The Charms classroom was located at the end of a corridor on the fourth floor.
Compared to the gloomy dungeons or the garlic-scented Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, this space felt almost pleasant. Afternoon sunlight streamed through tall arched windows, bathing the room in warm gold and illuminating the towering stacks of magic books that rose like miniature mountains along the walls.
At the front of the classroom, Professor Filius Flitwick stood atop an impressive pile of books behind the podium, trying to make himself visible to the students.
"Now then—roll call!"
He unfurled a piece of parchment and began reading in his squeaky voice.
When he reached the name "Tamara Riddle," his tone faltered for a fraction of a second—so subtle it might have been imagination. He peered over his thick glasses, sharp eyes studying her carefully. There was no fear in his gaze. Only curiosity. Appraisal.
"Riddle… ah, yes."
He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically, nearly slipping from his perch.
"Several professors have spoken highly of you. They tell me you possess extraordinary talent. I do hope you'll surprise us in Charms."
Tamara inclined her head politely, her expression calm and distant.
"I will do my best, Professor."
"Excellent! Then let us begin!"
With a flick of his wand, a pure white feather floated onto every desk.
"Today, we are learning one of the most basic—and most important—spells: the Levitation Charm."
He gestured animatedly as he spoke.
"It is not merely about making something fly. It tests a wizard's precision, magical control, and concentration."
He traced the wand movement across the blackboard.
"Remember the motion we've practiced! Swish—and flick! Swish—and flick!"
His small arms waved like a conductor leading an orchestra.
"And the pronunciation: Wingardium Leviosa. Make the 'gar' long and clear. And the 'o'—nice and rounded!"
The theoretical explanation concluded, and the classroom quickly filled with rising and falling incantations.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Draco Malfoy was, as always, the most eager.
He performed a neat swish and flick of his wrist. The feather trembled, wobbled twice, and then slowly lifted, hovering about two feet above his head.
"I did it!" Draco exclaimed, turning toward Tamara. "How about that? Good enough this time?"
Tamara examined the feather. It was still shaking slightly, as though it might drop at any second.
"The control is acceptable, Draco."
Her gaze shifted back to her own feather.
Unlike the others, she did not chant loudly or exaggerate the motion. She held her wand lightly—like a quill made of crystal—and rotated her wrist in a subtle, almost invisible arc.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The feather did not simply rise.
It danced.
It lifted gracefully from the tabletop, tracing a delicate spiral in the air. Under Tamara's control, it began to waltz midair—spinning, dipping, leaping. Each movement was precise, flawless, free of the slightest tremor.
With a soft tap of her wand, the feather drifted toward Draco, brushed the tip of his nose with its quill, and then returned elegantly to settle in her palm.
"Oh!"
Professor Flitwick gasped, nearly toppling his stack of books.
"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"
He hurried down and rushed to her desk, staring at the feather as though it were a priceless artifact.
"This degree of control—it's as though you've given it life!"
"Ten points to Slytherin! For such a wonderful demonstration!"
Tamara smiled faintly. A spell of this level was as natural to her as breathing.
But just as she was about to resume her quiet superiority—
"Thud!"
A dull, heavy sound erupted beside her.
Goyle was sweating profusely, gripping his wand like a fireplace poker and stabbing violently at the feather.
"Move! You stupid thing!"
He flailed wildly.
"Wingar—dium—Levio—sah!"
The incantation sounded like a dying scream. The feather, meanwhile, had been battered into something resembling a feather duster.
Crabbe wasn't much better. He was blowing on his feather as if physical effort might substitute for magic.
The vein at Tamara's temple pulsed.
Leading this group would be humiliating for Slytherin.
Worse—it would be humiliating for her.
Just as she turned away to avoid the developing headache—
[Ding! Detected that your team members are undergoing a severe intelligence test.]
[Mission Triggered: Leave No One Behind.]
