"Excellent casting, Charlie."
In Professor Flitwick's office, Charlie had just finished an outstanding display of magic. He'd summoned a flock of birds with Transfiguration, then immediately chained it into a barrage of spells that turned the entire office into chaos.
Professor Flitwick was now waving his wand, restoring the shattered trophies, broken glass, and overturned homework one piece at a time.
"Your transitions between Charms and Transfiguration are already at the level of second nature," Flitwick said. "It's actually becoming a problem, Charlie. Your progress is so far beyond what I expected that I'm running out of spells to recommend."
"Interest is the best teacher," Charlie replied with a smile.
Then, testing the waters, he added, "Maybe something with real offensive power, Professor?"
"What?" Flitwick looked startled. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Charlie. If you want to study offensive spells on your own, I can't stop you. But if you're asking for my recommendation, I'd say offensive magic isn't the best choice right now.
Those spells are usually taught in the upper years. I know you're eager to reach for advanced magic, but I don't think high-level offensive spells are the right fit yet."
"What about Protego, then?" Charlie asked.
Flitwick's eyes lit up. "That's not a bad choice at all. But I have something even better in mind—the Confundus Charm."
"Confundus?"
"Yes. It can change a great many things. I'm not exaggerating when I say it's one of the most versatile charms we have."
"I remember it messes with spatial perception—" Charlie murmured, thinking back to fourth year and how Barty Crouch Jr. had used it on the Goblet of Fire to slip Harry's name in as the fourth champion.
"Can it also affect alchemical objects?"
"More or less—why single out alchemy items?" Flitwick asked, puzzled.
It was just a passing question; he didn't push. He continued, "But that description isn't entirely accurate."
"Not entirely?" Charlie looked surprised. "You mean it can confuse more than just space?"
"Of course. Ah, I know what you're thinking, Charlie."
Flitwick drew his wand and began moving it through the air with slow, deliberate focus.
It was the first time Charlie had seen the professor cast with this level of concentration. Clearly, this wasn't a spell you could just wave around casually.
"Confundus."
The next instant, Charlie felt his body lift as if under a Levitation Charm. Everything around him—the cabinets, the desk, the books, even the ink floating out of its bottle—began drifting upward.
"Well?" Flitwick asked.
"This is—" Charlie looked around. The entire office had turned into a zero-gravity space. "Did you confuse the space itself, Professor?"
"Correct."
The moment Flitwick canceled the spell, Charlie dropped hard onto the floor. Everything else crashed down with a loud clatter, turning the freshly repaired office into a mess again.
"Reparo." Flitwick gave his wand a casual flick and everything floated back into place.
"I want to learn this, Professor." Charlie scrambled to his feet and brushed off his robes, looking at Flitwick expectantly.
"Don't get too excited," Flitwick said with a small smile. "Just knowing the incantation and wand movement won't get you results like that. This level of application is already in the realm of advanced magic."
Advanced magic. Charlie had never heard the term before.
"Something taught in the upper years?" he asked, then added, "If I call first and second year elementary, third through fifth middle school, and sixth and seventh high school…"
"An interesting way to frame it," Flitwick chuckled, hopping up to sit on his desk. "You can think of it that way. But if you believe that once you finish sixth and seventh year you can just jump straight into advanced magic, you'd be very mistaken."
"Oh? So this is master's level? Or even doctorate level?"
"Well…" Flitwick flicked his wand and a chair appeared beside Charlie.
Once Charlie sat down, the professor continued slowly. "Most of the spells we can access only require adjusting your intent, learning the wand movement, and memorizing the incantation. Once you have those three things, the spell is yours. To get better at it, you just practice."
Charlie nodded. Like any skill—if you wanted to level it up, you stacked proficiency.
"But to reach the level I just showed you, practice alone isn't enough. You need a fundamental understanding of what the spell actually is. In academic circles there's a saying: no wizard has ever truly learned a spell. We're all just clumsily imitating them."
"Learned… imitating…"
"Exactly, Charlie. In the modern magical system, we created a three-part framework—intent, wand movement, and incantation—to make spells easier to learn and use. Master those three points and you can pick up almost any charm. But it also…"
Flitwick looked at Charlie, waiting.
"Limits it," Charlie said.
"Continue."
Charlie leaned back in the chair, one hand resting against his head. After thinking for a moment he said, "It also limits the variety… the flexibility of spells. Fixed method, fixed spell, fixed result."
"Correct."
Flitwick raised a hand and pointed into the air.
Countless chaotic lines instantly filled the office.
Charlie recognized them immediately—the same pattern he'd seen before. Endless chaos.
"Suppose…"
Flitwick's fingers sifted through the lines.
A moment later he isolated a triangle with a circle inside it. "This is the Fire-Making Charm."
He kept searching. A diamond and pentagon forming an outer shape with a perfect circle inside appeared. "This is the Fire Shield."
He searched again and pulled out a hexagram with a ring inside. "This is the Ancient Greek Fire. All of them are fire-based spells. I'm sure you can see the common element."
