The truce established between Albert and Katrina was a fragile, highly conditional agreement built entirely on mutual intellectual respect and a shared desire for superiority.
They navigated the castle corridors side-by-side, their journey toward the Charms Club on the seventh floor mimicking their previous trip to the Transfiguration classroom, only this time, the spatial power dynamic was inverted. Katrina was the guide; Albert was the guided.
"You needn't bother with the tour guide routine," Albert stated flatly, sensing she was about to launch into a series of unnecessary historical facts. He intercepted her opening sentence with a swift verbal cut. "Just point me toward Classroom 17."
Katrina paused, a hint of genuine annoyance, bordering on hurt, flashing across her features—a rare, human crack in her normally composed, Ravenclaw facade. Albert's constant bluntness, while often accurate, rarely considered social pleasantries.
"Are you always this aggressively efficient?" she retorted, but still, she led him down a less-used side passage that terminated abruptly before a life-sized marble statue of a stern, middle-aged witch. The witch was draped in robes that seemed frozen mid-flow, holding a perfectly smooth, unadorned staff.
Katrina faced the statue and offered the required introduction to the stone sentinel. "This is Albert Thucel, Anderson. He was the champion of the All-England Wizarding Tournament back in the fifteenth century."
Albert, however, wasn't looking at the witch. He was staring at the space around the statue, processing the historical context.
"Fifteenth century, you say?" Albert mused, tilting his head. "A time when organized magical tournaments were barely standardized and the population of magical Britain was perhaps a tenth of what it is now. One has to question the true value of fame achieved in such a limited competitive pool, don't you think?"
Katrina frowned, folding her arms. "What are you trying to imply now? That his title is invalid?"
Albert merely shrugged, a hint of cynical amusement in his eyes. "I'm suggesting that one must maintain a long-term, contemporary perspective on achievement. Don't be like Tom, always resting on ancient history."
"Tom?" Katrina demanded, clearly irritated by the constant, cryptic jabs.
Albert pursed his lips to suppress a slight smile. "My cat. He's notoriously lazy and believes his naps are historically significant events."
"Can you please just speak plainly for once?" Katrina pleaded, exasperated. She was smart enough to know the man was always implying something crucial, but she hated having to decipher his veiled commentary.
Albert knew exactly who Albert Thucel was. While researching the Explosion Charm (a spell he'd invested heavily in perfecting for its pure destructive utility), he'd stumbled across Thucel's sparse historical profile.
Thucel was famously the first known wizard to win a major tournament solely by relying on the superior power and precise application of the Explosion Charm. Albert's comprehensive memory had filed the name away under "Obscure Charms History."
"Very well, I'll be plain," Albert said, pushing off the wall. "How do we get into the club without having to recite the life history of Thucel, the champion of a less-populated age?"
"It requires a password," Katrina stated, still slightly huffy.
"A password, yes. Given that this statue commemorates a champion of destructive charms… I'd venture to guess the password is the name of his signature spell. Something like, say, the Explosion Charm?" Albert locked eyes with her, waiting for the confirmation.
Katrina's irritation instantly evaporated, replaced by genuine, profound surprise. She stared at him, unable to hide her shock. "How on earth did you guess that? No one knows that!"
"Just a lucky guess based on limited data and historical context," Albert lied easily, enjoying the moment of intellectual victory. He raised his wand, pointing it at the stern witch statue.
"Bombarda!"
It wasn't the loud, powerful blast of the full-strength Explosion Charm, but a quick, decisive pulse of magic. The statue didn't explode, but the subtle shockwave of the spell—the perfect application of force—caused the heavy marble to grind, rotate inward, and slide aside, revealing a dimly lit, hidden entrance to Classroom 17.
They stepped through. The room was expansive, but its layout mirrored the Transfiguration Club: chairs were arranged in a perfect semi-circle around a central desk, creating a private, collaborative atmosphere.
