The Charms corridor always smelled faintly of copper and lemon polish. The old stone underfoot gleamed from decades of cleaning charms, and the torches lining the walls burned with a steady, pale blue flame—Flitwick's personal touch.
Mizar walked at an even pace beside Omar, whose stride was back to something like normal, though he still favored his left side on stairs. Callista and Andromeda trailed just behind them, the first still arguing about which charms textbook had the better visual theory diagrams.
"I'm telling you, Journeux's illustrations are misleading," she insisted, tucking her wand into her braid with casual precision. "He reverses polarity without properly mapping the center thread."
"That's because he's writing for visual learners," Mizar countered. "Which you are not."
"He's not wrong," Omar said brightly, earning a pointed look from Callista.
Andromeda still lingered by his side ever since the accident.
Professor Flitwick was already bouncing on the edge of his stool when they entered. His robes were deep blue today, stitched with silver piping that shimmered faintly when he moved.
"Ah! There you are, my champions!" he called out, waving his wand to charm the classroom windows open just enough to let in the spring air. "Do come in, settle quickly—this is our last Charms lesson before the Easter holidays, and we've quite a bit to do!"
The Slytherins settled into their usual seats on the left, Hufflepuffs to the right. Mizar slid into his spot with practiced ease, exchanging nods with Ewan Macmillan from Hufflepuff, who always managed to produce perfect, faintly glowing sparks with his wand tip whenever Flitwick got enthusiastic.
Ewan was the grandson of Angus Macmillan, Aunt Melania's older brother. Though not actually related to Mizar, he remained consistently courteous—partly because, even if they weren't friends, they had grown up seeing each other often. Melania had stepped into the role of Lady Black with ease, but her love and, most importantly, her attention for her family had never wavered.
"Today," Flitwick said, balancing on the top of a stack of books with wand in hand, "we tackle one of the more delicate aspects of advanced Charms: intent layering. That is—"
He flicked his wand, and a set of translucent concentric rings appeared midair, spinning slowly. "—casting multiple converging enchantments that align with emotional or moral intent. Very tricky, but essential for higher-level wandwork, especially in field magic and, naturally, N.E.W.T. examinations."
Flitwick turned, and his gaze landed squarely on Mizar. "Which is why I expect exceptional results from you, Mr. Black-Shafiq. Don't think I haven't noticed your… quiet focus lately. It's unnerving in the best possible way."
Mizar dipped his head. "Thank you, sir."
He felt Omar nudge him under the desk. "You're going to ace this and make the rest of us look bad."
"Good," Mizar said. "That's the plan."
"This," he declared, "is not a trick. This is not a party piece. This is layered enchantment under timed conditions with independent magical stability, and I expect excellence. Or, at the very least, no explosions."
A few nervous laughs. Not many.
"You will perform the following sequence in under ninety seconds," Flitwick went on. "Float your object. Anchor it. Infuse it with static light. Suspend a moving target orbit. Track it—without collapsing your original charms."
He paused, beamed, and added: "You may begin."
He turned, eyes twinkling.
"Be honest," Omar whispered as he lined up his quill. "You like being the overachiever."
Mizar shrugged. "Better than being average."
Omar grinned.
Immediately, the room erupted into low murmurs, wand flicks, and the occasional sharp whisper of "No, not like that—".
Mizar didn't move for the first five seconds.
He sat tall at the shared desk near the front—wand still resting beside his hand, eyes narrowed slightly, like he was running through the entire routine in his head before doing a single thing.
Then he moved.
Feather first—Leviosa, sharp and precise. It rose to perfect height and held steady without so much as a tremor. A moment later, he cast Fixa, and the feather stilled, as if caught in invisible glass.
Then came the hard part.
Lumen Nivellis, he whispered, and a soft halo of cold light shimmered around the anchored feather. Before the glow could destabilize, he conjured a small orb of blue-gold light and set it into orbit around the feather with a clean, seamless spin. The target locked in, rotation perfectly timed to the flicker of his wand.