[Mission Description: A true leader does not merely excel alone but elevates the entire team. How can you tolerate your lackeys failing to levitate a single feather? This is an insult to your leadership!]
[Mission Objective: Teach Gregory Goyle to cast the Levitation Charm successfully once.]
[Reward: Wisdom +1. Gregory Goyle's loyalty increased.]
Tamara inhaled slowly.
She stared at Goyle's flushed, pig-liver-colored face and the mutilated feather.
"System," she asked coldly in her mind, "can I simply cast the Cruciatus Curse and make him float?"
[You cannot, dear. Please employ loving education.]
Love?
Ridiculous.
Tamara turned slowly.
Goyle felt the killing intent before he saw her expression. He shuddered and nearly dropped his wand.
"Ta… Tamara?"
"What are you doing, Goyle?" she asked softly.
Her tone was gentle.
Terrifyingly gentle.
"Are you attempting to give the feather a massage?"
"It—it won't move," he muttered miserably. "I think my wand's broken."
Tamara stepped beside him and grasped his thick wrist.
"Relax."
His wrist was rigid as stone.
"I said relax."
Her voice cooled further. Her fingers tightened, nails pressing into his skin.
"Hiss—okay! Okay! It's relaxed!"
She guided his arm carefully.
"It's a swish and a flick. Not an attempt to bludgeon a mole."
"Wingardium Leviosa. Repeat."
"Wingar… dium…"
Sweat poured down Goyle's face.
It was like teaching music to a brick.
Three minutes passed.
Nothing.
The feather remained stubbornly glued to the desk.
Tamara's patience evaporated.
So much for loving education.
She released him and leaned closer, lowering her voice so that only he could hear.
"Listen carefully, Goyle."
Her whisper was colder than winter wind.
"I am giving you one final chance."
She pointed toward the wide-open window—four floors above the courtyard.
"Do you see that window?"
Goyle nodded stiffly.
"If you fail to make this feather fly within one minute…"
A faint, cruel smile curved her lips—the unmistakable smile of the Dark Lord.
"…I will throw you out of it."
His pupils contracted.
"You are heavy," she continued conversationally, "but with a Levitation Charm, lifting you will not be difficult. You will soar beautifully… and then…"
She tilted her head.
"Splat. Like a rotten watermelon."
Goyle's face turned white.
He believed her.
Completely.
Terror pierced through the fog of his dull mind, igniting raw survival instinct.
Tamara straightened and folded her arms.
"Show me."
Goyle swallowed hard. The window seemed closer now.
"Win—Wingardium Leviosa!!!"
He roared it, voice cracking with desperation.
The wand swished violently.
Boom—
The feather did not rise gracefully.
It shot upward like it had been fired from a cannon, slammed into the ceiling, and ricocheted wildly around the room.
"Ah! It flew! It flew!"
Goyle nearly burst into tears.
"I did it! Don't throw me!"
Professor Flitwick blinked in surprise at the chaos.
"Well! That was certainly… energetic."
The feather continued bouncing erratically overhead.
"While the magical output was somewhat excessive," he said diplomatically, "it was nonetheless successful!"
He beamed.
"Miss Riddle appears to be an excellent tutor indeed, to help Mr. Goyle grasp the fundamentals so quickly!"
"Five more points to Slytherin! For teamwork!"
Tamara glanced at the system panel.
[Mission Complete.]
[Wisdom +1.]
[Evaluation: Fear remains the most efficient motivator. As expected of you.]
She snorted softly.
"With sufficient fear," she murmured, "even a troll could learn ballet."
The bell rang.
Goyle collapsed into his chair, staring at her with a mixture of worship and mortal dread—a fear deeper than anything he felt for any professor.
"Let's go."
Tamara adjusted her cuffs and walked toward the door.
"If you're this incompetent next time, Goyle…"
Her voice drifted back lightly.
"…we'll hold class on a higher floor."
Goyle gulped.
He did not doubt her.
Not even a little.
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