"It's very similar to McGonagall's setup," Albert observed, the similarities between the two prestigious clubs immediately apparent.
"Sit where you like," Katrina instructed him, walking immediately toward a cluster of fourth and fifth years, including a familiar face: Izabel, one of the Ravenclaw seekers. Katrina clearly had her own network to tend to.
Albert ignored the few curious glances shot his way and chose a seat off to the side, near a large window, a spot that promised both privacy and a good view of the room's occupants. Although Katrina had given him permission to choose his seat, there were precisely sixteen chairs, indicating the strictly enforced limit on membership.
As 3 o'clock approached, the remaining members began to filter in. The Charms Club was indeed larger than the Transfiguration group, boasting a full roster of sixteen. Albert recognized two more figures.
First, Terence Higgs from Slytherin. Higgs had been the Slytherin reserve Seeker the previous year, and Albert had always found him surprisingly measured and quiet for a Slytherin, reserving a rare nod of respect for his calm competence.
Second, Gabriel Truman, a stocky, earnest-looking Hufflepuff with a reputation for intense academic focus. Truman saw Albert sitting alone and immediately approached with a friendly smile, recognizing him from shared classes and common room gossip.
"Albert Anderson! Excellent. So you were roped in too, then?" Truman asked, holding a thick academic journal close to his chest.
Albert glanced at the binding of the journal. It looked like a periodical, something from an academic magical press, not a textbook. "I was. Tell me, Truman, is Professor Flitwick planning on boring us with readings from his own famous treatise, The Magic of Innovation? Or something similarly dusty?"
Truman's jaw dropped slightly. "How in Merlin's name did you know that? We were told to review the section on the limitations of the Undetectable Extension Charm before today's meeting!"
Albert struggled to suppress a sigh. The Damned Clubs were identical in structure: mandatory, highly academic reading material followed by advanced practical application. "Just a guess. Flitwick is a known purist. He relies on highly credible, peer-reviewed sources—and in the field of Charms, his own journals are perhaps the most peer-reviewed of all."
"Well, don't fret," Truman said, patting Albert reassuringly on the shoulder. "You can always borrow the journal from Professor Flitwick. Besides, we spend most of the time experimenting with practical spell modifications."
Professor Flitwick himself scurried into Classroom 17 moments before the hour, hauling a remarkably tall, spindly chair up to the front desk. He climbed onto it, bringing his diminutive form eye-level with the assembled students.
"Welcome, welcome, Charms enthusiasts!" Flitwick squeaked, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "First order of business: we have a highly anticipated new member joining us this term. His reputation, I'm delighted to say, precedes him. Please join me in welcoming, Albert Anderson!"
The moment Flitwick uttered Albert's full name, a strange, rapid pulse emanated from the professor. Before anyone could truly register the shift, Flitwick's entire body seemed to implode with a silent, blinding CRACK.
The sight was utterly terrifying. The small professor vanished in a flash of light, replaced by an uncontrolled explosion of shimmering, multi-colored ribbons, brilliant fireworks that burst harmlessly near the ceiling, and a torrent of soft, purple confetti. It was a chaotic, beautiful, and utterly unsettling display of a Transfiguration that went wildly awry.
The entire class gasped.
The next second, Flitwick rematerialized, completely unscathed, back on his high chair, brushing a few stray ribbons off his spectacles. An explosion of applause, led by the grinning faces of Katrina and Truman, erupted across the room.
"Was every welcoming ceremony like that?" Albert asked Truman in a low voice, his heart rate elevated, not by fear, but by the sheer force of the complex Charms that must have gone into that spectacle.
Truman beamed, clapping along enthusiastically. "No, no, Albert. That was a customized, highly dangerous, and very impressive Grand Welcome Charm. It's basically the magical equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute. You, my friend, are the special one this year."
Flitwick clapped his hands sharply twice, immediately bringing the chaos to an end. "Thank you, thank you! Now, on to today's crucial topic. We are discussing the mechanics of Silent Casting."
