Neville stood across from Dillon, gripping his wand tightly with both hands.
It was his father's heirloom—a chestnut wand, its surface etched with fine scratches, its core made of unicorn tail hair.
He took a deep breath, trying to relax his expression, and locked eyes with Dillon, reciting the incantation clearly.
Suddenly, a faint cluster of silvery sparks flickered at the tip of his wand, only to vanish like they'd been swept away by a gust of wind.
Dillon's face remained unchanged, wearing the same calm, neutral expression as always.
"You seem distracted," he said.
Neville's shoulders slumped. He lowered his wand, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Maybe I'm just not good enough."
His words carried a trace of uncertainty, weighed down by self-doubt.
Dillon raised an eyebrow and replied matter-of-factly, "No, you've got the ability."
He could distinctly feel the faint ripple of magic when Neville's spell brushed against him.
But it was too weak, too fleeting to stir his emotions.
Neville pursed his lips, lifted his wand again, and tried once more. The result was the same.
He lowered his wand with a sigh, muttering to himself as if to console his failure, "Maybe it's because you're already so happy you can't feel it."
Dillon didn't comment.
He knew the issue wasn't with him.
Neville's magical talent wasn't bad, but that wand—his father's—never truly bonded with him.
Unicorn tail hair cores were fiercely loyal. Once they chose a master, they rarely fully accepted another, even if that person was the original owner's son.
Dillon watched how Neville held the wand, fully aware of the problem but unable to say anything.
He knew what that wand meant to Neville—it was one of the few connections he had to the father he'd never known.
Besides, Neville himself might not even realize why his magic always seemed to falter.
But Dillon knew.
Neville's grandmother had cast Obliviate on him when he was young, erasing the memory of witnessing his parents tortured by Death Eaters with the Cruciatus Curse.
That buried pain, stripped away by force, might still be affecting his connection to magic, making him seem forgetful and timid.
Dillon shrugged and took the lead in their practice.
Raising his wand, he pointed it steadily at Neville and said clearly, "*Cheerfulness Charm!*"
A soft golden light flowed from the wand's tip, enveloping Neville like a delicate veil.
A pure, unexplainable sense of contentment surged through Neville's heart.
The frustration from his failed spells melted away.
He couldn't help but smile, his eyes brightening with a newfound ease, even humming a tuneless little melody.
"Wow…" Neville blinked in surprise, glancing at his wand, then back at Dillon, his eyes full of admiration.
Buoyed by the magically induced good mood, Neville threw himself back into practice.
For the rest of the lesson, he raised his wand again and again, his incantations growing smoother, his focus sharpening.
Most of the time, Dillon only felt a faint, fleeting spark of joy from Neville's spells—rough, like cutting fabric with a dull knife.
It was nowhere near as refined or precise as his own magic.
But compared to the start, it was clear progress.
When Neville finally managed to make Dillon feel a slight emotional shift, an intriguing idea popped into Dillon's mind.
He remembered his first year, during Potions class, when he'd boldly suggested an idea to Snape: since emotions could influence magic, could a potion simulate specific emotions to aid spellcasting?
Snape had shot it down with a cold "Absurd," arguing that potion-induced emotions couldn't truly resonate with a wizard's magical core.
But now, watching the Cheerfulness Charm's effect on Neville, Dillon thought of his Dreamweave Construct.
The illusions created by Dreamweave Construct could evoke or even craft specific emotions with far greater precision than a simple Cheerfulness Charm.
What if… he used Dreamweave Construct to weave the exact emotions needed?
Could it assist in casting spells that relied on intense emotions?
The idea took root in Dillon's mind, spreading like vines.
He couldn't help but start seriously considering it.
But who would be the right test subject for this experiment?
Dillon first thought of himself.
But he quickly dismissed the idea.
When casting dark magic, he didn't need emotional crutches—those spells were just precise energy manipulation to him.
And the Patronus Charm? He'd mastered it long ago, casting it with ease.
There didn't seem to be any emotion-driven spell that would make sense for him to test.
What about… Peter Pettigrew?
Dillon's eyes lit up.
That cowardly, cunning little man.
If Dreamweave Construct could conjure strong enough positive emotions in him, could he cast a Patronus Charm?
If he could, it would prove that Dreamweave Construct's fabricated emotions could indeed aid spellcasting.
But that experiment alone might not be convincing enough.
After all, even a villain could, in theory, cast a Patronus Charm if they held a shred of genuine courage or love—or believed their actions were driven by love.
Maybe… after testing Pettigrew, he could try Cedric?
Dillon's thoughts wandered further.
Cedric was kind and upright, the type of wizard who'd need authentic emotions to cast dark magic.
If Dreamweave Construct could weave enough hatred or pain for him, could he cast the Cruciatus Curse?
The thought barely formed before Dillon shut it down.
"No, better stick with the Fiendfyre Curse," he told himself.
The Cruciatus Curse was an Unforgivable. If Cedric were caught, he'd be shipped straight to Azkaban.
That was no small matter.
And even if it worked, how would Dillon explain why he'd chosen an Unforgivable for the experiment?
It would raise too many red flags, too much danger.
As he mulled it over, Dillon's fingers absently traced the carved patterns on his wand.
