Chapter 25: Patient Guidance
The Charms Class classroom was located at the very end of a sunlit corridor on the fourth floor.
Compared to the damp, bone-chilling gloom of the Slytherin dungeons or the eye-watering, garlic-choked air of the Defense Against the Dark Arts room, this space felt incredibly comfortable. Golden afternoon sunlight spilled through the massive arched windows, illuminating towering, mountain-like stacks of magic books.
At the front of the room, the diminutive Professor Filius Flitwick was standing precariously atop a high stack of books, trying to make himself visible to the students below the podium.
"Now, roll call!" Professor Flitwick announced, pulling out a piece of parchment and calling out in a squeaky voice.
When he reached the name "Tamara Riddle," his voice seemed to tremble for a fraction of a second, though it might have been an illusion. He looked up from behind the rim of his thick spectacles. His shrewd, intelligent eyes stared at Tamara for a while; there was no fear in his gaze, but rather a heavy sense of calculating curiosity and scrutiny.
"Riddle... Ah, yes." Professor Flitwick rubbed his hands together excitedly, shifting so much he nearly slid right off his makeshift book-tower. "Quite a few Professors have specifically mentioned you to me, saying you possess extraordinary talent. I hope you can bring us some surprises in Charms."
Tamara nodded slightly, her expression polite yet distant. "I will do my best, Professor."
"Excellent! Then, let us begin!"
Professor Flitwick gave his wand a sharp, cheerful wave, distributing a pure white feather to every student.
"Today we are learning one of the most basic, yet most important spells—the Levitation Spell." He paced along the edge of his books. "It is not as simple as just making an object fly; it tests a Wizard's fine control of magic and their concentration."
He turned and drew the wand's movement trajectory on the blackboard.
"Don't forget that wrist movement we've been practicing!" Professor Flitwick squeaked, waving his short arms like an erratic orchestra conductor. "Swish and flick! Remember, swish and flick!"
"And the pronunciation of the incantation: Wingardium Leviosa. Make the 'gar'nice and long, and the'o' clear."
After the theoretical explanation ended, the classroom was immediately filled with the chaotic chorus of incantations rising and falling.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Draco Malfoy was still the most active one. Following Professor Flitwick's exact instructions, he executed a sharp, flexible swish and flick of his wrist.
The white feather wobbled twice and then slowly drifted upward, hovering a precarious two feet above his head.
"Look! I did it!" Draco shouted excitedly, turning to look at Tamara. "How about this time? Perfect enough?"
Tamara cast a sideways glance at the feather, which was still trembling slightly as if it might plummet back to the desk at any given moment.
"The control is acceptable, Draco."
Tamara shifted her gaze back to the pristine feather resting on her own desk. She didn't chant the spell loudly like the others, nor did she perform that exaggerated, theatrical swish-and-flick motion.
She merely held her wand lightly, as delicately as if she were holding an expensive, fragile quill. Her wrist turned in an extremely subtle, impossibly fluid arc.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
That pure white feather didn't just float up. It danced.
It left the tabletop gracefully, tracing a beautiful, sweeping spiral through the sunlit air. Guided by Tamara's wand, the feather began to waltz in mid-air. It spun, leaped, and hovered; every single movement was frighteningly precise, devoid of even a single redundant tremor.
With a microscopic tap of Tamara's wand, the feather even flew directly in front of Draco, gently tapped his nose with its soft quill, and then elegantly swept backward, landing perfectly in the center of Tamara's open palm.
"Oh—!"
Professor Flitwick let out a loud gasp of pure amazement, nearly knocking over his stack of books in his excitement.
"Brilliant!!" He scrambled down from his perch and practically sprinted over to Tamara's desk, staring at the feather as if it were a rare treasure. "This kind of control... it's as if you've given the feather life!"
"Ten points to Slytherin! For this wonderful demonstration!"
Tamara smiled faintly. A spell of this level was as simple as breathing for her.
However, just as she prepared to sit back and enjoy the quiet peace that belonged to a top-tier student...
Thud!
A dull, heavy sound echoed from the desk beside her.
Gregory Goyle was sweating profusely, gripping his wand in a white-knuckled fist like a heavy iron fire poker, and stabbing viciously at the feather on his desk.
"Move! You stupid thing!" Goyle cursed while waving his wand with brute force. "Wingar—dium—Levio—sah!"
His pronunciation was an absolute disaster, turning the syllables into something that resembled a muffled scream of agony. The poor feather had been poked and crushed into a mangled mess.
Crabbe, sitting directly next to him, wasn't faring any better. He was leaning over his desk, cheeks puffed out as he blew violently on his feather, attempting to cheat the assignment through physical means.
Watching this scene, a single blue vein throbbed dangerously at Tamara's temple. Taking this group out into the world would be an embarrassment to Slytherin, and an even greater embarrassment to her as Voldemort.
Just as she was about to turn her head away to avoid the headache-inducing display entirely...
[Ding! Detected that your team members are undergoing a severe test of their IQ.]
[Triggered Mission: Leave No One Behind.]
[Mission Description: As an excellent leader, you must not only be powerful yourself but also be able to drive the progress of your team. How can you tolerate your lackeys being unable to float even a single feather? That is an insult to your leadership abilities!]
[Mission Objective: Teach Gregory Goyle to use the Levitation Spell and have him successfully cast it once.]
[Reward: Wisdom +1, Gregory Goyle's absolute loyalty increased (though he is already quite obedient).]
Tamara took a slow, deep breath. She looked at Goyle's face, which had turned the mottled color of raw pig liver from his physical exertion, and then down at the ruined feather that now resembled a chewed-up duster.
"System," she asked coldly in her mind, "can I choose to just give him a Cruciatus Curse to make him fly?"
