Wingardium Leviosa.
Carrie cast the charm with astonishing speed—almost as if a sigh had transformed into pure magic. Her wand traced a graceful arc through the air, and the spell—a thread of invisible, focused intent—shot toward Celestia's cloak, which rippled elegantly over her shoulders as if alive.
But Celestia, with the grace of a wind spirit, dodged once more. She leapt sideways—fluid and precise—and the spell grazed the space where her cloak had been a heartbeat before, dissolving into the snow with a soft snap.
Almost instantly, another Wingardium Leviosa left Carrie's lips.
Mid-landing, Celestia spun on her axis and executed a double backward flip, landing soundlessly on an ice-covered rock. Her sapphire-blue eyes gleamed with amusement—and pride.
"Don't just stand there, Carrie," she said, her voice clear and firm, free of mockery. "In a duel, staying still is a death sentence. Remember what you trained in Forks. Your body isn't decoration—it's your first weapon."
Carrie nodded without breaking concentration. She took a deep breath, adjusted her stance, and began to move. At first, only cautious lateral steps—as if testing the ground. But then her body fell into rhythm. She began to run. Not with desperation, but with control. Every step calculated, every turn anticipated.
And as she ran, she cast.
Wingardium Leviosa.
Wingardium Leviosa.
Wingardium Leviosa.
Her casting speed was inhuman for someone who had only learned magic weeks ago. The spell left her wand before she even finished speaking it—as if her magic already knew the path.
The duel became astonishing.
Draco, watching from the edge of the clearing with arms crossed, widened his eyes in disbelief. He didn't see a novice. He didn't see a traumatized girl who had only just discovered her power. He saw something more.
"She doesn't look like someone who just learned about magic," he murmured, almost to himself. "She looks… like a trainee Auror."
Hermione, beside him, nodded—just as awed. But then something else caught her attention. Something subtle. Almost imperceptible.
"Listen to her," she said, turning to Draco, eyes wide.
Draco frowned—but obeyed. He listened.
And then he noticed it.
Over the past minutes, Carrie had begun shortening the incantation.
First, she dropped the last syllable:
"Wingardium Levi…"
Then the second-to-last:
"Wingardium…"
And finally, she stopped speaking it altogether. She only moved her wand.
"What… what kind of talent is this?" Draco whispered, a mix of awe and respect in his voice.
In the center of the clearing, Nathael watched with a broad smile, arms crossed, snow falling gently on his shoulders.
Her talent is astonishing. Not lesser than mine—perhaps even equal. Shortening the incantation under test pressure isn't something just anyone can do. It requires deep understanding of magic. And though it's a basic spell, it would take most witches months to achieve this. Truncating the incantation isn't just memorization—it's the fusion of intent and form.
He kept watching. Minute after minute. Spell after spell.
The strength of her Wingardium Leviosa never wavered—not even slightly. And that… that was rare. Extremely rare. Most wizards—even trained ones—depleted their reserves with repeated casting. But not Carrie. Her magic flowed like an endless river.
Nathael stopped counting when Carrie cast her thirtieth Wingardium Leviosa.
And now… now she had reached the peak of understanding.
She no longer needed words. She no longer needed exaggerated gestures. Just a flick of the wrist, a flash of intent—and the spell shot out: precise, powerful, lethal.
Nathael smiled.
Perfect. Now that she's reached the summit of her comprehension… comes the second test.
Hours Earlier — Nathael and Celestia's Room
The room was dim, lit only by the soft moonlight spilling through the window. Nathael sat on the windowsill, legs crossed, a steaming cup of tea in hand. Celestia, lounging on her favorite cushion, elegantly licked a paw.
"Tomorrow, I'll give Carrie a test," Nathael said, not looking at her, but his voice firm.
Celestia raised an eyebrow.
"Already? I thought you'd wait until she had more theoretical knowledge of magic."
"She doesn't need to memorize endless theory," Nathael replied. "She needs precision. Control. Observation. Wingardium Leviosa is the perfect spell for that. It's simple—but infinitely deep."
"And what exactly will she do?"
"I'll ask her to cast Wingardium Leviosa on your cloak," he said, "while you move."
Celestia huffed—but with a smile.
"On my cloak? Nathael, please. You know I'm faster than lightning. If I activate my blue magic, she won't even see my shadow."
"That's why," Nathael said, finally meeting her gaze, "you won't activate your blue magic. And you'll moderate your speed—not too much, but enough to give her a chance. Use evasion patterns. For example: if she casts a direct spell, you jump left. If she fires two in a row, you double-jump diagonally. If she retreats, you spiral. I want Carrie to see, predict, and act. If she can recognize the patterns… she'll hit you."
Celestia studied him thoughtfully.
"It's a difficult test. It demands more than magic. It demands mind."
"Exactly," Nathael said. "I want to know how far she can go."
Back to the Present
Carrie ran, dodged, cast. Snow kicked up with every step; her feet barely touched the ground. She was in the zone—that state of flow where time slows, and the body acts before the mind commands.
But something… something didn't fit.
Her spells were perfect. Her magic, inexhaustible. Her movement, flawless.
And yet… she kept missing.
Then, in the middle of the chaos, her mind stilled. She observed.
And she saw it.
Small repetitions.
Hidden patterns.
—If I cast a direct Wingardium Leviosa… she always jumps left.
—If I fire two in a row… she double-jumps diagonally.
—If I unleash three in rapid succession… she hides behind a tree and spirals to the other side.
—If I fake right and cast left… she pretends to fall but actually slides beneath the snow and reappears behind a rock.
It was a language. A dance.
And Carrie, in her silence, was learning it.
Then, she understood.
The test wasn't just about precision, control, or spell mastery.
It was about observation.
Celestia looked at her—and in Carrie's eyes, she saw the exact moment comprehension dawned. She smiled with pride.
She knows it, Celestia thought. Now… prove it.
Carrie took a deep breath.
The rules of the game changed.
This time, she didn't cast immediately. She stopped. She watched. She waited.
Intrigued, Celestia moved. She stepped right. Then feinted a jump. Carrie didn't fall for it.
Then Carrie acted.
She fired two spells in rapid succession.
Celestia, following her pattern, executed a diagonal double-jump to the left.
But Carrie had already anticipated it.
The moment Celestia was airborne, Carrie cast a third spell—not where Celestia was, but where she would land.
The Wingardium Leviosa struck Celestia's cloak just before her paws touched the ground.
The cloak lifted.
And with it—Celestia.
For an instant, the ancestral cat floated midair, eyes wide with surprise—then drifted gently back to the snow, unharmed, her precious cloak unwrinkled.
Silence.
Then Nathael clapped.
"Congratulations, Carrie," he said, his smile warm. "You've passed the test."
Carrie lowered her wand, eyes shimmering with emotion and relief. She said nothing. She only looked at Celestia—who gave a single, slow nod. Her expression spoke louder than a thousand words:
You are worthy.