard.
"But this will be incredibly difficult, child."
He pulled several old books from a drawer, gazed at them fondly, then handed them to Sean.
Sean took them curiously and read the titles on the black-and-gold covers.
Nineteen Ways to Die from a Miscast Charm.
He looked at the next one.
A Guide to Cursed Objects.
Under Flitwick's meaningful gaze, Sean began flipping through the pages.
At the same time, he remembered why he had come here.
A long time ago he had studied many charms with Flitwick. Only recently had he mastered the Shield Charm.
Yet now he was discussing the feasibility of creating an entirely new charm system with him. The leap was like going from one-plus-one to controlled nuclear fusion.
Still, Flitwick showed no trace of doubt. He discussed the idea eagerly and handed over these books.
"Baruffio the wizard mispronounced the Levitation Charm—he turned the 'f' into an 's' and woke up on the floor with a wild ox standing on his chest…
Ula the witch got the wand movement wrong on a Doubling Charm and ended up with two sets of nose hairs floating around her head…"
The first example was one Sean knew by heart—it had been Flitwick's very first lesson.
He just hadn't realized the source was this private collection. No wonder he had never found the case in the library.
"Do you understand now, Green, my excellent student?" Flitwick asked kindly, eyes narrowed.
"Wizards who use magic carelessly tend to fail and get hit by the backlash," Sean said thoughtfully.
"Ah, but dear boy, do you understand why they failed?"
Sean fell quiet.
Creating new magic was obviously difficult, and failure was inevitable. But why did wizards fail?
What was the key to successful magic?
Since most wizard magic was driven by will, a small slip in the ritual probably shouldn't be unforgivable.
Or was it that these failed wizards simply hadn't believed strongly enough?
"They… didn't believe in their own magic," Sean said.
"I love that phrase!" Flitwick clapped his small hands together.
"No matter what kind of magic it is, a wizard must believe it will work before it can change reality.
Baruffio didn't even understand what the Levitation Charm was supposed to do—he had never truly cast it. So not only did he mispronounce the incantation, he summoned an ox instead."
Flitwick stepped closer, cheeks flushed.
"Belief is a gift, dear Mr. Green—the only gift required to learn magic."
"What do you mean?" Sean sat up straighter, not wanting to miss a single word.
"Let's lay the foundation for blind-era wizard magic. Forgive me for tweaking a few parts…"
The words on the parchment shifted and expanded as Flitwick spoke.
"In the blind era, wizards discovered they could use magic under certain extreme conditions—what we now call magical outbursts.
This was the first magical law they observed, like Harry shattering glass when angry or Neville Apparating when terrified.
Wizards realized magic appeared in extremes, so they blindly chased extreme emotions to release it…
Back then wizards were wildly mad, and their deaths came in every shape imaginable."
Up to here it was still Sean's description. Now Flitwick added his own section:
"Wizards began to believe in their magic. They believed they could do extraordinary things.
Some believed they could set sticks on fire—so torches appeared. Some believed they could light the darkness—so Lumos appeared. Some believed they could call down lightning—and they were struck dead…"
Sean's cheek twitched slightly.
Wizard dark humor really never went out of style.
"But wizards discovered that believing in something specific couldn't push magic to its limit. They couldn't even grasp magic's boundaries. And then…"
Flitwick's voice grew low and husky. The fire in the staff-room hearth crackled, making his shadow leap across the wall.
"They began to believe their magic would be… cruel."
The answer hit Sean like thunder.
So that was the power of emotion?
Wizards used emotion to define their magic.
If a wizard believed their magic was cruel, it naturally produced cruel results.
In other words, when Sean cast something like Fiendfyre, he wasn't simply believing he could summon flames—he was believing he could annihilate everything before him.
That was the true root of Fiendfyre's power.
It wasn't precise. It represented a concept.
"Now you understand, child? Black Magic can't be erased because it represents a certain desire inside every wizard," Flitwick sighed.
"But wizards have more than one desire, Professor. You said it yourself—a blade is only as good as the hand that wields it," Sean said quietly.
"Oh, I knew it, little Green—you're not the kind of wizard who gives up.
Of course, of course. If you have a simpler belief to replace Black Magic's cruelty, that is entirely possible.
But I must warn you, child. The darkness in human nature is hard to erase. The cruelest Black Magic hides the filthiest thoughts deep inside a wizard's heart."
Flitwick's warning was serious.
Sean naturally thought of the three Unforgivable Curses.
What did they represent?
Killing… controlling… torturing.
That was why they were so powerful—every mature wizard could easily summon malice from within.
After leaving the staff room, Sean returned to the Room of Requirement.
He began to ponder: if he didn't believe in the cruel effect of Black Magic, why had his progress been so rapid?
Flitwick's words kept replaying in his mind. Soon Sean found the key.
