Anduin's early-morning reconnaissance—a silent, calculated tour of the castle's bewildering geometry—left him with a sense of strategic satisfaction. He had mentally indexed the location of every major classroom, staircase, and shortcut. As he walked from the damp depths of the Slytherin dungeon toward the main hub, he felt the distinct advantage of knowing the terrain.
He stepped back into the Great Hall, which, by 8:00 AM, was a vibrant, echoing hub of student activity. The long House tables were already laden with mountains of breakfast foods: thick sausages, smoked kippers, porridge, and toast.
The aromas—a chaotic mix of wood smoke, bacon fat, and fresh coffee—were overwhelming after the cold sterility of the dungeons. Anduin, now genuinely hungry, found an empty seat at the Slytherin table, pouring himself some pumpkin juice and beginning to eat with focused efficiency.
He was only halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs when the commotion announced his friend's arrival.
"Anduin Wilson! There you are!" Vivian Bulstrode swept through the hall doors, her silver and green robes flowing dramatically, an expression of wounded indignation fixed on her face. She tracked him down and dropped heavily onto the bench opposite him.
"I thought you were still lost in the subterranean labyrinth," she grumbled, her voice theatrically low. "I actually waited for you in the common room this morning. For five whole minutes! It turns out early rising is a complete waste of time if you wander off to map the castle like a medieval surveyor."
Anduin swallowed a mouthful of toast before offering a small, apologetic shrug. "My apologies, Vivian. I'm accustomed to rising early, and frankly, the common room is far too depressing before the fire is properly stoked. You don't need to worry about waiting for me in the mornings; my schedule is my own.
Besides, after all that running around yesterday, I realized how easily one could be disoriented here. If you ask me, it's only a fluke that our hall is right next to the auditorium. In such a massive, chaotic castle, being unarmed with a map is a tactical failure."
Vivian tilted her head, considering this. "Well, I suppose that's one way to look at it. But I think my strategy of just following the loudest group of seventh-years is much less effort. Still, it's comforting to know at least one of us has the route memorized. You did say you found the classroom already?"
"Every class location on our schedule has been logged," Anduin confirmed, finishing his juice. He didn't elaborate on the magical means he had employed to bypass the Moving Staircases. "Just stick close to me, and you won't be late."
Their chatter was suddenly drowned out by the thunderous arrival of the morning post. Hundreds of owls—tawny, screech, great grey, and barn—descended from the enchanted ceiling, a blizzard of flapping wings and soft hoots, circling the tables to deposit packages and letters.
Anduin was not forgotten. Three envelopes fluttered down to land neatly by his plate. He instantly recognized the heavy parchment of Sirius Black, the delicate script of Lily Potter, and the extremely brief, utilitarian hand of Tom.
He picked up the letters, his appetite momentarily gone. They all congratulated him on his enrollment, but the internal dynamics were starkly different.
Tom's letter was predictably terse: Confirmed safe arrival. Proceed with academic priorities. Status: Green. It was the language of their shared past, a simple acknowledgement that the mission—his education—had begun.
Lily's was warm and maternally anxious, full of reassurances about the quality of the teaching and quiet hopes that he was eating well and making friends. It was a lifeline to stability.
Sirius's letter, however, felt heavy and potentially explosive. Anduin opened it with trepidation. As expected, it was filled with breathless anticipation, demanding to know which House he had joined.
"Tell me you're a Gryffindor, kid! I know you've got the guts for it. Anything but Slytherin—that nest of snakes is where good intentions go to die. Write back immediately, I'm practically tearing my hair out waiting!"
Anduin gave a slight, bitter smile as he refolded the letter. "You'll be disappointed," he thought. He could already predict the ensuing outrage, the heartbroken guilt, and the final, quiet severance of the relationship. To a true Black, Slytherin was heritage; to a revolutionary like Sirius, it was a profound betrayal. He knew if Sirius learned the truth, their already complex relationship would likely disintegrate entirely. He needed to write a careful, measured response.
Anduin tucked the letters into his inner robe pocket, his breakfast forgotten. He had to be strategic. He would wait until the safety of the Charms classroom to compose his reply.