Obviously the circle in the middle. It was so obvious Charlie didn't need to answer.
"So to cast at a truly high level, you have to master the actual circle. Master the circle and you've mastered fire itself."
"Exactly right.
The term 'advanced magic' isn't referring to specific spells. Even the most difficult modern spells don't get labeled 'advanced.'
'Advanced' is a description of casting level."
Flitwick dismissed the diagrams and explained, "The modern three-part system shaped the wizarding world into something like a rugby ball.
When we describe social structures or organizations, we usually picture a pyramid—lots of weak people at the bottom, very few strong ones at the top.
But the wizarding world isn't shaped like that. In our rugby ball, there are very few truly weak wizards because the modern system is so easy to learn. Yet at the very tip of the ball, there are still only a tiny number of people. Escaping the limits of the modern framework is extremely difficult."
"Professor… are you one of the people standing at the tip of that rugby ball?"
"For certain spells, I can say without false modesty—yes."
Charlie sat quietly, listening. Inside, his understanding of the magical world had just taken another step forward.
Flitwick let out a relaxed breath.
"Charlie, I know what you've been wondering. Every class you ask what happens when a spell is practiced to its highest level.
That's really what you've been asking all along, isn't it?
When we take a spell as far as it can go, what can we actually do?
Are we still just following the same fixed wand movements and incantations to get the same fixed results?
You can't accept that, can you?
You've always felt that when a spell is mastered deeply enough, you should be able to break free of the framework.
Even with something as simple as the Fire-Making Charm, you want to turn it into a Fire Shield or a wall of flames, don't you?"
"Yes, Professor," Charlie said, nodding.
"And now I've given you the answer. You're right."
Charlie couldn't help smiling. He hadn't felt this good in a long time.
Reaching beyond a spell's fixed framework was still far out of reach for him right now. But simply knowing the goal existed was enough to light a fire in him.
When he'd first arrived in the magical world—when he received his Hogwarts letter, when he first saw Dumbledore—how could he not have dreamed of reaching the highest peaks of magic?
Before, that path had been completely dark. He'd been walking it alone.
Now it was different. Far ahead, a tiny, distant sun had appeared, steadily giving off light and warmth.
It hadn't changed anything about the road itself. The distance was still the same. But it had changed everything that mattered.
The path was no longer dark. All he had to do was keep walking toward that sun.
A vague destination and a real one were completely different things.
Watching Charlie's expression shift into something bright and determined, Flitwick chuckled softly.
To be honest, the so-called peak of magic was just as abstract and unreachable as the dreams and freedom Muggles liked to talk about.
Everyone hoped they'd reach it one day. But in reality?
Homework. Exams. Papers.
Work. Family. Children.
Magic in this world was practical. It wasn't some distant ideal. It existed in every corner of daily life—in the kitchen, the bedroom, the office. It washed dishes, chopped vegetables, made beds, wrote reports, fixed broken things.
And because it was so simple and so everywhere, people had lost the pure, burning curiosity ancient wizards once had for magic itself.
Some studied because they wanted praise from their teachers.
Some studied for a good job, chasing twelve Outstanding OWLs and all the status that came with them. Those years of effort, every professor had seen it.
Some studied alchemy just to prank their classmates, creating little gadgets that gave the professors headaches and grudging admiration at the same time.
They were all bright, hardworking kids—Flitwick had to admit that.
But still…
Still, something had always felt missing.
Then this small wizard in oversized robes started raising his hand in first-year class and asking those kinds of questions. Flitwick would answer with a mix of amusement and that strange feeling again.
At first he hadn't understood what it was.
Until the boy came to his office, asked his first real question, and casually proposed the balancing-ball theory.
That was when Flitwick finally understood.
It was love.
Love and curiosity for magic itself—the abstract concept.
There was no grade-chasing in Charlie's reasons for learning. No career goals. No certificates. No desperate need for recognition.
His reason for studying magic was magic.
If Charlie knew what Flitwick was thinking right now, he would've just shrugged.
When someone has already died once, they tend to chase things most people never even think about.
"Ahem!"
Flitwick cleared his throat.
"Alright. You've had enough time to process. Let's start learning."
Charlie shot up from his chair, grinning like an idiot for a second.
"Don't blame me, Professor. What you said earlier was genuinely inspiring."
Half an hour later, the lesson ended.
Charlie left Flitwick's office with a light step.
He listened to the door close behind him, then stretched comfortably and straightened his robes.
The corridor was empty. A breeze blew through from one end to the other, lifting his hair gently.
Nice weather. Good mood.
Now the only thing left to do was head to the Room of Requirement and practice while everything was still fresh in his mind.
He walked down the long corridor, passed the staircase landing, and soon reached the blank stretch of wall in front of the Room of Requirement.
Three passes later, the door appeared.
He pulled it open and stepped inside.
A moment later, footsteps echoed in the now-quiet corridor.
"Hmm?"
"Interesting…"