[You cannot, dear. Please use the education of love.]
Love, my foot.
Tamara turned around, her ice-cold eyes locking onto Goyle.
Even with his severely limited intellect, Goyle instantly felt a suffocating surge of killing intent wash over him. He shuddered violently, nearly dropping his wand onto the stone floor.
"Ta... Tamara?" he stammered, shrinking back.
"What are you doing, Goyle?"
Tamara's voice was soft, yet it possessed a chilling undertone that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "Are you trying to give this feather a massage?"
"It... it won't move..." Goyle whined aggrievedly. "I think my wand is broken."
Tamara walked to his side, reached out with her slender hand, and firmly gripped Goyle's thick, meaty wrist.
"Relax your wrist," she commanded.
Goyle's arm was locked up, the muscles as stiff as a rock.
"I said, relax." Tamara's voice turned cold, her fingers tightening like a steel vice as her neatly trimmed nails dug ruthlessly into Goyle's flesh.
"Hiss— Okay! Okay! It's relaxed!"
Tamara physically guided his heavy hand through a standard, sweeping motion. "It's a swish and a flick, not flailing around like you're hitting a mole with a club."
"Wingardium Leviosa. Repeat after me."
"Wingar... dium..." Goyle mumbled, sweating buckets.
It was utterly useless. It was the literal definition of playing a lute to a cow.
After a full three minutes of agonizing instruction, Goyle remained exactly the same; the mangled feather seemed permanently glued to the wooden desktop.
Tamara's severely limited reserves of patience completely evaporated. The System's so-called education of love was officially declared a catastrophic failure.
She released Goyle's hand in disgust. Leaning down slightly, she closed the distance until her lips were hovering right beside Goyle's ear.
Her voice was a barely audible whisper, pitched so low that only the terrified boy beside her could hear it. Gone was the previous polite guidance; there was only a pure, suffocating, hellish chill.
"Listen, Goyle."
Goyle froze, his breath hitching.
"I'm giving you one last chance."
Tamara slowly extended a single, pale finger, pointing directly toward the large, open arched window at the far side of the classroom—a window that looked out over a sheer drop, a good four stories above the ground.
"See that window?"
Goyle swallowed hard, nodding his heavy head tremblingly.
"If you cannot make this damn feather fly within the next minute..."
The corners of Tamara's mouth curled upward into a slow, terrifyingly cruel smile. It was the trademark, blood-chilling smile of the Dark Lord.
"...I will throw you out of that window."
She let the words hang in the air for a second before continuing. "Though you are heavy, I believe it won't be hard to throw you out with a Levitation Spell. You will fly very high, and then..."
She paused, her smile widening.
"...Splat on the ground like a rotten watermelon."
Goyle's pupils shrank violently to the size of pinpricks, and all the blood instantly drained from his face, leaving his skin a deathly pale hue.
For some inexplicable reason, his primitive brain didn't doubt Tamara's words—not in the slightest.
That spike of primal, unadulterated terror instantly pierced through the thick fog of his dull mind, violently jump-starting the dormant survival instincts hidden deep within his body.
"Now, show me."
Tamara straightened up smoothly, instantly resuming her mask of cold, distant elegance, and stood to the side with her arms crossed.
Goyle swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed visibly. He felt like that cold, open window was beckoning to him.
"Win... Wingardium Leviosa!!!"
Goyle practically roared the incantation with a hysterical sob.
It was not a spell. It was a desperate cry from the depths of his soul. It was a raw, burning longing for life.
The thick wand in his hand gave a sudden, violent swish.
Boom—!
The mangled feather didn't float up elegantly. It didn't dance.
Instead, it reacted as if it had been fitted with a high-yield rocket booster. With a deafening 'whoosh', the feather shot straight up like a bullet, slammed hard into the stone ceiling above, and then was bounced off by the massive force, zig-zagging wildly and dangerously around the upper airspace of the classroom.
"Ah! It flew! It flew!"
Goyle shouted in a pitch of pure ecstasy, thick tears of relief nearly streaming down his pale cheeks. "Tamara! Look! I did it! Don't throw me!"
Professor Flitwick jumped, startled by the sudden commotion.
He adjusted his glasses, looking up at the battered feather that was flying higher and faster than anyone else's in the room; although the display possessed absolutely zero aesthetic value, it was, undeniably, flying.
"Oh! Though the magic output was a bit... excessive." Professor Flitwick praised, his face breaking into an approving grin: "But it was indeed successful! It seems Miss Riddle is truly an excellent tutor, to be able to have Mr. Goyle master the essentials so quickly!"
He clapped his small hands together. "Another five points to Slytherin! For this spirit of mutual assistance!"
Tamara looked blankly at Goyle, who was currently using his robe sleeve to frantically wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, and then at the [Mission Complete] notification popping up on the system panel.
[Wisdom +1.]
[Evaluation: It seems that compared to gentle guidance, fear is indeed the primary force of productivity. Worthy of you.]
Tamara gave a soft, contemptuous snort.
"With enough fear, even a Troll could learn to dance ballet."
The sharp ringing of the bell signaled the end of the class.
Goyle practically slumped into his chair, his massive frame melting in total exhaustion. He looked up at Tamara with small eyes filled with a potent mixture of deep awe and absolute, paralyzing terror—a terror far deeper and more instinctual than anything he felt for any Professor.
"Let's go."
Tamara calmly straightened her pristine cuffs and walked out of the classroom without bothering to look back at the trembling boy.
"If you're this stupid next time, Goyle..."
Her soft, melodic voice drifted back lightly over her shoulder, chilling the air around his desk.
"...we'll move the class to a higher floor."
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