The bell rang, signaling the start of the first period. Anduin guided Vivian, effortlessly navigating the chaotic flow of students, turning corners, and avoiding groups of older students until they reached their destination.
He was unsurprised to find the Charms class, as expected, was a joint Slytherin and Gryffindor session. The deep, ideological rift between the Houses—immediately visible in the Great Hall and the common room arguments—was muted here, replaced by a forced, tense academic proximity.
Anduin spotted Charles McKinnon, already seated at a desk near the front, wearing his scarlet and gold with an air of proud defiance. Charles looked up, their eyes met, and they exchanged a brief, curt nod—a necessary formality, acknowledging their friendship, yet respecting the new, politically hostile boundaries that now divided them.
Anduin and Vivian chose a desk near the middle, a strategic distance from both the hyper-ambitious Slytherin pure-bloods and the boisterous Gryffindors.
The door burst open, and Professor Filius Flitwick entered. The Charms Master was famously short—so short that he had to ascend a stack of massive, leather-bound books placed atop his desk just to be visible above the edge of the podium. Yet, what he lacked in height, he compensated for with infectious energy, his voice squeaking with enthusiasm.
"Welcome, welcome! To the exciting world of Charms!" Flitwick announced, his tiny figure buzzing with excitement.
Anduin's first lesson at Hogwarts began. As he had anticipated, the initial theoretical lecture was painfully superficial. Flitwick spent the entire first hour (9:00 AM to 10:00 AM) detailing the rudimentary principles of magic, focusing on the three pillars of charm work:
Intentionality (The Will): The necessity of a pure, unclouded desire for the spell's outcome.
Incantation (The Vibrational Key): The exact pronunciation and linguistic cadence required to resonate with the magical field.
Wand Movement (The Channel): The precise gesture needed to direct and focus the energy.
To Anduin, who had already consumed dozens of advanced magical texts and could cast many of these charms non-verbally, the lecture was entirely remedial. Flitwick described the how—the surface mechanics—but completely ignored the why—the underlying manipulation of magical energy fields, the precise physics that allowed an incantation to trigger a desired reality shift.
"The curriculum is designed for instruction, not inquiry," Anduin judged internally, a deep sense of disappointment settling over him. "He is teaching the cookbook, not the chemistry. The focus is on rote replication rather than foundational understanding."
Deciding that sitting idly would be a greater waste of time, Anduin quietly pulled out parchment and quill. Using Flitwick's continuous, high-pitched monologue as cover, he began composing the crucial letters.
He wrote the briefest possible reply to Tom, confirming his Sorting into Slytherin and providing no details. Then he started the difficult letter to Sirius. He acknowledged the house choice immediately, framing it not as a political allegiance but as a strategic necessity—the Hat's recognition of his singular drive and self-preservation.
He carefully detailed the cold atmosphere of Slytherin, the hostility of the pure-bloods, and the resulting need to prioritize strength and self-defense above all else. He painted his position as that of a soldier behind enemy lines, appealing to Sirius's sense of rebellious struggle and hoping this military framing would temper the inevitable outrage.
He was still detailing the political split within Slytherin when the bell rang for the brief recess. Flitwick paused for a moment, then, without allowing any break in the lecture, transitioned seamlessly into the practical portion of the class—the second consecutive lesson.
"Alright, class!" Flitwick chirped, clapping his hands together. "Our first practical exercise! The Levitation Charm, or Wingardium Leviosa! A fundamental charm, demonstrating the mastery of mass transference. Now, I have placed a feather on each of your desks. I want you all to focus on the feather. Remember the movements: swish and flick! And the incantation: Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa! Focus on that 'gar' syllable! Pronunciation is everything!"
The entire classroom erupted into a cacophony of frustrated, mispronounced chants and wildly inaccurate wand movements. Feathers remained stubbornly glued to the desks.
"Vegadimmleviosa!" Vivian chanted, her face flushed with the effort, her wand movements resembling an aggressive, spastic scribble rather than a precise flick.
Anduin sighed internally. She missed the 'gar' entirely, and the movement is all elbow. He quickly finished the last paragraph of his letter to Lily, sealed all three pieces of correspondence with a simple privacy charm, and slipped them back into his pocket, ready for the owl post later.