The smooth, warm wood made him pause, struck by a surprising realization.
He was calmly contemplating experiments with Unforgivables, as if they were just ordinary spells.
When had he become so comfortable with dark magic, forbidden by the entire wizarding world?
Well… it had been a while.
Dillon reflected for a moment.
He hadn't always been so at ease with these forces.
But over the years, Voldemort's shadow loomed like a storm cloud over the wizarding world.
The lurking Death Eaters, the constant threat of conflict—they all reminded him that surviving in this world, protecting those he cared about, meant no room for hesitation or weakness.
Every step he took, every "unacceptable" spell he learned, felt like the world's harsh reality pushing him forward.
"Exactly," Dillon nodded to himself, easily convincing himself. "It's not me who's wrong—it's this world."
"If Voldemort weren't so terrifying, would I really be this desperate to master every spell and soak up every bit of knowledge?"
"Speaking of which, why doesn't Voldemort just show up and make trouble so I can nab my third test subject?"
Sunlight streamed through the library window, illuminating the dense annotations on Dillon's book.
The towering bookshelves stood like silent giants.
Hermione wove through them, her eyes scanning heavy tomes.
Her brow was furrowed in frustration.
For days, she'd spent nearly all her free time here.
And what irritated her even more was Divination class.
In between searching for records, she'd pored over books on prophecy, from The Origins of Ancient Divination to Annotations on Sybill Trelawney's Prophecies.
She'd even dug into dusty, scrawled handwritten notes, desperate to find proof that Trelawney's Divination was nonsense.
But that afternoon's confrontation had shattered her resolve.
Professor Trelawney had stared at her with those misty eyes and shrilly declared that Hermione was "blinded by ignorance" and would "never see the mists of the future."
It infuriated her.
By dinnertime, she stormed into the Great Hall.
"I've had enough!" she snapped, slamming her bag onto the table, splashing a few drops of pumpkin juice from her plate.
"I'm going to tell Professor McGonagall I'm dropping Divination! Dillon, you were right—I'm wasting my time on that mystical nonsense!"
Across from her, Harry looked up, his gaze unfocused.
His fingers fidgeted with a button on his sweater.
He couldn't shake the memory of Trelawney pulling him aside during a break.
In the dim classroom, the crystal ball glowed eerily in the candlelight, and her voice slithered into his ear like a snake.
"The shadow of the Dark Lord draws near, Potter. After Easter, disaster will strike as foretold…"
Professor McGonagall had reassured him last week in the corridor, saying Trelawney had predicted "major catastrophes" over a hundred times since she started teaching.
Not one had come true.
But Harry still felt a weight in his chest, especially with the Quidditch final looming.
He glanced at his palm, his arm faintly aching from last year's Bludger hit.
Compared to being chased by a rogue Bludger in second year or his broom going haywire in first year, he was more afraid of the invisible dangers off the pitch.
Like those shadowy, sinister figures.
Lately, Wood had been shouting in the locker room every day.
"We have to win the Cup this year! It's been seven years!"
Harry sighed quietly, pushing his half-written History of Magic essay forward.
Easter break was coming, but it brought no relief for third-years.
Between Wood's demands and schoolwork, Harry had barely relaxed since the last match.
Now he was eating and writing essays at the same time—almost as studious as Hermione.
Dillon shrugged, staying silent.
By Easter break, the Gryffindor common room was a mess.
Red cushions were shoved into corners, buried under piles of parchment.
The fireplace flickered, casting light on exhausted faces.
Seamus threw his quill onto the table.
"What kind of holiday is this?" he grumbled, earning nods from nearby classmates.
"Exams are ages away, and Flitwick's got us writing ten inches on 'Advanced Applications of the Levitation Charm,' while Sprout's making us track Mandrake growth cycles three times a day!"
Hermione tucked her Time-Turner inside her robes, its cold metal pressing against her skin, a reminder of her triple-split days.
From seven to nine in the morning, she practiced the Patronus Charm in the Charms classroom.
From nine to noon, when she was supposed to be in Arithmancy, she was in the library writing Herbology reports.
From noon to two, she rushed back to class.
Even with the holiday, she split her time to tackle assignments.
But despite her relentless schedule, the dark circles under her eyes looked inked on, and even Fred and George's smuggled energy candies weren't helping.
Everyone was too drained to keep digging through records.
Ron, surprisingly, had taken up the task.
Whenever he had a moment, he was buried in books thicker than A History of Magic, even propping Beast or Monster? next to his plate at meals, flipping pages between bites.
He had The Hippogriff Psychology Handbook open on his lap, pages stuffed with scribbled notes.
His finger traced a section on "Hippogriff Etiquette," muttering, "Maintain eye contact when approaching, bow at a ninety-degree angle, never turn your back…"
"Look at this," he said, nudging Harry's arm. "The book says Hippogriffs only attack to defend themselves. Malfoy provoked Buckbeak on purpose—it was just protecting itself!"
Harry mumbled a reply, his Quidditch strategy chart crumpled in his grip.
Wood had announced that morning: an extra hour of training every day.
From dawn to dusk, they'd practically live on the Quidditch pitch.
read more and support mypatr***
ilham20