The revelation of the Targeted Extraction Charm's potential and its critical limitation—the impossibility of maintaining focus against a moving, resisting biological target—did not disappoint Anduin; rather, it redirected his focus.
The initial, somewhat naive idea of instantaneously stripping an enemy of their flesh and blood in open combat was dismissed. However, Anduin's mind, conditioned by years of military strategy, instantly pivoted from direct to indirect application.
If he couldn't cast magic directly on the human, he would cast it directly on the environment surrounding the human.
His imagination, fueled by the complex diagrams of Vanessa Greengrass's published article, began to run rampant with tactical possibilities. The Charm excelled at surgically removing non-living components from a larger whole.
Imagine casting the Extraction Charm on the precise patch of stone or earth beneath an enemy's feet, instantaneously pulling the foundational elements—the cement, the packed earth, the small amount of moisture binding the soil—out of existence.
The result would not be a clean extraction; it would be an immediate, silent structural collapse. A targeted sinkhole, not conjured, but removed. This could not only drastically disrupt an enemy's balance and footwork, but could instantly create a deep, unexpected pit trap.
Furthermore, he considered the magical terrain. If the enemy was hiding behind an enchanted shield wall, the Extraction Charm could, with sufficient power and focus, target the magical binding elements within the wall's structure, causing a localized ward-collapse.
Or, if the enemy was standing on a highly polished, recently charmed floor, he could extract the very thin layer of polish or oil, instantly changing the friction coefficient and sending the opponent sliding uncontrollably. The possibilities for environmental control were vast and chilling.
Anduin sat hunched over the elegant velvet desk, lost in the academic labyrinth of tactical theory, meticulously sketching runic patterns and vectors in his private notebook.
He was, to his core, an academic, yet his research mandates—even the theoretical ones—were always judged by a single, unwavering metric: does it possess tactical or strategic significance? His years of military service and his former life as a martial artist had irrevocably molded his perspective; everything was a potential weapon, everything was a system to be exploited.
Professor Flitwick, observing the young wizard's deep, unwavering concentration from his perch, smiled with profound satisfaction. Diligence, focus, and a relentless commitment to the craft were qualities that always won a professor's unconditional favour. Flitwick saw a mirror of his younger, more ambitious self, unburdened by the academic politics of age.
Time seemed to warp and accelerate in the charged atmosphere of the research club. Eventually, the professor offered a final, brief summary of administrative details, and the club meeting was concluded. The advanced students began to file out in an orderly fashion, clutching their notebooks and new research mandates.
Anduin, a mere First Year, was strictly limited by the castle's eight o'clock curfew, which meant he could not linger. Vanessa, ever the responsible Prefect and now his reluctant club-mate, gave him a cool nod.
"The rules are absolute this far up, Anduin," Vanessa said, her voice crisp. "I'll see you out of the corridor. Filch has an inexplicable fondness for catching First Years after hours."
As they walked, Anduin thanked her again for the demonstration and the escort. He had learned more in that single, intense session than he had in an entire week of standard classes.
Back in the relative security of the Slytherin Common Room, Anduin ignored the noise, immediately pulling out the advanced textbook on Spellbreak, a complex counter-charm typically reserved for Fourth-Year students. His early access and early mastery were proving to be immensely satisfying; every difficult technique conquered was another small victory, another crucial layer of preparation.
The next day, Anduin found himself deep in the humid, heavily scented atmosphere of the Potions dungeon for his first class with the esteemed Professor Horace Slughorn. The dungeon was a chaotic symphony of bubbling liquids, acrid smoke, and the frantic scraping of knives against cutting boards.
Slughorn, an expansive, jovial wizard with a walrus mustache and an immediate fondness for potential prodigies, surveyed the room with theatrical disappointment. Most cauldrons were emitting either noxious black smoke, bubbling over with alarming volatility, or were simply burning the ingredients into a disgusting sludge.
"Excellent, truly extraordinary!" Professor Slughorn boomed, his voice cutting through the smoky din like a trumpet. He descended upon Anduin and Vivian's shared station with immediate, effusive praise.
"The Calming Draught! On your very first attempt at proper brewing, Wilson, your group has managed to produce a potion of commendable clarity and the correct faint azure hue! It is the only one in this entire dungeon that isn't a hazard to health."
Vivian, standing rigidly beside the cauldron, could only offer the professor an awkward, overly large smile. She knew her role had been strictly that of an obedient, if somewhat clumsy, ingredient dispenser.
Sunlight Orchid Root Powder? she'd asked, receiving a withering glance from Anduin when she nearly handed him a jar of dried toad eyes instead. She had spent the majority of the lesson watching, mesmerized, as Anduin performed the brewing process with robotic, detached efficiency.
Anduin accepted Professor Slughorn's praise with his usual measured calm, offering a subtle, respectful nod of gratitude.
For him, brewing a potion was less an art form and more a highly pressurized engineering task requiring total adherence to standard operating procedures. The recipes in the textbook were not suggestions; they were protocols. They specified the precise cut of the root, the exact millisecond of the pour, the precise number of clockwise stirs, and the temperature curve to be maintained.