Ninety seconds hadn't even passed.
Flitwick glanced up—and beamed. "Mr. Black-Shafiq, exemplary. Quite exemplary."
Mizar didn't smile, but his wand lowered with quiet satisfaction.
Behind him, things were less smooth.
Omar's feather was listing like a stunned pixie, refusing to hold altitude.
Andromeda had managed the light infusion but her orbit was wobbling, the charm spinning slightly off-axis every third revolution. Callista had nailed the suspension and motion, but her light core was flickering—likely an instability in the lumen matrix.
"Still better than Goyle," Omar muttered, watching the boy at the far end of the row wrestle with a feather that had caught fire. "That's something."
"Low bar," Mizar said.
"Don't mock him," Andromeda said calmly, not looking up. "He'll set your cloak on fire."
"He can try."
Flitwick walked past, casting quick adjustment charms over three different desks. When he paused beside Callista, he gave a brisk nod. "Your motion tracking is excellent. Tighten your light seal and it'll be N.E.W.T.-level."
The curly hair brunette inclined her head silently.
Andromeda was muttering under her breath again—recasting the anchor. Her feather twitched, re-stabilized, and the orbit returned to center with a visible jolt.
They practiced for another twenty minutes, then stopped when Flitwick clapped again.
"All right, that's the last of the unit," he called. "Well done, everyone. This will be revisited heavily in May and June, and yes—it will be on your N.E.W.T.s, so if you're behind now, I suggest you study over the break. Yes, even during Easter."
More than a few groans.
"You may begin packing up," Flitwick finished. "And no, Mr. Troubridge, you cannot enchant your trunk to follow you out. Not after last time."
Mizar leaned back slightly, stretching out his fingers. His palm still buzzed faintly from the layered magic.
Callista rested her chin briefly on her folded arms. "If that exam is anything like what we just did, half the year's going to flub it."
"They'll panic," Mizar agreed. "Forget their sequencing."
"Bet you five sickles someone lights the proctor's robes on fire," Andromeda added.
Omar grinned, pulling out his timetable. "Mizar's too careful for that. But me? Entirely possible."
"You don't get to joke about that," Callista said dryly. "Not after you nearly set your sleeve ablaze in September."
"That was a stylistic choice."
"Sure."
They stood and gathered their things slowly. The classroom was full of low conversation, the kind that always happens before a break—the energy a little looser, the tension beginning to give.
"So," Andromeda said as they exited into the corridor, "still planning to go into Arcane Studies after we graduate?"
"Yeah," Callista replied simply. "Five years. If I make it through that, I can start the entrance program for the Department of Mysteries. Three more years after that."
"That's brutal," Omar said, adjusting his bag. "You really want to be an Unspeakable?"
"More than anything," she said. "It's the only thing that makes sense."
Mizar glanced over. "And you?"
Omar shrugged. "Astronomy. Something quiet. I'd like to work at an observatory. Obviously research."
Callista raised a brow. "Since when?"
"Since forever," Omar said with a small grin. "I like looking up. At the sky. You know. Where Andromeda lives."
She gave him a flat look.
Mizar chuckled. "You know my name's a star, too, right?"
Omar blinked. "It is?"
"Yeah. Part of Ursa Major—the Big Dipper. Second-brightest in the handle. It's actually a quadruple star system, but people used to think it was just one. Kind of poetic, isn't it?"
Callista added, "And mine's a moon. Jupiter's system. Callisto but I was named the feminine version. It's an irregular moon. I orbit a bit sideways."
"Of course it is," Omar muttered. "You two always have to out-space me."
Andromeda just rolled her eyes. "We didn't name ourselves. I don't know about Callie here but in our case it's a Black family tradition. It's either a celestial name or something related to it."
"That's why my mum's named Lycoris. It means twilight in Greek, often when celestial bodies begin to shine." Mizar
"And my father's namesake," Andromeda added, "is one of the most recognizable constellations in the northern sky. Shaped like a swan."
