"What do you mean it doesn't belong to me?" Billy Peltzer stopped abruptly, his voice trembling but firm, as he hurried to catch up with the group. He clutched the green backpack tightly, as if afraid it might be snatched away at any moment. "It was a gift! My dad gave it to me for Christmas!"
Nathael didn't stop. He kept walking down Kingston Falls' main street—now silent, snow piled in the corners, the echo of footsteps resonating like heartbeats on the pavement. Christmas lights flickered sadly over shattered shop windows and empty frames. Behind them, the smoldering gremlin corpses slowly dissolved into green acid.
"Your father wanted to give you a gift," Nathael said without looking at him. "But he didn't know what he'd bought."
He turned then, fixing Billy with a steady gaze, his voice growing graver.
"Your father went to Chinatown in New York. He entered an antique shop. There, he saw the mogwai—small, harmless, with large eyes and a sadness so deep it moves any heart. The owner… didn't want to sell it. He protected it. Because he knew what it truly was. But his grandson…" Nathael paused. "…sold it behind his grandfather's back. For a few dollars."
Billy looked down. Kate, beside him, watched with sadness—but also growing curiosity… and something else in her eyes: admiration. For Nathael. For his bearing. For the way he spoke, as if every word carried authority.
"Look around you," Nathael said, gesturing to the deserted streets, broken windows, flickering lights. "Do you really think this is a gift? Do you think a creature that twists kindness into chaos is something to be given lightly?"
Billy didn't answer. He only clutched the backpack tighter.
Nathael left him in silence—not with harshness, but with compassion.
"A mogwai isn't a toy. It's a responsibility."
At that exact moment, Hermione reacted.
"Lumos Solem!"
Her wand erupted in blinding light. Three gremlins lurking behind a dumpster—claws outstretched, mouths full of sharp teeth, ready to pounce—disintegrated instantly into clouds of acidic smoke before they could even scream.
Silence returned. But it wasn't the silence of peace. It was the silence of tension.
"Well done," Nathael said, unsurprised. "But don't relax. They're everywhere."
Celestia, walking gracefully beside Draco, purred softly.
"Draco… combine spells. Not one. Two. Three. Chain them. Because in a real battle, you won't have time to cast one at a time. Practice now. It's safe here."
Draco nodded. His eyes scanned the street. Then, in the snow-dusted bushes, he saw movement.
"There!"
Two gremlins sprinted out, shrieking like damned souls.
Draco didn't hesitate.
"Expulso!"
A blast of magical wind lifted them off the ground and hurled them into the air like dry leaves.
Before they could fall, he raised his wand.
"Incendio!"
Two red tongues of flame engulfed them midair, burning them alive. They screamed, writhed—but didn't fall. They floated, consumed.
Celestia nodded with pride.
"Very good. Now… finish it."
Draco took a breath. Aimed.
"Lumos Solem!"
Light pierced through them. They vanished instantly, leaving no trace.
"Excellent," Celestia said. "But listen carefully—this is vital: in a duel, spell exchanges are the most dangerous. If your spell misses… the enemy counterattacks. And if they're faster, stronger, or smarter… they'll drop you before you can breathe. Here, it's simple. These gremlins don't cast magic—they only charge. And we… attack from a distance. But in a true battle… everything changes."
Nathael stopped and turned to them.
"Celestia's right. That's why, when this is over, we'll train your bodies—not just your wands. Reflexes. Agility. The ability to dodge, to move, to think while the world unravels around you. Because magic doesn't live only in the mind. It lives in the blood. In the muscle. In the breath."
Kate and Billy stared, wide-eyed. They didn't understand every word—but they felt the weight of each one.
They moved on.
Gremlins grew scarcer. The town quieter. Until they reached a red-brick building with a shattered marquee. A flickering sign read: "Movie Theater – Today: Snow White."
Inside, high-pitched laughter, shrieks, and the movie's music played—but it wasn't human laughter. It was… chaos. Gremlins. Many.
Nathael closed his eyes. Placed a hand on the snowy ground and cast a detection charm.
"They're all in there," he said after a few seconds. "Fifty. Maybe more. They're watching the film—sitting like children… but they're monsters."
Draco frowned.
"Perfect. We can finish them all at once."
But Nathael shook his head.
"There are too many. If you go in, they'll swarm you—twenty-five to one. And even if you cast Lumos Solem, you won't hit them all before one of them touches you."
Hermione paled.
"Then… what do we do?"
Nathael looked at them both—at Hermione, her eyes bright with knowledge; at Draco, his posture firm with renewed pride—and smiled.
"The time has come. Your first lesson in ancestral magic."
Draco and Hermione exchanged glances—disbelieving, excited.
"Seriously?" Hermione whispered.
"Now," Nathael said.
They stepped twenty meters from the theater. Nathael halted in the middle of the street, beneath the dim glow of a broken streetlamp. The wind blew gently, rippling his trench coat as if the world itself prepared to listen.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice low and calm. "Every person born with magical ability—like you—is born with a river of energy within. Magic. It flows in your veins. It awakens with your will. It strengthens with training. Some are born with more control. Others, with greater reserves. But all… all can enhance it. This is modern magic—the kind taught in schools. Personal. Intimate. Yours."
He paused. His blue eyes gleamed.
"But there is another magic."
His voice dropped even further—became a whisper the wind dared not carry away.
"A magic that doesn't come from within you. That doesn't belong to you. That never runs out. Because it isn't yours. It's the world's. The air you breathe. The earth beneath your feet. The water in rivers. The fire in stars. The memory of forests, mountains, seas. Of every ancestor who walked before you… and every creature still dreaming in the shadows."
Celestia, at his side, closed her eyes. Kate and Billy drew closer, spellbound.
"Ancestral magic," Nathael continued, "isn't a river inside you. It's an ocean surrounding you. And to use it… you don't draw it out. You take it. You breathe it. You feel it. You process it… and then you release it. Not as yours—but as theirs, channeled through your will."
Draco, eyes shining, asked:
"How do we take it?"
"With runes," Nathael replied.
He drew his wand. Raised his hand. And in the air, with a slow, precise, majestic stroke, he traced an ancient rune.
A flare of energy formed around it. The air warmed. Snow melted. Even the wind stilled.
"This," Nathael said, "is a fire rune. Not decoration. A bridge. A channel. It takes the world's magic… and guides it to me."
He closed his eyes. Breathed.
"Now… I process. I visualize the spell. I visualize the rune. I feel the magic flow through my body… and I shape it. I make it mine… for an instant."
He opened his eyes.
And pointed his wand at the theater.
"Feel the magic. Don't force it. Release it."
"Incendio!"
From his wand erupted not a flame—but a storm.
Golden fire, interwoven with glowing runes, roared like a dragon freed from time itself. It struck the cinema with such pure force that there was no explosion. No sound. Only… disintegration.
The building, the gremlins, the film, the seats, the popcorn… all turned to ash in an instant. The air filled with golden dust that shimmered like falling stars.
Silence.
Kate and Billy stood open-mouthed. Hermione's eyes welled with tears. Draco… trembled.
"It was… astonishing," Hermione whispered.
Celestia purred—with pride, but also wisdom.
"With practice… you won't need to trace runes in the air. Your body will feel them. Your mind will draw them in an instant. And you'll cast ancestral magic as naturally as breathing. Nathael and I… no longer trace them. Because we carry them in our blood."
Nathael lowered his wand. Looked at his students.
"This is only the first lesson."