Chapter 540: The Scion of the Dark Arts
The Staffroom.
The large, wood-paneled room was currently a whirlwind of activity. Professor
Flitwick was pacing the floor, his short legs moving so fast he looked like he
might take off. He was too excited to sit.
"The Wizarding Magical Annals? You've given it a formidable name, Sean. My boy,
my brilliant student—you are going to be a legend!"
Flitwick spread out a roll of parchment covered in Sean's elegant script, his
eyes gleaming with scholarly fervor.
"Professor, do you truly believe my theory is viable?" Sean asked, his own eyes
bright.
"Viable? It's revolutionary! Such a precise description—Chaos and Blindness
giving way to Order and Wisdom... If the ancients could create the first magic
from the raw stuff of the soul, then... oh, this is a whole new frontier!"
Flitwick paused his pacing to look at Sean, his face glowing with pride. "But it
will be difficult, child. Immensely difficult."
The tiny professor pulled several ancient, dusty volumes from a locked drawer.
He looked at them with a mix of reverence and caution before handing them to
Sean.
Sean took the books, his gaze falling on the gold-lettered titles against black
leather:
Nineteen Ways to Die Following a Spell Error.
"Read them carefully, child," Flitwick said with a small, knowing smile.
Sean looked at the book beneath it, which had an equally unsettling name: The
Handbook of Cursed Objects.
Under Flitwick's meaningful gaze, Sean began to flip through the pages. As he
read, he reminded himself of why he had come here. Long ago, he had studied
basic charms with Flitwick. Recently, he had mastered the Shield Charm. But now,
he was discussing the feasibility of creating an entirely new system of magic.
It was the magical equivalent of jumping from basic addition to controlled
nuclear fusion.
Yet Flitwick didn't show a hint of skepticism. Instead, he dove into the
discussion with the enthusiasm of a fellow pioneer.
"Take Wizard Baruffio, who mispronounced the Levitation Charm," Flitwick noted.
"He said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself flat on the floor with a buffalo
on his chest... Or the witch Ula, who messed up the hand movements for a
Doubling Charm and accidentally duplicated her own nose hairs until she floated
away..."
Sean knew the first example well—Flitwick had used it in their very first
lesson. He hadn't realized the source was a restricted, private collection.
"What do you take from this, Sean?" Flitwick asked kindly.
"That a wizard who uses magic recklessly is easily consumed by the backlash of
their own power," Sean replied after a moment's thought.
"Exactly. But do you understand why they failed?"
"They..." Sean paused. Creating magic was inherently dangerous, and failure was
a constant shadow. But what was the mechanical root of that failure? If magic
was largely a product of the mind, was a ritualistic error truly unforgivable?
Or was it something deeper? "They didn't truly Believe in their magic."
"I love that word!" Flitwick clapped his hands. "Whatever the spell, a wizard
must believe it will succeed for it to alter reality. Baruffio didn't understand
what levitation truly was; he had never felt it. Therefore, he didn't just
mispronounce a word—he summoned a buffalo because his mind lacked the focus of
intent."
Flitwick leaned in, his face flushing. "Belief is the only true talent, Mr.
Green. It is the foundation of every miracle."
"But what is belief?" Sean asked.
This was where Sean's theory hit a snag. He had always believed magic was
determined by mental capacity—emotion and willpower. But Flitwick was suggesting
that "Belief" was the singular key.
"That is the question we must answer," Flitwick said, his gaze becoming
incredibly deep. "In your notes, you describe 'Blind Wizards' using the power of
emotion to trigger magic. But why does emotion trigger it?"
Sean sat up straighter, hanging on every word.
"Let us set the stage for the 'Era of Blindness,'" Flitwick continued, tapping
the parchment as the text began to shift and rewrite itself based on his words.
"In the beginning, wizards found they could use magic only in moments of extreme
crisis—what we now call Accidental Magic. This was the first law they
discovered: that magic responds to extremity. Young Harry breaking glass when
angry; young Neville bouncing when terrified.
"The wizards of that era began to blindly pursue extreme emotions to force the
magic out. They were erratic, often insane, and their deaths were... creative."
Sean's lip twitched. The wizarding world's dark sense of humor was alive and
well.
"But then," Flitwick whispered, the fire in the grate popping and making his
shadow dance against the wall, "they began to Believe. They believed they could
do extraordinary things. Some believed they could ignite a branch—and torches
were born. Some believed they could pierce the dark—and light appeared. And some
believed they could call down the lightning... and they were struck dead where
they stood."
"But they soon realized," Flitwick continued, his voice dropping to a low rasp,
"that believing in a physical object had limits. The mind struggles to grasp the
true boundaries of reality. And so... they started to believe that the magic
itself would be... Cruel."
The answer hit Sean like a bolt of lightning.
That was the power of emotion.
Wizards used emotion to define the nature of the magic. If a wizard believed
their spell was inherently cruel, it would produce a cruel result.
When Sean cast Fiendfyre, he wasn't just believing he could summon fire; he was
believing in the absolute destruction of everything in front of him. That was
the root of the Dark Arts' power. The spells weren't specific tools; they were
manifestations of a concept.
"Now do you see, child? Dark Magic cannot be erased because it represents a
fundamental category of human desire," Flitwick sighed.
"But desire isn't one-sided, Professor," Sean countered softly. "The blade
depends on the hand that yields it."