"I should've been named Supernova," Omar sighed. "Something with flair."
Mizar gave him a look. "You've definitely gone supernova at least twice this school year."
Omar winked. "What can I say? I burn bright."
Andromeda laughed. "You burn out."
"You're just jealous of my gravitational pull."
"I'm actively resisting it," she said dryly.
Then Omar turned to Andromeda again. "Wait—if all Blacks are named after stars or whatever, how come your sister's named Narcissa?"
"Her full name is Narcissa Hypatia Black. Mother saw her after giving birth and felt that it was only natural for her to be named after her favourite flower because of how beautiful she was—father agreed, as long as her middle name followed the Black costume. Hypatia is an asteroid."
They rounded the corner toward the stairs, the castle humming quietly around them—books in bags, exams in their future, and a brief breath of freedom waiting just beyond Friday morning.
"You packed?" Mizar asked as they reached the lower landing.
"Mostly," Andromeda said. "Violin's already in its case."
"I still can't believe you're playing a summer concert," Omar said. "That's mad."
"It's not," she replied. "I earned it."
"Just don't forget your friends when you're famous," Mizar offered.
His cousin arched a brow. "You're assuming I like you all now."
Mizar grinned. "You do."
She didn't respond.
But she didn't deny it, either.
They turned the next corner together, footsteps echoing in the long corridor as the sun filtered through the arched windows behind them, drawing lines of light across the stone.
The Room of Requirement, as always, anticipated their rhythm.
The dusk-sky ceiling had deepened to indigo, faint starlight glimmering across the illusionary panes. Magnolia stood in the center of the open space, wand-cane grounded beside her, boot heels firm against the floor. Her posture was already taut with expectation—hips squared, expression even, but her hands betrayed the faint tremor of strain. Not fear. Just the burn of always needing to brace.
Mizar approached from the far end of the room, wand holstered at his wrist, sleeves already rolled. He moved like someone who didn't waste steps. She heard the door seal behind him with a quiet click.
"No cloak?" she asked without turning.
He stopped a few paces away. "Didn't need one."
"You always wear it when we train."
"I was in a hurry." A pause. "Wanted to make sure we had enough time."
Her mouth quirked faintly. "You always say that. Then you make me regret it."
"That's the goal." He crossed the space slowly, studying her stance. "How's your balance tonight?"
"Solid enough." She didn't meet his eyes. "Took half a dose this morning. Still holding."
"You should've taken a full."
She shook her head. "I wanted to stretch it. You said you were brewing more, but if something had gone wrong—"
"Nothing ever goes wrong," he said simply, and reached into his pocket. He produced a small silver vial, its cap etched with the Shafiq crest. The liquid inside shimmered like melted frost. "Elixir of Silent Serenity. Enough for the entire holidays."
Magnolia hesitated, then took it gently. Her fingers closed around the cool metal. "Thank you."
"Half tonight. Half before you leave," he said. "I'll know if you ration it out again."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
She gave him the faintest smile before tucking the vial away in the inner pocket of her robes.
"Same start," he said. "Wandless, no cane. Just intent."
She shifted her weight slightly, adjusting her stance. It took more effort than she liked. The ache was always there, a quiet pull at the joint—but tonight, she kept her balance, shoulders steady. The cane stayed planted nearby, but her fingers flexed in the air.
"Ready," she said.
He nodded. "Then don't hold back."
Her first spell wasn't clean—it jolted off her fingertips with more force than finesse, cutting across the space like a pressure wave. Mizar absorbed it with a flick of his wrist, the energy dissolving harmlessly in midair.
"Too tense," he said. "You're leading from the shoulders."
"Then stop watching my shoulders," she snapped.
He raised an eyebrow. "You want my help or not?"
She exhaled hard and tried again.
This time, it was smoother—an arc of kinetic force, guided not by frustration but precision. Mizar caught it, spun it into the wall, and sent a flicker of magic back. She dodged, twisted, caught herself on her good leg.
The hip protested, but held.
