Compared with every other magical school in the wizarding world, Schuyler Academy stands apart — less a school and more a military institution for wizards. It teaches everything other schools do, and plenty they would never dare to.
The curriculum includes spells, potions, transfiguration, history, combat, defense, alchemy, and survival. But unlike Hogwarts, Schuyler has no "Defense Against the Dark Arts" class. Here, both Dark Arts and Defense are treated as two sides of the same coin — taught under Charms, Combat, and Defense.
Herbology is treated differently too. Only plants that are toxic, hallucinogenic, or dangerously reactive to fire receive special attention. Everything else falls under Potions or Alchemy. For Schuyler students, the rule of thumb when faced with an obstructive plant in the wild is simple: burn it. If fire doesn't work, use Fiendfire. Only a small handful of plants are classified as "never burn under any circumstances."
Fighting and defense are entirely practical disciplines. Students are taught how to attack, how to defend, how to kill — and how not to be killed. Their enemies aren't just other wizards, but magical beasts and ancient races. Vampires and werewolves? Mere practice targets. The true threats are the races who've warred with wizards since time immemorial — like the elves.
At Schuyler, students over the age of seven are subjected once a month to both the Cruciatus Curse and the Imperius Curse, cast by masters targeting elven dummies or enchantments.
Veela, the enchanting beings adored by adult male wizards, are also studied. When a Veela dances or sings, every man nearby is overcome with rapture — longing, happiness, and an overwhelming urge to please her. Only those of exceptional will can resist.
The Veela's charm originates from elven magic, though the elves' power is infinitely stronger. A wizard bewitched by a Veela can be woken with a slap — two, at most. But an elf's charm targets the soul itself. No slap will break it. To shatter such control requires a far stronger stimulus — the agony of the Cruciatus Curse.
That curse was originally invented for this purpose: to sever the hold of elven soul-magic. But anyone who's felt it knows the cost. Most collapse, screaming or convulsing, unable to rise. Even if they manage to stand, their hands tremble too violently to hold a wand. And yet — through repeated exposure, resistance can be built. The pain doesn't fade, but recovery becomes faster.
Schuyler produces elite wizards — a magical army bred for battle. The ancient vigilance of wizardkind against their old enemies still endures, and so do the brutal traditions. Like the Imperius Curse, the Cruciatus can build resistance through suffering. It's inhumane — but undeniably effective. The Cruciatus strengthens endurance; the Imperius hones resistance to mind and soul manipulation.
Even Aurors at the Ministry of Magic undergo special training with both curses. But compared to Schuyler's regimen, theirs is child's play.
To train safely, the caster must have perfect control. Too strong, and the young wizard could be crippled — or worse. Too weak, and the training fails. Thus, only wizards of extraordinary precision are permitted to cast the Unforgivables on students.
Admission to Schuyler is equally strict: only children who've had a magical riot before the age of seven are accepted. From that point on, the nightmare begins.
Once a month, every student suffers both the Cruciatus and the Imperius Curse — from age seven until graduation. Twenty-four Unforgivable Curses a year. There are no summer or winter holidays, only a brief fifteen-day break at Christmas.
Mistakes earn "extra meals" — additional rounds of curses. Among Schuyler's students, the phrase has become grim humor.
"When do you think you'll go mad?" one might ask.
"Any second now," comes the usual reply.
Or sometimes: "Already did."
That is daily life at Schuyler.
The pain of the Cruciatus Curse never lessens, no matter how many times you endure it. The agony is just as excruciating the hundredth time as the first. Between the confusion of repeated Imperius spells and the monthly torture of Cruciatus, it's no wonder most students grow a little… unhinged.
"Yes, that's right," Solim said from the side. "If you ever meet a Schuyler student who looks normal, stay away. Either he's already insane, on the verge of breaking, or the kind of person you never want to cross."
(⊙⊙)
"When did you get back?!" the three cried out in unison, startled — none of them had noticed his return.
"While you were staring intently at Neville's face," Solim replied dryly.
He shifted to a more serious tone. "In short, Schuyler focuses on real combat. I'm not exaggerating when I say five graduating students from Schuyler could wipe out this entire school."
He paused. "Well… excluding the professors, of course."
"But Schuyler doesn't just train warriors. If someone shows no aptitude for combat, they're directed toward Potions or Alchemy. Even those tracks are rigorous."
