After the incident in the Forbidden Forest, Hogwarts became strictly guarded.
At the breakfast table, Dumbledore put down his Cockroach Clusters, tapped the silver plate before him with his wand, and scanned the long table with a gaze that was gentle yet carried an unquestionable gravity.
“Traces of Dark Wizard activity have recently been found near the Forbidden Forest,” his voice was not loud, but it caused the noisy Great Hall to gradually fall silent.
“Their target is the Magical Creatures within the forest, but I cannot risk your safety.”
He paused, his fingertip tracing the edge of the silver plate.
“The situation at the edge of the Forbidden Forest is unstable.
I must once again emphasize the ban issued at the start of the term—no student is allowed near the Forbidden Forest.
From today, night patrols will double, and three layers of Alertness Charms will be added between the Castle and the forest edge.
The Professors will increase their rounds and surveillance.”
A wave of whispered discussion rippled through the Great Hall.
In a corner of the High Table, Quirrell suddenly hunched his shoulders, burying his head even lower, his thick turban almost covering his eyes.
His fingers gripped his wand so hard they turned white, his knuckles trembling slightly.
Back in his office, Quirrell locked the door and leaned his back firmly against it, not even daring to breathe loudly.
He pressed his hand against his turban, his voice trembling with unconcealed panic.
“Master…
Dumbledore’s vigilance is getting stricter.
We can’t even get near the Forbidden Forest, let alone the Philosopher’s Stone.”
A cold sensation, chilled to the bone, came from the back of his head.
Lord Voldemort’s consciousness, like a cold snake, slithered into his mind.
“Why the panic?” The voice was weak, yet carried an innate authority.
“Dumbledore is casting a net, waiting for us to walk right into it.”
Quirrell swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“But we can’t just wait forever…”
“Wait.” Lord Voldemort’s voice was resolute, leaving no room for negotiation.
“Wait for his vigilance to slacken, wait for the perfect moment.
Moving now is seeking death.”
Quirrell shuddered and didn’t dare say another word.
He nodded stiffly, his fingers tightening around his scarf.
…
Before dawn, while morning mist still swirled around the Hogwarts towers, there was already movement on the training grounds.
Baelon rolled up his robe sleeves, revealing his lean forearms, his wand held steady in his palm.
He took a deep breath, raised his wand, and flicked it with a crisp motion.
“Shield Charm!”
A transparent magical barrier instantly formed in front of him, shimmering with a faint silver light.
With almost no pause, he twisted his wrist sharply, and the second spell followed immediately.
“Incarcerous!”
Red light accurately hit a wooden stake ten meters away, binding it firmly in place as the magical restraint flashed briefly.
“Still too rushed.”
Professor Flitwick’s voice came from the entrance of the training grounds.
He stood on his tiptoes, hands behind his back, slowly walking over to Baelon.
As the Dean of Ravenclaw, he had always been strict about his students’ magical control.
Baelon stowed his wand and turned around, his forehead damp with morning dew, his tone earnest.
“Professor, I feel like the magical transition is still not smooth enough.”
Flitwick adjusted his small glasses on the bridge of his nose, his gaze falling on the wand, then looking up at the redness around the boy’s eyes—he had clearly stayed up late again.
“multi-casting is a curriculum for upper years; being able to synchronize them now is already outstanding.” He gently pressed Baelon’s wrist, guiding him to adjust his posture.
“But combat isn’t about rushing progress.
The Shield Charm must be steady, Expelliarmus must be accurate, and Blasting Curse must be used with caution.
Combining these three is how you stay alive.”
He paused, his voice softening.
“I know you’re in a hurry, but magic is like people—if you rush, you’ll mess up.”
Baelon looked into Professor Flitwick’s eyes and nodded slightly.
“I understand, Professor.
It’s just…
I’m afraid I won’t have enough time.”
He didn’t say what he was afraid of running out of time for, and Flitwick didn’t ask, simply patting his shoulder.
“Take it slow and build a solid foundation.
Come, try again.
This time, follow my rhythm.
First the Shield Charm, then transition to Expelliarmus.”
Baelon took a deep breath and, following Flitwick’s guidance, waved his wand again.
“Shield Charm!”
“Expelliarmus!”
The two spells triggered one after another, the magic flowing exceptionally smoothly without the slightest conflict.
“Good!
Just like that!” Flitwick’s eyes lit up, and he couldn’t help but clap his hands.
“Now try adding the basics of Blasting Curse.
Be careful to control the magical output so you don’t hurt yourself.”
Baelon practiced repeatedly, alternating between the Shield Charm, Expelliarmus, and Blasting Curse.
He didn’t stop until the morning sun rose and the mist dispersed, his arm so sore he could barely lift it.
He spent the entire morning in the furthest corner of the library.
The borrowed book, “Detailed Explanation of Combat Spells for Upper Years,” lay open on the table, its parchment notes filled with dense annotations—all his own understanding of spell rhythm and magical distribution.
Just after Transfiguration class ended in the afternoon, while students noisily headed toward the Great Hall, Baelon hurried to catch up with Professor McGonagall.
“Professor McGonagall!
Please wait!”
McGonagall turned, her gaze behind her lenses sharp as always, yet with a hint of softness.
“Baelon, is something the matter?”
“I’d like to ask for advice on combat Transfiguration.” Baelon stepped forward, gesturing a dodging movement, his tone urgent.
“During my last practice, I was always a beat slow while dodging.
The shield I transformed wasn’t fast enough to block.”
McGonagall crossed her arms, studying him for a moment.
This student usually sat quietly in the corner during class, did his homework perfectly, and was polite to others.
Now, however, he was like a tightly wound string, showing a desperate tenacity.
“Follow me to the training grounds,” she said concisely.
On the training grounds, McGonagall bent down to pick up a pebble and tossed it toward Baelon’s feet.
“Transform while dodging.
Don’t just stand there and wait.
In actual combat, the enemy won’t give you time to prepare.”
Baelon did as he was told, moving with small steps while waving his wand.
The pebble turned into a wooden shield at the tip of his wand, but it was still a moment too slow.
It was grazed by a wooden splinter McGonagall had cast, leaving a shallow scratch.
“Still slow.” McGonagall frowned, tapping the tip of his wand gently with hers.
“Be more decisive.
Trust your instincts.”
He repeated it over and over.
The wooden shield went from crooked to well-formed, and his casting speed grew faster.
McGonagall only stowed her wand once he could steadily transform a shield to protect himself under her barrage of wooden splinters.
“Not bad.” Her tone carried clear approval.
“You’ve been working very hard lately.”
Baelon wiped the sweat from his forehead and smiled.
“I want to learn more, at least enough to protect myself.”
McGonagall looked at him, silent for a few seconds, then pulled a yellowed notebook from her robes and pressed it into his hand.
“This is my combat notebook from when I was young.
It contains techniques for mobile Transfiguration and ways to handle emergencies.” She paused and added, “Don’t push yourself too hard, Baelon.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Baelon gripped the notebook, a warmth spreading through his heart.
He watched McGonagall’s back disappear around the corner, knowing she likely sensed something but chose to respect his secret.