At Hogwarts, silent casting is sixth-year material.
Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Transfiguration all require it; by rights, most adult British witches and wizards should be able to cast silently. But sixth and seventh years are largely electives; some choose none of the three, so silent-casting skill varies wildly.
"So—you want to learn silent spells?"
That afternoon, Professor Flitwick stood in the classroom, surprise and pleasure mingling in his face as he looked at Sean.
"Yes, Professor," Sean nodded.
"Then let's see your Levitation—"
He pointed at a chair. Before he'd finished the sentence, Sean's incantation rang out; the wooden chair shot up and spun a few circles.
"Astonishing progress!" Flitwick couldn't help but clap. "Now, Mr. Green, tell me: what's the advantage of silent casting? And the drawback?"
"The opponent won't know what you're casting—giving you a split-second edge," Sean said, thinking for two seconds before adding, "Of course, without the 'speaking' that boosts accuracy and emotion, the spell's power drops."
The first line he'd lifted straight from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6; the second was his own. In the books, spoken spells do hit harder: in the Department of Mysteries, Dolohov's nonverbal curse hurt Hermione—but the text explicitly notes a spoken version would have done worse.
"Excellent answer!" Flitwick said, more surprised—and pleased. "When a wizard is mature enough to summon the intention of the spell precisely in the mind without the crutch of speech, he can learn and use silent casting. Mr. Green, clearly it's time to climb to a higher rung."
As he spoke, his wand swept—and chairs flew around the room. So did bottles, jars, books—and even the squirrel that had just wandered in through the window. It was properly magical.
"The key is extreme focus. Casters habitually mutter, which scuttles silent attempts. You must hold a precise incantation in your mind… Try it, Mr. Green."
Sean's quill hissed, magic's convenience—he could think and take notes at once. Flitwick seemed all the happier—patient even through three failures.
Sean grimaced. A wizard used to speaking finds silent casting physically awkward; there's a strong, bodily urge to say the word—the will to suppress it tightens the lips or makes them silently writhe—another distraction. It's like stifling a sneeze.
But under Flitwick's guidance, he adapted, and only when he made no sound at all did the professor say:
"Blazing progress! Next step—hold both the incantation and the emotion—and cast silently! Only great focus and will can call the spell in your head without a trace of sound. It's very hard…"
Emotion, will, precise incantation?
Sean thought—and moved his wand—
[You practiced Levitation once at Expert standard. Proficiency +50]
"Merlin!"
…
October loomed. Damp cold seeped into the grounds and the castle. Bullet-sized raindrops rattled the windows for days. The lake rose; beds were a churn of mud; the pumpkins by Hagrid's hut swelled greenhouse-large.
Maybe the toll of silent casting was too great; maybe Snape's tutelage in Potions too stringent and draining; maybe the nightly chill too sharp. In any case, Sean caught a cold—just as he mastered silent casting.
His breath was heavy, nostrils flaring; cheeks and brow flushed. Dizzy, he sometimes mixed up big Hermione and little McGonagall—only yesterday McGonagall had drilled him in her office while Hermione had coached Justin in the corridor. Michael, snapping photos by the window, swore Hermione and their Head of House were one and the same in pose and tone.
"No Transfiguration today. To the Hall—get some pumpkin juice," McGonagall said, palm to his blazing forehead—hot enough to fry an egg. Sean, foggy, let himself be guided. At the table edge he still checked his progress: silent Levitation had stabilized that morning, Wednesday. Learn Smokescreen and Knockback and the scholarship would be his. Flitwick was eager to tutor him one-on-one—but in this state?
His mind clattered until it landed on the Healer: Madam Pomfrey. Said to bring back anyone with a single breath left. She'd "reset" bones in a second; Ginny's sprained ankle healed "in a blink"; Harry's cracked skull knit "at once." After Lockhart's botched spell, she regrew thirty-three bones in Harry's arm with Skele-Gro…
A legend, checkable.
While Justin fretted at his side, Sean rasped, "Hospital wing," and Justin snapped out of it, hauling him up. McGonagall was already striding out of the Hall.
Hogwarts is well-prepared for colds—there's a stock potion for it. But the best batch is brewed by a certain Slytherin Head.
At the end of the corridor, McGonagall found Snape.
"Severus, I need a cold cure," she said. Snape paused, then said in a chill voice:
"Professor McGonagall… unless I misremember—treating student colds is my remit."
~~~
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