✨
After finishing lunch, Cael waved goodbye to the Weasley twins, watching them scurry off, grinning over the Marauder's Map as they plotted to find a through secret passages to Hogsmeade.
The castle was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet where a single shout would echo through every stone corridor. ❄️ Snow blanketed the grounds outside, muffling footsteps and burying student mischief beneath a layer of icy white.
Cael strolled through the empty halls, making his way toward his usual hideout when—
Smack.
A snowball nailed him square on the nose.
"What the—?" He spun around, eyes narrowing.
Hovering above, grinning like the maniacal poltergeist he was, floated Peeves, juggling another handful of snowballs.
"Well, well, well—look what we have here! A little lion cub wandering the halls," Peeves cackled, snowballs spinning through the air. "Now, answer me this, Cub. Get it right, and I might spare you. Get it wrong, and I'll enjoy stuffing these snowballs where the sun don't shine AKA your Ass —ha-ha-ha!"
Cael rolled his eyes, wiping melting snow from his face. "Go on then, ask your stupid question. But you so much as try, and I'll have the Bloody Baron after you."
Peeves' grin twitched. His eyes darkened for half a second before his manic energy returned. "Ha! Nice try, little Cub. A Gryffindor asking help from a Slytherin ghost? You're funny—you're funny!" He twirled mid-air, cackling. "But answer this… Would you rather eat slugs 🐌 or spend a whole month with Snape, letting him do whatever he wants with you ?"
Cael gagged dramatically. "What sort of absurd question is that? I thought you'd at least ask a riddle."
Peeves' eyes flared with mock outrage. "Wrong answer!" he howled, pelting snowballs rapid-fire.
Cael ducked and bolted for the staircase. Behind him, the corridor descended into chaos as Filch appeared, scowling.
"PEEVES! Stop destroying the corridor, you menace!" Filch screeched.
With a shriek of laughter, Peeves zoomed after him, flinging snowballs at Filch and Mrs. Norris, who yowled in fury.
Perfect.
Cael slipped away, feet carrying him up to the seventh floor—the very spot he needed. Past that ridiculous painting of Barnabas the Barmy getting walloped by trolls with clubs.
He paced three times before the blank stretch of wall, muttering under his breath: "A room for practice. Safe. Quiet. Private."
The stone shimmered. A door appeared, edges glowing faintly gold. ✨
Cael's grin widened as he stepped inside.
The Room of Requirement never disappointed.
It was perfect—vast, empty, walls lined with spell-resistant tapestries. Cushions piled in corners, practice dummies stood at attention, and shelves overflowed with magical odds and ends. Above, the enchanted ceiling reflected the snowy skies outside, flakes drifting beyond frosted glass.
His System chimed in, dry as ever: "Finally. Let's see if you can cast spells without setting your hair on fire. You've barely mastered the easy ones."
"Appreciate the confidence," Cael muttered, rolling his shoulders.
First Spell: Silencio.
The Silencing Charm.
He took a steadying breath. "Silencio."
…The room remained loud as ever. Footsteps echoed, ceiling creaked, somewhere, a portrait sneezed.
"Again," he told himself, tightening his grip.
Five tries in, a portrait of a pompous knight tried to shout insults—yet not a sound escaped. His mouth flapped furiously, face turning beet red.
Cael's grin stretched wider. "Oh, I love this already."
Next: Rictusempra.
The Tickling Hex.
His first few spells fizzled weakly, sparking like faulty firecrackers.
But when it hit—the dummy collapsed in a heap, arms twitching with silent laughter.
"Effective… Also potentially cruel." Cael smirked, wiping his brow.
Obscuro—the Blindfolding Charm.
Three failures, the fourth rebounding onto himself. Darkness swallowed his vision.
"Brilliant," Cael sighed, tripping into a cushion while the System snickered at him.
Eventually, the charm wrapped neatly around the dummy's head, obscuring its face entirely. With a flick, the invisible blindfold dissolved.
Lastly: Muffliato.
The Muffling Charm.
Tricky, weaving faint buzzing sounds into the air to block out eavesdropping. His early attempts barely stirred a whisper.
But after an hour of focus, a subtle hum filled the space, muffling voices, footsteps, even the gentle crackle of magical torches.
His System chimed again, amused: "Congratulations. Your pronunciation no longer makes me want to self-destruct. But mastery comes with speed—choosing the right spell under pressure and when you are in the battle zone you can cast spells timely ."
Cael collapsed onto a cushion, chest heaving, fingers tingling faintly from spellwork. His robe was askew, hair sticking up wildly. But progress… was progress.
Fishing out the green spell journal McGonagall had gifted him, he scribbled notes:
Silencio — Reliable now. Loud portraits beware.
Rictusempra — Hilarious. Fred's getting hexed.
Obscuro — Stop blinding self. Practice.
Muffliato — Useful for secrets. Needs finesse.
"Not bad for a Christmas holiday," Cael muttered, flipping his wand between his fingers.
Outside, snow continued falling—soft, endless, blanketing the world in white. ❄️
And inside, Cael practiced spells long into the snowy afternoon.