He didn't ask if she was all right. He never did. He knew she'd stop if she wasn't.
They kept going. Back and forth—pulse, break, redirect, control. Her magic built with each motion: a flicker of air that caught the edge of his sleeve, a shimmer of light that danced around his collar before he broke it apart with nothing but a thought.
She was getting faster. More accurate.
"You're stabilizing earlier," he said once, without praise or condescension—just fact. "That's new."
"It's deliberate," she muttered, shifting her stance again.
"Good. Again."
After fifteen more minutes, he conjured a sphere of blue-white light and lobbed it toward her without warning. Magnolia swore, pivoted, and caught it between her hands. The impact shivered through her palms.
She blinked at it, surprised.
Mizar smiled faintly. "Now that was correct alignment."
"I'm not sure if I want to hex you or thank you."
"Try both," he said, stepping closer. "Disarm me."
She hesitated. "You're using your wand."
"Obviously."
"And I'm not."
"I'm aware."
She narrowed her eyes. "So this is a test."
"This is training."
Magnolia adjusted her footing—then reached. Not just with her hand, but with her intent. The pulse of magic came from behind her sternum, straight through her outstretched fingers like a silent wave.
Mizar's wand jerked sideways in his hand.
He caught it—barely.
She blinked. He met her gaze.
"That," he said, "was excellent."
She didn't answer, but a spark of pride lit behind her eyes.
They kept at it for another twenty minutes, until the dull ache in her hip grew sharper. She didn't say anything, but he saw the weight shift, the tightness in her shoulders.
"Enough," he said at last, voice gentler now.
Magnolia lowered her hands, breathing hard. "I almost had you."
"You did," Mizar said evenly. "But almost isn't enough."
She scoffed, dragging her sleeve across her temple. "You're insufferable."
"And you're stubborn."
"Isn't that why we're still here?"
He didn't argue. Instead, Mizar paced a slow arc around her, fingers loosely flexing at his sides. The magic in the room had shifted—less physical now. Thinner. Tighter. Magnolia felt it hum against her skin like static.
"I want to try something else," he said, voice lower now, more careful.
Magnolia tilted her head. "We're already an hour in."
"This won't take long."
"You always say that. Then I can't feel my legs for two days."
He stopped in front of her. Didn't smile. "I want to see your Patronus."
She blinked. "Now?"
"Now."
Her mouth tightened. "You want me to do it without a wand."
He didn't reply. He didn't have to.
"I can't," she said flatly.
"You haven't yet," he corrected. "That's not the same."
She looked at him, jaw clenched. "Why now?"
Mizar's eyes didn't flicker. "Because I need to know that if something happens—if someone takes your wand-cane, or if you're alone and outnumbered—you'll still have a way to call for help."
Her shoulders stiffened. "I'm not helpless."
"I know that," he said, and there was steel in it. "I also know what you're up against. You need this in your arsenal, not because you're weak—because you're smart."
Magnolia looked away for a moment, breath drawn tight in her chest.
Mizar stepped back a pace.
Without a word, he closed his eyes and raised his right hand.
No wand. No incantation.
Just focus.
And then—light.
Silver light surged from his palm—clean and controlled. The falcon took shape mid-air in a sweep of wings, cutting through the stillness with precision. It soared once above them, cast moonlight across the stone floor, then landed near the training mats with an elegant tuck of feathers.
Magnolia watched it land, familiar and unreal.
"You never need to prove anything to me," she said softly.
"I'm not." His gaze didn't leave hers. "I'm showing you that it can be done."
She swallowed, and turned slightly toward the open floor.
Her cane stood where she'd left it—anchored upright, a quiet promise of support.
She didn't reach for it.
"Focus on the good memories," he said.
Her fingers curled. Then flexed.
Her breathing slowed.
She reached—not with force, but with something quieter.
And she whispered, "Expecto Patronum."
A flicker.
Then a thread of silver light—small, then growing. Not enough to form. Not yet.
She inhaled again, slower.
