The staffroom.
It was a large, wood-paneled room filled with black wooden chairs.
Flitwick was pacing back and forth inside, too excited to sit still.
"The Wizarding Chronicle of Magic? You've given it a splendid title. Green, my brilliant student, you're going to become a legend!"
Professor Flitwick spread out a parchment densely covered in writing, his eyes shining.
"Professor, do you think my idea is actually possible?"
Sean's eyes were glowing too.
"Of course! Such a precise description—chaos and blindness giving rise to order and wisdom...
If ancient wizards could create ancient magic, then... oh, an entirely new field!"
Professor Flitwick walked as he spoke, looking at the young wizard with bright, eager eyes.
"But it will be difficult, very difficult, child."
He pulled a few old books out from beneath a drawer, gazed at them with delight for a moment, then handed them to Sean.
Curious, Sean took them and looked at the title stamped in gold on a black cover:
Nineteen Ways to Die from a Spell Gone Wrong.
"Take a look, child."
Professor Flitwick said it with a smile.
Sean then looked at the book beneath it, whose title was equally unsettling:
A Guide to Cursed Objects.
Under Professor Flitwick's meaningful gaze, Sean began flipping through them.
At the same time, he gradually remembered why he had come here in the first place.
Long ago, he had studied many spells under Professor Flitwick, and only recently had he finally mastered the Shield Charm.
But now he was here to discuss the feasibility of an original spellcraft system with Flitwick.
The leap was like going from one plus one straight to controlled nuclear fusion.
And yet Professor Flitwick didn't look down on him in the slightest. Instead, he spoke enthusiastically with him and handed him these books.
"Baluffio the wizard, who mispronounced the Levitation Charm, said the 'f' as an 's' and found himself lying on the floor with a buffalo standing on his chest...
Ula the witch, who used the wrong wand movement while casting the Duplication Charm, duplicated her nose hairs twice over and sent them floating into the air..."
Sean knew the first example all too well. Flitwick had used it in their very first class.
He just hadn't realized the source was this privately kept book. No wonder he'd never found the case in the library.
"What have you understood from it, Green, my exceptional student?"
Professor Flitwick asked kindly, squinting at him.
"A wizard who uses magic carelessly is very likely to fail and suffer magical backlash."
Sean answered after a moment of thought.
"Oh, my dear, but do you understand why they failed?"
Professor Flitwick smiled.
"They..."
Creating original magic was obviously difficult, and failure inevitably came with it. But why exactly did wizards fail?
What was the real key to successful magic?
If magic was primarily shaped by the mind, then surely mistakes in ritual couldn't be utterly unforgivable?
Or was it that these failed wizards simply lacked conviction?
"They... don't truly believe in their own magic."
Sean said.
"I adore that phrasing!"
Professor Flitwick clapped lightly.
"No matter what kind of magic it is, a wizard must believe it will succeed before it can change reality.
Baluffio didn't even clearly understand what the Levitation Charm was, let alone ever truly cast it. So he not only mispronounced the incantation—he summoned a buffalo."
Professor Flitwick slowly stepped closer, his face faintly flushed.
"Belief is a gift, dear Mr. Green. The only talent required to learn magic."
"You mean...?"
Sean fell into thought.
Professor Flitwick's way of thinking seemed to diverge slightly from Sean's own system of magical belief.
Sean believed magic was determined by the level of one's mind, including emotion and willpower.
But now Flitwick was telling him that belief was the one and only essential element in learning magic.
"But what is belief, Mr. Green? That is exactly the question we must face."
Professor Flitwick was smiling, but his gaze had grown very deep.
"In your description, the blind era of wizardry used emotional force to stir magic. But why can emotional force stir magic at all?"
Sean straightened in his chair, unwilling to miss a single word.
"Let us set the tone for wizarding magic in the age of blindness. Forgive me for revising part of your draft..."
The words on the parchment began to shift and change in response to Flitwick's explanation.
"In the blind era, wizards discovered that they could always use magic under certain extreme conditions—what we now call accidental magic.