The difference in quality between Schuyler and Hogwarts students is enormous — in talent, discipline, and teaching standards. But their goals are worlds apart. One school cultivates fighters. The other… well, Hogwarts tries to make civilized citizens.
"To tell you the truth," Solim sighed, folding his arms and gazing up at the ceiling, "Schuyler's teaching depth is astonishing. Magical theory, advanced spellcraft, and forbidden knowledge you'd never find elsewhere — all taught openly. Whether you can learn it is another matter."
He exhaled again. "Honestly, if it weren't for the Cruciatus and Imperius sessions, I might never have transferred to Hogwarts."
"Was it really that bad?" Draco asked hesitantly.
"I could already cast the Cruciatus Curse by third year," Solim said flatly, giving Draco a sidelong look. "Want to try it sometime?"
"Er—no thanks," Draco swallowed hard. If he could go his whole life without feeling that curse, he'd count himself lucky.
"Anyway, enough talk about that place," Solim said, straightening. "If nothing else—"
He stopped, frowned. "Wait, am I setting up a flag here?" He spat lightly to break the jinx. "Bah! You're bound to get tangled with Schuyler sooner or later. Now, up! I'll teach you some battle-ready spells today."
In the adjoining practice room, the floor was covered with cushions.
"For beginners," Solim said, raising his wand, "there's no better introduction to combat spells than the Disarming Charm."
Facing the three students, wand in his left hand, he nodded approvingly as they drew theirs. "First," he said, "you need to find a grip that suits you."
A skilled duelist can read an opponent's stance and weight just by how they hold their wand. Most wizards clutch theirs with a full grip — the whole palm wrapped around the shaft. That's fine for everyday use, but in battle it's a liability. The wrist becomes stiff and slow to adjust.
"When you point your wand directly forward," Solim explained, demonstrating, "your wrist bends down at an awkward angle. If your opponent moves, you're forced to swing your entire arm to track them. To a trained duelist, that's a fatal flaw."
He raised his wand again. "Ordinary wizards hold their wands. Fighters pinch or clamp them."
"'Pinching'" meant gripping the wand lightly between the thumb, index, and middle fingers. "'Clamping'" meant trapping it between two fingers — either index and middle, or middle and ring. Both techniques freed the wrist, allowing greater range and precision — crucial in combat.
The three stared at him, astonished. They had never imagined so much nuance in something as simple as holding a wand.
"If you pay attention," Solim continued, "you'll notice Professor Flitwick uses the 'pinching' grip, while Professor McGonagall uses the 'holding' one. Do you know what that means?"
Draco blinked. "Professor Flitwick's good at fighting? And McGonagall isn't?"
"Exactly." Solim nodded. "Flitwick was once the national dueling champion. As for Professor McGonagall — don't get me wrong, she's brilliant. But she's an academic wizard. Without preparation, she'd probably be disarmed in two or three moves."
"Before we start," Solim added, "does anyone's wand have dragon heartstring as its core?" He looked between Draco and Hermione. "Neville's wand is mine, so I already know."
Hermione raised her hand. "Mine does. But… what does that have to do with the Disarming Charm?"
"Plenty," Solim said. "Different woods and cores change a wand's temperament. Dragon heartstring cores lean toward Dark magic. When fueled by positive emotions, they weaken slightly. They're also… fickle. A failed duel or miscast spell can make a dragon-core wand lose faith in its master."
He took Hermione's wand, examining it closely. "Vine wood — interesting. That combination shouldn't cause problems."
Draco stared. "You even know wandlore?"
Solim smirked. "A bit more than you, that's all." He turned the wand in his fingers. "Vine wood — also known as ivy — makes for fiercely loyal wands. They bond deeply with their owners. But paired with a dragon heartstring, which is notoriously disloyal? Now that's fascinating. You must be quite the contradictory person, Hermione."
Hermione flushed slightly but said nothing.
"Alright," Solim said, returning the wand. "Since everyone's ready, let's begin. The Disarming Charm is one of the simplest combat spells — stripped down to its purest form. The incantation is 'Expelliarmus.' Simple, direct, effective. You'll probably manage it after two or three tries.
"Now," he gestured for them to step forward. "All of you — let's see what you've got."