Sebastian was leaning against the corridor wall, arms crossed, watching the door with the focused patience of someone who'd been waiting for exactly this. When Rowan stepped through, Sebastian pushed off the wall and fell into step beside him without greeting.
They walked in silence. Down the corridor, around the corner, past the portrait of a dozing knight.
Sebastian spoke first, and when he did, his voice was careful, choosing words because the thing he wanted to say mattered too much to get wrong.
"Against Webb," Sebastian said. "You didn't speak once. Every spell was silent. He couldn't hear what was coming."
It wasn't a question.
"And just now. I couldn't hear anything through the door, but when it opened, neither you nor Hecat looked like you'd been talking. You dueled her the same way. Completely silent."
Still a statement.
Sebastian stopped walking. Rowan stopped too. They stood in the dim corridor, facing each other, and Sebastian's expression was open and direct, stripped of the competitive posturing he wore like armor in most of their interactions.
"You found a way to cast without incantations," Sebastian said. "I could see it in every spell you threw tonight. Faster, cleaner, no tells. I want to know how."
Rowan was quiet for a moment. There were a dozen ways to deflect this. Redirect, minimize, refuse. Sebastian would accept that. Not happily, but he'd accept it.
But Sebastian had watched him duel Hecat for two and a half minutes and instead of resenting it, instead of turning competitive, he'd waited outside for ten minutes just to ask. Because he wanted to learn. Because he saw a thing that worked and wanted to understand it.
That mattered.
"It's a different trigger," Rowan said. "When you cast verbally, the incantation tells your magic when to fire and what shape to take. Without it, you have to replace both of those functions with pure intent. You visualize the outcome, not the spell, and you hold that image until your magic responds to it instead of waiting for a word."
Sebastian's expression sharpened. "You're bypassing the incantation entirely. Not whispering, not subvocalizing. Actually casting on intent alone."
"Yes. I spent the break learning it."
"Two weeks." Sebastian's tone wasn't disbelief, exactly. More like someone trying to fit the claim into what he knew about how magic worked. "How?"
"Motivation. A lot of time alone with training dummies. And Hecat beating me by reading my incantations was a tactical problem I couldn't solve any other way."
Sebastian was quiet for a long moment, turning this over. "So you taught yourself sixth-year magic to solve a tactical problem."
"Yes."
"And it worked."
"It worked."
Sebastian looked at him with an expression that was equal parts respect and determination. "I want to learn it."
"It's difficult. You have to unlearn the habit of incantations while keeping the precision. It took me hundreds of failed attempts before I could produce a single reliable spell."
"I don't care how difficult it is." Sebastian's voice was flat, certain. "If it gives that kind of edge—if it let you hold off Hecat for two and a half minutes—then it's worth whatever it takes."
Rowan studied him. Sebastian Sallow standing in a dim corridor, asking for help, no pride getting in the way, no competition clouding the request. Just a genuine desire to improve.
"All right," Rowan said. "I'll show you what I learned. But it's going to be frustrating. You're going to fail a lot before anything works."
"I can handle frustration."
They started walking again, heading toward the Slytherin dungeons. Sebastian was quiet for a moment, then spoke again, his voice softer.
"My sister and I—we're orphans too. Our uncle Solomon raised us after our parents died. He's protective. Paranoid, even. He thinks the world is dangerous and the best way to stay safe is to keep your head down, follow the rules, don't take risks."
"And you disagree."
"I think the world is dangerous, but hiding from it doesn't make you safe. It just makes you unprepared when it finds you anyway." Sebastian looked at Rowan. "Anne and I are all each other has. If she was in danger and I wasn't strong enough to help her, I'd never forgive myself."
"So you want to be stronger."
"I want to be prepared for whatever comes." Sebastian's expression was serious, older than his thirteen years. "That's why I duel. That's why I push myself. That's why I'm asking you to teach me this."
Rowan understood that. The drive to be ready. The refusal to accept that some threats were simply too large. The belief that if you worked hard enough, learned enough, you could protect the people who mattered.
"I'll help you," Rowan said. "We can start this weekend. Find an empty classroom and work through the basics."
"This weekend works." Sebastian paused at the entrance to the Slytherin common room, and his expression shifted toward warmth, brief and genuine and unguarded. "Thank you. For being willing to share this."
"You would have figured it out eventually. I'm just saving you time."
"Still. Not everyone would share an advantage." He paused. "And Ashcroft—that duel tonight was incredible. Whatever happened to you over break, whatever made you this much better, I'm glad it did."
He disappeared through the entrance, leaving Rowan alone in the corridor.
Rowan stood there for a moment, thinking about what Sebastian had said. About being prepared. About refusing to be helpless when danger came. About the people you couldn't afford to lose.
Then he turned and made his way back toward Ravenclaw Tower, his mind already working through how to structure the lessons. What exercises would suit someone whose instincts ran toward aggressive offensive magic rather than his own more tactical approach. How to translate what had taken him two weeks of solitary practice into a curriculum that someone else could follow.