Anduin's hands, trained for years to disassemble and reassemble weapons in total darkness and to perform complex surgical sutures under duress, were terrifyingly steady. In the chaotic environment of the dungeon, he operated like a human calibration machine.
He could dice the Sopophorous bean to the exact thickness, weigh the powdered components to the nearest grain with a mere glance, pour the viscous liquids at the exact moment the instructions called for a 'slow stream,' and stir with an unwavering, metronomic rhythm.
"Potions is truly a lot like advanced chemical cuisine," Anduin mused internally, watching a clumsy Gryffindor student incinerate half a dozen moonstones.
"The inherent difficulty lies in the variables of the raw ingredients. Even two batches of the same 'standard' ingredient, like dried raisin-berries, will possess different moisture content, different age, and different potency. These subtle, critical variances must be accounted for and compensated for with the minutest adjustments to heat or timing. The textbook only provides the standard; the master must execute the variation."
While Potions didn't capture the sheer magical thrill of Charms, the intense, calming focus required for the brewing process—the need to maintain utter mental tranquility while dealing with dangerous chemical reactions—was highly appealing. Anduin found that it was an excellent form of meditative focus, grounding his core energy.
The practicality of the discipline also appealed to his acquisitive nature. The supply closets in these upper-year Potions classrooms must be rich with reference texts and ingredient guides, he mused, a wicked, tactical thought blooming in his mind.
He had already successfully 'liberated' essential, heavily annotated textbooks from the Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts classrooms. The Potions dungeon was next on his list.
While Slughorn was distracted by another catastrophe involving a cauldron explosion near the Hufflepuff table, the Slytherin group, relegated to the darkest corner of the dungeon, was already simmering with resentment.
"Damn it, what is so exceptional about that wretched potion?" Sampur Travers snarled, stabbing his ruined, black, bubbling concoction with his stirring stick. He was a second-year student, thin, pale, and constantly radiating a brittle, aggressive paranoia. He directed his malice toward the serene figure of Anduin while venting to his companion.
"Travers, calm down. That new kid won't be able to maintain this impossible act for long. He's a First Year," whispered Randall Rozier, a broader, slightly older boy who appeared less overtly aggressive but carried a calculated menace. Rozier eyed his own cauldron, which was producing a stench like stale socks and sulfur. "But right now, let's not draw attention to ourselves. Vanessa is still watching everything. She's become entirely too much of a zealot for academic fairness."
"Hmph. That damned Greengrass has completely forgotten the true priority of Slytherin nobility," Travers hissed, his voice dangerously low. "She concerns herself with Charms journals when the future is being decided. Anduin better stay out of our way, or I will ensure he learns the consequences of getting too big for his little boots."
Travers abruptly stopped staring at Anduin and fixed his hateful gaze on a distant table occupied by the Gryffindors. There, Charles McKinnon was desperately trying to clean up a disastrous spill with his bewildered partner.
"My father and the others have been complaining again," Travers continued, his tone turning colder, more venomous.
"The McKinnon family is perpetually in the way, always obstructing the inevitable. I heard Charles's aunt has fully committed to Dumbledore's pathetic Order of the Phoenix. As a supposedly reputable pureblood house, they actively protect those vile Muggle-borns and blood traitors. We crippled one of their family members last time—a clear message—and they still refuse to repent or align with the Dark Lord. Our patience, and our mercy, has its limits."
Rozier's eyes darted around the busy, loud dungeon, fear momentarily overcoming his typical composure. "Are you insane, Travers? You cannot say things like that here! Not in this school!" he warned in a frantic, hushed tone.
Travers merely sneered, a flicker of fanaticism in his eyes. "What is there to fear, Rozier? Dumbledore is old and faltering. He can only hold the Ministry at bay for so much longer. Once the Dark Lord defeats the old fool and breaches the Ministry of Magic, the future will belong, absolutely, to our sacred pureblood families. We will find a suitable time to properly deal with that Gryffindor trash, Charles McKinnon, and his entire foolish family. That family needs a final, painful lesson."
Rozier swallowed hard, his eyes wide with fear and a kind of chilling excitement. "What are you planning? I heard old Yaxley was organizing something specific for the holidays…"
"Shh! Idiot! Do not utter names or details here," Travers snapped, his glare momentarily piercing Rozier. "We will discuss the specifics of the necessity when we are back in the Common Room. Tonight."
Rozier recoiled slightly, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering defensively to himself. "Didn't you start the entire conversation, you fool?"
Anduin, maintaining a perfectly neutral expression while measuring the final addition of powdered Unicorn Horn to his Draught, had absorbed every single word. His ears, trained to detect the slightest shift in breathing or the softest footfall, had effortlessly captured the entire, whispered exchange.
The McKinnon family. The Order of the Phoenix. Yaxley. The Dark Lord's imminent move.
This was not schoolyard bullying; this was a chilling, targeted threat of political violence, confirming the lethal reality of the world he had entered. The Targeted Extraction Charm suddenly seemed much less theoretical.
Anduin finished his potion, his outward calmness absolute, but his inner mind was already calculating the most efficient way to store and utilize this critical intelligence. He had come to Hogwarts seeking power; he had just received his first strategic data packet.