He glanced around. On the Gryffindor side, Charles was concentrating fiercely, his wand hand shaking with effort. On the Slytherin side, Sampur Travers looked increasingly agitated.
Travers finally snapped his wand and barked the spell loudly. His feather wobbled violently, lifting about an inch off the desk before plunging back down. A moment later, with a few more furious attempts, he managed to get it to hold a shaky, three-inch elevation. He immediately glanced at Anduin, a smug, triumphant smirk pulling at his lips, reveling in his success.
It was at this moment that Professor Flitwick began gliding down the rows, his head turning like a tiny owl, examining the results. He was moving directly toward Anduin's desk.
Anduin knew he couldn't sit idly. He needed a result, but he desperately wanted to avoid a flamboyant display that would only draw the wrong kind of political attention. As Flitwick's shadow fell across his desk, Anduin calmly reached for his own wand. He pointed it, the tip hovering gently over the feather.
He didn't make the swish and flick. He didn't speak.
Instead, he simply allowed the Intentionality to flow—the quiet, practiced command to manipulate the air currents around the feather and suspend its mass. The charm, already mastered and internalized, formed instantly.
The feather rose. It did not wobble, nor did it shudder. It ascended to a perfect, unwavering height of six inches and remained absolutely motionless, a small, delicate satellite suspended in mid-air.
Anduin instantly realized his mistake: I forgot the incantation. I forgot the gesture. I cast it silently and effortlessly out of habit.
"A perfect Levitation Spell, Mr. Wilson! An absolutely outstanding display of precision!" Professor Flitwick stopped right next to the desk, his voice brimming with pride. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Anduin's lips hadn't moved and his wrist had barely twitched. "Slytherin, two points! A near-perfect Levitation Charm on the very first try. Everyone, observe! This is the stability we strive for!"
A wave of astonished looks swept the room. The Gryffindors, especially Charles, stared with a mixture of professional envy and political annoyance. Travers's face, still flushed with his own shaky success, twisted into a silent mask of pure, frustrated hostility.
Anduin fought the urge to grimace. He had intended to fly under the radar; instead, he'd just demonstrated a level of magical aptitude far beyond his years in front of his greatest rivals.
Vivian leaned in immediately, her voice a frantic, excited whisper. "Did you forget to say the spell earlier? I didn't hear you!"
"Shh," Anduin hissed back, giving her a sharp look that demanded immediate compliance. He lowered his voice. "Don't draw attention. And no, I didn't forget it. Now, be quiet."
He immediately began his deflection. He turned his full attention to Vivian, whispering corrections loudly enough for the nearby students to overhear. "Your wrist is stiff. It's a flick, not a stab. And the emphasis is on the 'gar'—Wing-GAR-dium. Feel the power resonating with the correct sound."
Anduin spent the next fifteen minutes tutoring Vivian, demonstrating the correct wrist rotation and emphasizing the correct vocal rhythm. His highly visible, helpful tutorial was a masterful performance designed to shift the focus from his own silent feat to his role as a cooperative student.
Under his swift guidance, Vivian finally managed to get her feather to hover with a respectable degree of stability just moments before the final bell rang. She let out a soft, relieved cheer.
"Excellent, Miss Bulstrode! Another point to Slytherin for persistence!" Flitwick exclaimed, tapping his wand on the podium to gain attention. "That concludes our lesson for today. Everyone, your homework is to write a six-inch paper on the historical origins and practical uses of the Levitation Charm."
Flitwick paused, his eyes, magnified slightly by his spectacles, fixed entirely on Anduin.
"However, Mr. Anduin Wilson, please remain behind for a moment."
The subtle shift in the Professor's tone sent a cold spear of apprehension through Anduin. He glanced at Vivian, who was already gathering her books. He gave her a reassuring look, silently signaling that she should leave.
As the Gryffindors and the remaining Slytherins filed out—Travers giving him one last, burning look of suspicion—Anduin stood alone beside his desk. The door clicked shut, leaving him in the empty, silent classroom with the tiny, expectant figure of the Charms Master. The professor stepped down from the books, the sound of his miniature feet echoing in the large room.
Anduin felt his military instincts prickle. He noticed. He must have seen the lack of incantation. This was not a friendly inquiry; this was an unexpected interrogation.