As the room quieted, Flitwick continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I am aware that a formal introduction to Silent Casting is generally reserved for your sixth-year Advanced Charms syllabus. So, consider this club an extremely accelerated learning environment."
"Of course, Silent Casting isn't necessarily difficult in the way that, say, a Transfiguration requiring extreme mass modification is difficult. It's a matter of immense mental fortitude and concentration."
He paused, letting his small, glittering eyes sweep over the nervous faces of the younger students. "What is the primary benefit of mastering Silent Charms, you ask?"
Flitwick answered his own question with a delighted grin. "Simply put, surprise. Casting a spell without an explicit verbal cue grants a wizard a tactical advantage, enabling them to execute complex magic before an opponent even perceives the threat. It is the difference between a planned assault and an instantaneous, overwhelming counterattack."
"Now, many lesser wizards believe that Silent Casting weakens a spell's power. This is, and I must be blunt, a transparent excuse used by those who lack the necessary discipline to train their minds properly. The raw power of a spell should be derived from the caster's will, not the loudness of their voice."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter went through the room.
"The real reason many fail is a fundamental lack of focus and, more importantly, a debilitating reliance on the sound of the incantation as a mental crutch," Flitwick explained, his voice softening to a serious tone.
"Let me impart a secret, Charms students: all true master wizards—the Dumbledores, the Flitwicks, the contemporary giants—are exceptionally skilled at Silent Casting. It is not an advanced technique; it is a foundational skill that separates the proficient from the genuinely powerful."
Flitwick instructed the class: "I want each of you to attempt the simplest spell you know. You may not make a sound. You must repeat the incantation silently in your mind, visualizing the resulting effect with absolute clarity. And I warn you, there is absolutely no point in cheating and mouthing the words. Your focus must be internal. Begin."
As the room fell silent, the tension became palpable. Flitwick began gliding through the aisles, his feet barely touching the ground as he observed the struggling students.
Albert noticed Truman next to him. The Hufflepuff's mouth was clamped shut, his lips thin and white with effort. His wand tip remained stubbornly cold. Truman was visibly wrestling with the urge to whisper the magic words, treating the exercise like a physical contest of restraint.
Albert, conversely, didn't view it as a contest of restraint. He viewed it as a test of magical efficiency. He shut down all external stimuli—the creaking of chairs, the distant murmur of the castle, even the silent tension radiating from Truman. He focused solely on the raw magical intention required for a simple Lumos.
Brilliance of light. Channel. Ignite. He repeated the intent, not the word, in his mind, and, with the faintest pulse of his internal, Level 4 magical core, he performed the wand movement.
The immediate result was a powerful, clean flare of light from the tip of his wand.
Success.
It was done. The situation wasn't difficult at all. Albert wasn't sure how much time had passed—perhaps twenty seconds, perhaps a minute—but he had achieved a perfect, non-verbal Lumos.
"Did you… you actually did it?" Truman gasped, breaking his self-imposed silence with an involuntary exhalation of astonishment. He stared from his own inert wand to Albert's brilliantly glowing one. He hadn't expected the self-proclaimed 'new member' to succeed on the first, silent attempt with such ease.
"It activated," Albert confirmed, extinguishing the light with a mental command. "It's not as fundamentally difficult as I anticipated. It merely requires the caster to reroute the power source entirely to the visualization, bypassing the verbal intermediary. But," he added, a familiar intensity returning to his eyes, "it still needs practice. A tremendous amount of repetition to make it a reflex. I can't maintain that level of internal pressure for long."
Albert knew the real reason for his success: his Level 4 Lineage provided the raw, stable conduit of magic that bypassed the need for the vocal crutch. Where others had to fight their brains, he only had to focus his will.
The ease of casting was a testament to his core power; the struggle to sustain it would be the next part of the grind. And he intended to win that grind, too.