"I knew you wouldn't give up, little Green. And you shouldn't. If you can find a
'Simple Belief' to replace the 'Cruelty' of the Dark Arts, it could work. But I
must warn you: the shadows of human nature are hard to scrub away. The most
powerful dark spells are fueled by the filthiest thoughts in a wizard's heart."
Sean thought of the Unforgivable Curses. What did they represent?
Murder... Control... Torture.
They were powerful because almost any wizard was capable of tapping into that
baseline malice.
After leaving the staffroom, Sean returned to Hope Cottage. He turned Flitwick's
words over in his mind.
Wizards discovered that believing in physical things couldn't reach the limits
of magic...
Emotion was a shortcut to power. But there was another path.
Believe in Order. Believe in Wisdom.
A wizard could choose to believe in the precise function of a spell rather than
its cruelty. They could rely on their own internal stability and the accumulated
experience of the masters. If a wizard's understanding of Order and Wisdom was
deep enough, they no longer needed the crutch of "Blind Emotion."
Sean thought of Dumbledore. The Headmaster's magic was so profound he likely
didn't need a single ounce of "hate" to cast a shield that could stop a
mountain. But Voldemort? Sean suspected the Dark Lord's power was still rooted
in a fanatical belief in cruelty. That was why he had risen so fast, but also
why his magic felt so "jagged."
For the next several weeks, Sean immersed himself in the Reconstruction of the
Dark Arts.
He chose the Impediment Jinx, the very first dark spell he had learned. Using
the insights from Flitwick's hidden books, Sean found a new Order for the spell
and recorded its corresponding Wisdom. He rebuilt the entire ritual from the
ground up.
One afternoon, Sean was walking with Hermione toward the Great Hall. Mrs.
Norris, Filch's cat, leaped onto his shoulder, accidentally knocking a candle
from its sconce. Sean flicked his wand instinctively.
"Impedimenta!"
In that moment, Sean didn't wish to trip or hinder a foe. He simply wished to
catch something.
The miracle happened. The candle didn't hit the floor. It slowed to a crawl,
looking as though it were being cradled by a pair of invisible, gentle hands,
before floating back into its holder.
"What was that?" Hermione asked, her eyes wide with curiosity. "A modified
Impedimenta?"
"Mmm," Sean nodded. He was barely listening.
A notification had just appeared in his mind—one he had never seen before.
[You have practiced the Impediment Jinx at a LEGENDARY standard. Master
Proficiency +300] [Impediment Jinx has ascended.] [Impediment Jinx: Novice
(Legendary Tier) (270/300)]
Legendary?!
Above Epic... there was Legend.
Sean pondered the criteria. Was the "Legendary Standard" the act of rebuilding
the Order of a spell? Of forcing a wizard's absolute will to change the
fundamental nature of the magic?
He looked at the proficiency gain. 300 points!
In the Master rank, a spell usually required 9,000 points just to reach
"Expert." At 300 points a cast, the path to the top was finally visible.
What will a Legendary title bring? Sean wondered, his pulse quickening.
Later that evening, Sean and Hermione were heading toward the Gryffindor Tower.
They often spent their walks discussing theory, usually parting ways at the
portrait of the Fat Lady.
But as they reached the corridor, they found it choked with students.
"Why isn't anyone going in?" Hermione frowned, trying to peer over the heads of
the crowd.
Sean looked over the group. The portrait hole was closed.
"Excuse me, let me through!" Percy's voice rang out as he bustled through the
crowd, looking important. "Why are you all standing here? You can't all have
forgotten the password—out of the way, I'm Head Boy—"
Suddenly, the crowd went silent. A cold dread seemed to ripple back from the
front of the line.
"Someone get Professor Dumbledore. Now!" Percy's voice had turned high and
shrill.
The students turned their heads, those in the back standing on their tiptoes.
"What happened?" Ginny asked, arriving just as the crowd began to part.
Professor Dumbledore appeared, moving toward the portrait with a purposeful
stride. The Gryffindors squeezed together to let him pass. Hermione, clutching
Sean's arm, pulled him along to see what the fuss was about.
"Oh, no—"
Hermione gasped, her grip on Sean's sleeve tightening until her knuckles were
white.
The Fat Lady had vanished from her frame. The canvas had been viciously slashed;
strips of it lay on the floor, and a massive chunk of the background had been
ripped away entirely.
Dumbledore scanned the damage, his face set in a mask of grim concern. He turned
as Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurried toward him.
"We need to find her," Dumbledore said. "Professor McGonagall, fetch Mr. Filch
immediately. Tell him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady."
"Good luck with that!" a voice cackled from above.
Peeves the Poltergeist was bouncing over the heads of the students. Amidst the
fear and confusion, he looked like he was having the time of his life.
"What do you know, Peeves?" Dumbledore asked calmly.
Peeves's grin faltered slightly. Even he knew better than to mock the
Headmaster. He adopted an oily, sycophantic tone that was somehow more annoying
than his cackling.
"She's bolted, Your Headship. A total wreck, she is... ran through the landscape
on the fourth floor, but he was too fast for her. She's currently hiding in a
thicket on the second floor, crying her eyes out."
"Who?" Dumbledore asked sharply. "Who did this?"
"Oh, he told her, Professor-Chief," Peeves said, his expression like a man
holding a ticking bomb. "He wanted in, you see. But the Knight wouldn't let him.
And he has a nasty temper, that one."
Peeves performed a mid-air somersault and grinned upside down at the Headmaster.
"It was Sirius Black."
"Sirius Black!" Hermione gasped, her voice echoing the shock of the entire
corridor.
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