"Expecto Patronum."
The light twisted, glimmering—like something alive trying to break through. She could feel it now, pressing outward. Not obedient. But possible.
Mizar said nothing.
And then—bright.
Her Patronus broke free in a sudden flash of clean silver: small, lizard-shaped, nimble as always. It hit the floor, tail flicking, and darted a quick arc around her feet before fading.
Only half-formed. Not sustained.
But there.
She dropped her hand, breathing a little harder than she wanted to admit.
"Better," he said quietly.
"It wasn't solid."
"It was there." His eyes were steady. "That matters."
She glanced at the spot where the lizard had vanished. "It's stupid, but… I thought if it didn't work, maybe it meant I wasn't—"
"Strong?" Mizar asked.
"No," she said. "Safe."
He didn't speak for a second. Then, "That's why we train."
"Are you doing anything over the holidays?"
She looked at him. "You mean besides not having access to our death gauntlet of a practice room?"
He gave a noncommittal shrug.
Magnolia exhaled through her nose. "We already spent enough money going to Portugal in the summer and then France during Yuletide so we're staying in London for Easter. I'll have to survive my mum's cooking—because apparently being good with plants doesn't automatically make you good at cooking them."
He huffed a low laugh.
"I'll also be sending off the wolfsbane potions I've been brewing. There's a witch in Devon whose brother is part of a pack in Wales. Asked me to owl them under a pseudonym."
"Do you trust her?"
"I trust what she does with the potions," Magnolia said. "That's enough."
He nodded, something unreadable passing across his face.
"You?"
"Mum and I are going to Los Roques," Mizar said. "Uncle Regulus is tagging along. We need the good weather. It's an archipelago in—"
"—Venezuela," Magnolia interrupted. "Yes, I am aware you people own an atlas."
"Correction," he said dryly. "We own several."
"Next you'll tell me you've memorised the tide patterns for each island."
"I have. They're on a lunar cycle."
She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, you're insufferable in two hemispheres."
"And you," he said evenly, "are just mad I'm escaping this charming British drizzle."
She tilted her head, voice low. "Don't forget your sun potion. Your neck might burn."
"I'm naturally tan. Although I might pack some for my mum and uncle, especially him."
Mizar raised an eyebrow, amused. "Uncle Regulus acts like he's immune to the sun. Last time we went somewhere warm he swore he didn't need protection, and spent two days looking like a cursed tomato."
Magnolia asked, "When are you leaving?"
"Saturday morning," Mizar said. "There's a programmed Portkey that will take us from London to Caracas, then we'll have to register us at the Venezuelan Ministry of Magic and we'll be given another Portkey to Los Roques."
He watched her carefully as she straightened her spine again, rotating her left shoulder with a faint wince. Her hip was stiff now—he could tell by the way she didn't move quite as easily as before.
"You'll keep practicing?" he asked, voice low.
"I will."
"Not just wandless magic," he said. "The Patronus, too."
She hesitated, then nodded. "I'll try."
"Not try," he corrected. "Do. Every day, if you can."
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You going to owl me a reminder?"
"I'll know if you skip," he said calmly. "You're an atrocious liar."
"That's not true," she argued. "I lie all the time. Successfully."
"Lying and keeping it from me are two different skills," he replied, lips quirking faintly.
She didn't argue that.
Instead, she looked down at her hand—the one that had summoned the flicker of her Patronus—and flexed it slowly, thoughtfully.
"You'll write?" she asked after a moment.
"If you do."
"Deal."
Mizar moved to the door first, hand brushing the edge of the wall where the magic had begun to fold away. The Room of Requirement sighed softly, as if content with their session. He held the door open for her as he always did.
"Happy Easter, Magnolia."
She limped forward with a touch more grace than usual, wand-cane tapping gently at her side.
"You too, Mizar."
And then she added, more quietly—
"Don't drown in the Caribbean."
He paused, then replied over his shoulder—
"Don't burn down London."
And with that, they went different ways.