Wizards discovered that believing in something specific couldn't push magic to its limit…
Emotion could strengthen a wizard's magic, but a wizard could also choose another path.
Believe in Order.
Sean wrote it down.
Believe in Wisdom.
Sean made his judgment.
Wizards could believe their magic was cruel, but they could also believe in its precise purpose, in their own magical strength and the experience of ancient predecessors.
Magic could carry not only a wizard's malice but also their pure commands.
Therefore, if a wizard walked far enough along the path of Order and Wisdom, they would no longer need blind emotion.
Sean thought of Headmaster Dumbledore and Voldemort.
Dumbledore's mastery no longer required extra emotional fuel.
But Voldemort?
Sean believed Voldemort's Black Magic had always carried his cruel faith.
Could that explain how Voldemort had grown strong enough to rival Dumbledore in such a short time?
For weeks Sean immersed himself in reshaping Black Magic.
He chose the Impediment Jinx—the first Black Magic spell he had ever learned.
Guided by more than a dozen charm books, Sean rebuilt its Order and recorded its Wisdom.
The entire ritual and the exact things a wizard needed to believe were reshaped by him.
That day Sean and Hermione walked up the marble staircase together, through the empty corridors and into the Great Hall.
Mrs. Norris jumped playfully onto his shoulder, knocking over a candle. Sean waved his wand silently.
"Obstruct—"
At that moment Sean no longer wished the spell to trip anyone. He simply wanted to catch something.
And something magical happened. The candle didn't fall to the floor. It was caught by an invisible gentle hand and floated back onto the candlestick.
"What spell was that? A modified Impedimenta?" Hermione asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
Sean gave a soft hum. He had been a little distracted.
Because he had just heard a panel message he had never encountered before.
You have practiced the Impediment Jinx at the Legendary standard. Master-level proficiency +300.
Impediment Jinx has advanced.
Impediment Jinx: Initiate (270/300)
Legendary?!
Beyond Epic was Legendary?
What was the standard for Legendary?
Sean couldn't help pondering.
Was it…
Reshaping Order for magic so a wizard's will could change the world?
That was his guess.
But why hadn't his earlier strong light charm qualified?
Was the Order not stable enough, or had he not accumulated enough Wisdom?
It didn't matter now.
+300 proficiency!
It was the first time Sean had gained so much at the Master level.
A single Expert-level spell in the Master tier was only 9,000 points!
Sean could already see the Legendary title waving at him.
What would it bring?
The thought filled him with anticipation.
In the corridor Sean and Hermione followed their usual route toward the Gryffindor Tower.
They often discussed magic techniques, so they usually parted near the Fat Lady's portrait.
But when they reached the corridor leading to it, they found it packed with students.
"Why isn't anyone going in?" Hermione frowned.
Sean looked over the heads in front. The portrait hole seemed closed.
"Excuse me, let me through," Percy's voice came from behind. He pushed through the crowd with exaggerated importance. "Why are you all blocking the way? You can't possibly have forgotten the password—excuse me, I am Head Boy—"
Suddenly the crowd fell silent. A chill seemed to spread from the front of the corridor.
They heard Percy's voice turn shrill.
"Someone fetch Professor Dumbledore. Quickly."
Heads turned. Students at the back stood on tiptoe.
"What happened?" Ginny asked, just arriving.
Then Professor Dumbledore appeared, striding toward the portrait.
Gryffindors parted to let him through. Hermione pulled a slightly expressionless, somewhat resigned Sean forward to see.
"Oh my goodness—" Hermione gasped, clutching Sean's arm.
The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait. The canvas had been slashed to ribbons, fragments scattered across the floor. A huge piece had been torn away entirely.
Dumbledore swept his eyes over the ruined painting, then turned. His expression was grave as McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurried toward him.
"We must find her," Dumbledore said. "Professor McGonagall, please fetch Mr. Filch at once. Have him search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady."
"Good luck!" a giggling voice called.
It was Peeves, bouncing above their heads. He was delighted by the misfortune and trouble.
"What did you say, Peeves?" Dumbledore asked calmly. Peeves's grin faded slightly.
He would never mock Dumbledore.
Switching to a syrupy, flattering tone that was hardly any better than his cackling, he said, "He chased after her, Headmaster, sir. She was in a right state… He ran through that landscape on the fifth floor but couldn't catch her. Then he tripped in the bushes and couldn't get up, sir."
He spoke cheerfully.
"Poor thing," he added with fake sympathy.
"Who was it? Did he say who did it?" Dumbledore asked softly.
"Oh, he did, Professor, sir," Peeves said, looking like he was cradling a live bomb. "Our knight, sir. He wouldn't let him in, so he got very angry."
Peeves flipped upside down, grinning at Dumbledore between his legs.
"Awful temper on him—that Sirius Black."
"Sirius!" Hermione cried out.