Chapter 56 Seen for What She Is
Charms class had always made Liora nervous.
Not because she disliked it—quite the opposite—but because it demanded something she was still learning to trust: instinct. Precision mattered, yes, but so did intuition, that subtle sense of when to push and when to let the magic breathe. It wasn’t something the textbooks explained well, and it certainly wasn’t something Professor Flitwick graded kindly when it went wrong.
Today’s lesson centred on adaptive shielding charms—advanced for their year, complex in theory, unforgiving in execution.
Liora stood near the back of the classroom, wand balanced lightly in her hand, heart beating a little too fast. Across the room, Mattheo leaned against a desk with deliberate casualness, dark eyes already on her. He didn’t look worried. If anything, he looked… expectant.
She tried not to let that distract her.
“Remember,” Professor Flitwick chirped from the front, “this charm responds to intent as much as incantation. Too rigid, and it shatters. Too loose, and it collapses. Balance is everything!”
Easy for him to say.
When her turn came, Liora stepped forward, took a breath, and raised her wand. She focused—not on the words alone, but on the feeling she’d learned to trust. The quiet hum beneath her ribs. The sense of magic aligning, like a tide drawing in.
“Aegis Variabilis,” she said clearly.
The air before her shimmered.
Not stiff. Not flickering.
The shield formed in a smooth arc, translucent and softly glowing, adjusting subtly as Flitwick sent a test spell its way. The impact rippled across its surface and dispersed harmlessly, the magic holding firm.
The classroom went silent.
Then—
“Marvelous!” Flitwick exclaimed, clapping his tiny hands together. “Ten points to Hufflepuff! That’s intuition at work, Miss Potter—excellent control!”
Liora’s breath caught. She lowered her wand slowly, barely registering the applause that followed. Relief flooded her first. Then pride. Then—something else entirely.
Because Mattheo was watching her like she’d just rewritten the rules of the room.
After class, the corridor buzzed with chatter as students spilled out, but Liora lingered, packing her bag with trembling fingers. She felt warm all over—part adrenaline, part embarrassment, part something she couldn’t name.
“You hesitated,” Mattheo said quietly from behind her.
She jumped slightly, then turned. “I—I almost overcorrected.”
“But you didn’t,” he replied. “You trusted yourself.”
She shrugged, trying to play it off. “I’ve had practice making mistakes.”
“That wasn’t luck,” he said, stepping closer, voice low enough that the noise around them faded. “That was instinct. Pure, precise instinct.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You say that like it’s… rare.”
“It is,” he said simply.
They walked together toward the quieter side corridor that led to the courtyard, their steps falling into easy rhythm. The late afternoon light filtered in through tall windows, painting the stone walls gold.
“You don’t cast like anyone else,” Mattheo continued. “Most students force magic into shape. You listen to it. Adjust to it.”
Liora glanced at him, surprised. “You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot,” he said, gaze steady. “Especially when it matters.”
Her heart stuttered.
“I thought,” she admitted softly, “that maybe I was doing it wrong. Everyone else seems so… precise.”
“Precision without awareness is brittle,” he said. “You’re adaptable. That makes you dangerous—in the best way.”
She laughed nervously. “Dangerous? I can barely get through a week without setting something on fire.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he said, stopping near the archway that overlooked the grounds.
She turned to face him.
For a moment, he said nothing—just looked at her with an intensity that made the air feel thicker, heavier. Then he spoke, slower now, as if choosing each word carefully.
“You have a natural sense for magic. Not power for power’s sake—understanding. You feel where spells want to go.” His voice dropped. “That’s not something you can teach.”
Liora swallowed.
No one had ever spoken about her magic like that before. She’d been praised, yes—encouraged, sometimes—but this felt different. Not polite. Not academic.
Personal.
“I… don’t know what to say,” she admitted.
“Say nothing,” he replied quietly. “Just… don’t doubt it.”
Her cheeks burned now, unmistakably warm, spreading fast. She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the view beyond the archway.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmured.
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, risking a glance back at him, “you make it very hard not to believe you.”
His expression softened—just slightly.
“That’s the idea.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Full. Like the moment before a spell locked into place.
“I meant what I said,” Mattheo added. “Your instincts—they’re exceptional. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise. Not even yourself.”
Liora felt her face go impossibly warm.
She pressed her lips together, mortified and flustered, heart racing as she stared resolutely at the stone floor.
“I—Merlin,” she muttered. “You didn’t have to say it like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, a hint of amusement threading through his voice.
“Like you were…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
He stepped closer—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the steady presence she was becoming far too accustomed to.
“Like I admire you?” he finished quietly.
Her head snapped up.
Their eyes met.
And the blush that rose this time was unmistakable—deep, vivid, and entirely uncontrollable.
Mattheo noticed.
The corner of his mouth lifted, slow and deliberate.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
Liora’s heart pounded.
And she knew—absolutely knew—that whatever line they’d been circling, they were standing right at its edge now.