This was the first magical pattern wizards ever recognized: a wizard like Harry, when angry, could shatter glass; a wizard like Neville, when terrified, could accidentally Apparate himself.
Wizards of that era noticed that magic emerged under extreme circumstances. So they blindly pursued extreme emotion in order to unleash it...
The result was that they became wildly unhinged, and their deaths took all kinds of bizarre forms."
Up to this point, it was still Sean's original description. Now Professor Flitwick added another section:
"Wizards began to believe in their own magic. They believed they could accomplish things beyond the ordinary:
Some believed they could light a stick on fire, and so torches appeared; some believed they could illuminate the dark, and so light was born; some believed they could summon lightning, and so they were struck dead..."
As Sean listened, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.
Apparently wizarding dark humor had existed in every age.
"But wizards soon discovered that believing in overly specific things could not bring magic to its limit. Wizards themselves could not easily determine the boundaries of magic. And then..."
Professor Flitwick's voice dropped, growing hoarse and low. The fire in the staffroom crackled sharply, making his shadow leap.
"They began to believe that this magic would be... cruel."
The answer crashed into Sean's mind like thunder.
So that was the power of emotion?
Through emotion, wizards assigned magic its nature.
If a wizard believed that his magic was cruel, then it would naturally produce cruel results.
Which meant that when Sean used Dark Magic like Fiendfyre, he was not merely believing he could summon flames—he was believing he could wipe out everything before him.
That was the true source of power behind spells like Fiendfyre.
It was not specific. It represented a concept.
"Now you understand, child. Dark Magic cannot be erased because it represents one class of desire within a wizard."
Professor Flitwick sighed.
"But wizards have more than one kind of desire, Professor. You said it yourself—a blade depends on how the wizard chooses to use it."
Sean said it quietly.
"Oh, I knew it, little Green. You were never the sort of wizard to give up.
Of course, of course—if you can find a simpler form of belief to replace the cruelty of Dark Magic, then yes, it is possible.
But I must warn you, child. The darkness in human nature is not easily erased. The cruelest Dark Magic always hides the foulest thoughts buried deep inside a wizard."
Professor Flitwick warned him seriously.
Sean naturally thought of the three Unforgivable Curses. What did they each represent?
Killing... control... torment.
That was why they were so powerful. Because every magically mature wizard could summon human malice with ease.
After leaving the staffroom, Sean returned to Hope Cottage.
He began thinking: if he did not truly believe in the cruelty of Dark Magic, then why had his Dark Magic advanced so quickly?
Professor Flitwick's words kept replaying in his head, and before long Sean found the key.
[Wizards discovered that believing in specific things could not bring magic to its limit...]
Emotion could certainly make magic stronger, but at the same time, a wizard could choose another path.
Believe in Order.
Sean wrote it down.
Believe in Wisdom.
Sean made the judgment.
A wizard could believe in the cruelty of magic, yes—but a wizard could also believe in its exact purpose, in the strength of magic itself, and in the accumulated experience of ancient predecessors.
Magic could carry malice, but it could also carry a wizard's pure and precise command.
Therefore, if a wizard advanced far enough in Order and Wisdom, then they would no longer need to rely on blind emotion.
Without meaning to, Sean thought of Dumbledore and Voldemort.
Dumbledore's mastery of magic had already reached a point where he no longer needed extra emotional force behind it.
But Voldemort?
Sean believed Voldemort's Dark Magic was still inseparable from his cruel creed.
If so, would that explain how Voldemort had risen so quickly to a level where he could stand against Dumbledore?
For several weeks, Sean immersed himself in the work of reshaping Dark Magic.
He chose the Impediment Jinx, the first Dark spell he had ever learned.
With the help of more than a dozen spellbooks, Sean reconstructed its Order and recorded its Wisdom.
He rebuilt the entire magical ritual, along with the exact thing a wizard needed to believe in.
One day, Sean and Hermione climbed the marble staircase together, crossed an empty corridor, and entered the Great Hall.
