Chapter Sixteen: An Unorthodox Lesson
Hermione followed Elian into the dusty classroom, pulling her arm gently free from his grasp. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on the back of his hand. "Your hand… is it bad?"
Elian raised it, flexing his fingers with a show of nonchalance that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just the pink toad's idea of penmanship. It's fine." He could see the gears turning in Hermione's mind, her knowledge of curses and magical law likely cataloging the offense.
Shaking off the thought, Elian produced a white feather from his pocket—a standard Charms class leftover—and placed it on a dusty desk. He adopted what he hoped was a suitably mysterious and knowledgeable expression.
Hermione watched, arms crossed, skepticism and curiosity warring on her face. She was here to learn, but she was a disciple of rules and textbooks.
Elian drew his sandalwood wand. He didn't perform the textbook 'swish and flick.' Instead, he gave a loose, almost careless wave.
"Elian, that's wrong," Hermione corrected instantly, her voice sharp with academic reflex. "The wrist motion is too broad, and the follow-through is insufficient. The precision is vitally impor—"
Her lecture died in her throat.
The feather quivered, then lifted serenely into the air, drifting in a lazy circle as if caught in a gentle breeze directed by the tip of his wand.
Hermione's mouth fell slightly open.
Elian smirked, enjoying her shock. Wand movement? He didn't need it. To drive the point home—and to cover his own unconventional method—he waved his wand again in another non-standard arc. Across the room, three stacked chairs shivered and then rose a foot off the floor, hovering steadily.
Hermione stared, utterly dumbfounded. Her world of incantations, precise angles, and practiced movements seemed to tilt on its axis. The evidence was irrefutable, yet it defied every chapter of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
"But… that's not… the form is completely…" she stammered, her confidence momentarily shattered. She, the top of her year, was being shown up in fundamentals by a boy who'd been casting spells for a week.
Seeing her crisis, Elian gently lowered the chairs and feather. He cleared his throat, adopting a mentor's tone. "Ahem. The silent spell works on the same principle as the vocal one. You just… internalize the incantation. It feels strange at first. It takes practice."
He paced slightly, trying to sound authoritative. "Hermione, what's the tactical advantage of non-verbal magic?"
The question was a lifeline to familiar ground. Hermione snapped back to herself, her voice regaining its confident clip. "Speed and discretion. In a duel, your opponent can't counter what they don't hear you casting. It removes the auditory telegraph."
"Exactly," Elian said, nodding. "So, you try. Focus on the intent. The wand movement is just a guide—a conduit. It doesn't have to be a perfect replica from the book. Magic isn't a robot."
Hermione, however, was a creature of perfection. She raised her wand with ceremonial care, her brow furrowed in concentration. Every micro-movement was textbook.
"No… you're overthinking it. The intent has to flow."
"Too stiff. Your magic is fighting you."
"Breathe, Hermione. Relax. There you go."
Elian was improvising wildly. At one point, in a misguided attempt to get her to stop sub-vocalizing, he reached out and gently covered her mouth with his hand. "Don't even mouth it. Just will it."
He then, quite without thinking, placed his other hand on her waist to steady her stance. "You're leaning. Center yourself."
Hermione's head snapped around, her brown eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "Elian. I understand covering my mouth. Why is your hand on my waist?"
He jerked his hands back as if scalded. "Habit! Force of habit! Sorry!" He could feel his ears burning.
Despite the mortifying moment—or perhaps because it broke the tension—something shifted. Hermione rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile played on her lips. The awkwardness melted into a shared, slightly ridiculous mission.
And then, after what felt like an hour of failed attempts, it happened. Hermione's wand twitched. The feather on the desk shuddered, then rose—wobbly, uncertain, but undeniably airborne—without a single sound from her lips.
"Oh!" she gasped, her face transforming with pure, unadulterated joy. "I did it! I actually did it!"
Elian's own surprise was genuine. She really learned it? From my terrible advice? "See? Told you! You've got the touch. Remember that feeling. It's all about trust."
Hermione beamed at him, the thrill of mastering something advanced lighting her up from within. Then, hesitantly, she bit her lip. "Do you… think you could show me more? Tomorrow, perhaps? Other spells?"
Elian's mind raced. More? I can't teach what I don't do! But then he looked at her—brilliant, diligent, and now looking at him with newfound respect. An idea crystallized. Hermione Granger was a walking, talking encyclopedia of magical theory and practice. What if…
He looked at her, a plan forming. "I could… try," he said slowly, letting the suspense build. "But in exchange… you have to help me with my other classes. I'm years behind, and you're the best in the year. A study partnership."
Hermione's eyes widened, then lit up with agreement. It was a fair trade, and it appealed to her love of structured learning and helping. "Deal!"
The following week was a whirlwind. Under Hermione's relentless, expertly tailored tutoring, Elian's performance in Herbology, History of Magic, and even Astronomy improved dramatically. His insightful (and heavily coached) answers earned Gryffindor a total of thirteen precious house points, slowly chipping away at the deficit Umbridge had created.
Hermione, in turn, flourished under their strange arrangement. With Elian's unorthodox emphasis on 'intent over incantation,' she began to experiment, mastering silent versions of Lumos and a shaky Alohomora. Their secret lessons in the dusty classroom became a highlight of her week.
On the final night of his detention with Umbridge, Elian walked out of her oppressively pink office, rubbing the now-faded but still tender scar on his hand. Harry Potter was just ahead of him in the corridor.
As Elian turned to head for the library—he was meeting Hermione to 'study' a silent Summoning Charm he'd have to wildly improvise—Harry's voice stopped him.
"Hey. Elian."
Elian turned. Harry stood there, his green eyes serious in the flickering torchlight.
"Got a minute to talk?"
(End of Chapter)
✨✨I will release an extra chapter for every 5 reviews !!! ✨✨
Or
For every 50 power stones 🥳🥳