Mrs. Norris mischievously leapt onto his shoulder and knocked over a candle. Sean quietly flicked his wand:
"Impediment—"
This time, instead of willing the spell to hinder someone, he simply willed it to catch something.
And then something remarkable happened.
Not only did the candle fail to fall—it seemed to be supported by invisible, gentle hands and returned to the candlestick.
"What spell was that? Some kind of modified Impedimenta?"
Hermione stared with wide eyes and asked curiously.
As for Sean, he only gave a soft hum. He had drifted away in thought.
Because he had just heard a system notification unlike anything before:
[You practiced the Impediment Jinx once at Legendary standard. Master-level proficiency +300]
[Impediment Jinx advanced]
[Impediment Jinx: Beginner (270/300)]
Legendary?!
So above Epic really was Legendary after all?
Then what was the standard for Legendary?
Sean found himself turning the question over instinctively.
Was it...
to reshape the order of magic and let a wizard's will redefine the world?
That was his guess.
But then why hadn't his Lightburst Charm qualified?
Was its Order not stable enough? Or had he not accumulated enough Wisdom?
Still, that no longer mattered.
Three hundred points of proficiency!
It was the first time he had gained that much at Master level.
Think about it—in the Master domain, even an Expert-level spell only amounted to around 9,000 at most.
Sean could almost see the Legendary title reaching out to him.
What would it bring?
Just thinking about it filled him with anticipation.
In the corridor, Sean and Hermione followed their usual route toward Gryffindor Tower.
They often discussed magical techniques together, so they usually parted near the portrait of the Fat Lady.
But when they reached the corridor leading to her portrait, they found it packed with students.
"Why isn't anyone going in?"
Hermione frowned.
Sean looked over the heads of the students in front and saw that the portrait entrance appeared to be shut.
"Excuse me, let me through."
Percy's voice rang out at their ears. He hurried through the crowd, full of self-importance.
"Why's everyone blocking the way? You can't all have forgotten the password—sorry, I'm Head Boy—"
Suddenly, the crowd went silent. Starting from the front row, a chill seemed to spread down the corridor.
Then they heard Percy, in a voice that had gone sharply high-pitched, say:
"Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quickly."
Heads turned everywhere.
Those at the back stood on tiptoe.
"What happened?"
Ginny had just arrived and asked the question.
Then Professor Dumbledore appeared, striding rapidly toward the portrait.
The Gryffindors crowded tightly aside to let him pass, while Hermione dragged a still blank-faced, slightly resigned Sean closer so they could see what was going on.
"Oh my God—"
Hermione let out a cry and grabbed Sean's arm.
The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait. The canvas had been slashed savagely, scraps scattered across the floor, with a great section torn away altogether.
Dumbledore took in the damage with one swift glance, then turned around, his face grave, just as McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape came hurrying up to him.
"We need to find her,"
Dumbledore said.
"Professor McGonagall, please go at once and ask Mr. Filch to search every portrait in the castle for the Fat Lady."
"Good luck with that!"
A cackling voice cut in.
It was Peeves, bouncing up and down above their heads. As always, the sight of other people's misfortune and worry delighted him.
"What did you say, Peeves?"
Dumbledore asked calmly.
The grin on Peeves's face faded a little.
He didn't dare mock Dumbledore directly.
So he switched to a fawning, ingratiating tone, though it sounded hardly more pleasant than his usual cackle.
"He ran after her, Headmaster. Poor old thing was in a dreadful state... she fled past that landscape on the fifth floor, but he caught up, sir, and she fell into the bushes and hasn't moved since."
He sounded delighted.
"Poor thing."
He added that last bit with mock sincerity.
"Who was it? Did she say who did it?"
Dumbledore asked quietly, startled.
"Oh yes, sir, she did."
Peeves said it with the look of someone cradling a live bomb.
"Our brave knight here, you see—he just wouldn't let him in, and so he got angry."
Peeves suddenly did a somersault and grinned at Dumbledore upside down between his legs.
"He's got a dreadful temper—that Sirius Black."
"Sirius!"
Hermione cried out.