Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 34 - 32: Day Two – Magic in Motion

Severus woke up sore. Not the mild discomfort of overexertion, but the deep, aching pain of muscles that had been forced to move in ways they never had before.

Dueling had never been this physically demanding for him. At Hogwarts, dueling was all about technique. Spells, footwork, precision.

But Cirque du Combat had already shattered his understanding of what a proper duel should look like.

It wasn't about casting the strongest spell. It wasn't about having the most refined technique. It was about movement. Adaptability. Strategy.

And Severus? He had spent too long thinking two-dimensionally. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he clenched his jaw.

If I want to improve... I need to forget everything I know.

By the time they arrived at the training hall, the instructors were already waiting. Selene Marchand stood at the front, arms crossed.

"I assume you're all sore," she said dryly. There were a few groans in response.

Alessandro muttered, "I think I lost the ability to move my left shoulder."

Ben flexed his arms. "Feels like I got hit by a troll."

Severus said nothing.

Marchand smirked. "Good. That means we did our job." She turned sharply and gestured toward the platforms behind her.

"Yesterday was about testing you. Seeing where you stand."

She flicked her wand, and the platforms shifted, revealing obstacles—elevated platforms, pillars, and moving targets.

"Today?" she said, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

"Today, we're going to un-teach you."

The students were separated into smaller groups, each placed under a different instructor. Severus found himself with Instructor Gideon Holt—the man who had overseen his duel yesterday.

Holt looked at them with a critical eye. "Every single one of you has bad habits," he said.

A few students bristled, but Severus kept his expression blank.

"European duelists, especially," Holt continued, "fight like statues. Stiff, predictable, easy to counter. You memorize a spell sequence, you move in preset patterns, and you expect your opponent to follow the same logic."

His gaze swept the group. "That will get you killed." A murmur rippled through the students.

Holt smirked. "Good news—we're going to fix it."

He flicked his wand—and suddenly, the floor beneath them shifted. Moving platforms. A few students stumbled as their footing changed beneath them. Severus, to his credit, adjusted quickly.

Holt pointed at him. "Shafiq. Fire a spell."

Severus raised his wand, immediately casting Expelliarmus.

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The spell hit its target, but the moment he fired, the platform beneath him shifted violently. Severus's stance wobbled.

Holt gave a sharp nod. "That's your problem. You're too rooted. You cast like the ground will always be beneath you." He waved his wand, sending another tilting motion through the platforms.

"Again," he ordered.

Severus gritted his teeth. This time, he didn't focus on perfect spellwork. He focused on balance. Fluidity. Adaptability.

When the platform shifted, he moved with it. His next spell? Faster. More instinctive.

Holt grinned. "Better."

After the brutal mobility drills, the instructors changed tactics. Severus was still catching his breath, muscles aching from the constant movement drills, when Marchand strode back to the center of the room.

She surveyed them all, lips curling in amusement at their exhaustion.

"Lesson two," she said, stretching out a hand. There was no wand in her grip. Only her fingers, positioned like a conductor about to direct an orchestra.

And then—

CRACK!

A bolt of pure energy shot from her fingertips, slamming into a distant target with a force that made the air hum. No incantation. No wand. Just magic. The room fell silent.

Marchand rolled her shoulders, shaking out the excess energy from her hand as if she had merely tossed a ball.

"Wands," she said, slowly, letting the word sink in, "are tools. They focus magic, shape it, refine it."

She flexed her fingers, watching the faint residual glow fade from her skin.

"But they are not the source of magic."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the students. Severus remained silent. He had read about wandless magic. But reading was different from witnessing.

"This isn't some rare ability reserved for prodigies. It was a discipline. A skill."

Marchand let the silence linger before she continued.

"Some of you," she said, looking directly at the Ilvermorny students, "have seen wandless magic before. You might even know a few who can do it."

She turned her gaze to the exchange students, including Severus.

"But most of you—especially those trained in the rigid spellcasting of Britain—think this is something only the most powerful wizards can accomplish."

Her golden eyes narrowed.

"That is a lie."

Severus felt his pulse quicken. She raised an eyebrow. "Can everyone master it?"

"No."

A few students stiffened at that.

She smirked. "But can everyone learn it?"

She lifted a hand again—this time, slower. They watched as a small spark flickered between her fingertips, controlled, refined, deliberate.

"Yes."

She let the magic fizzle out.

"Wandless magic is like any other skill—it requires training, discipline, and effort. You cannot just will it into existence. You have to build the foundations first."

She gestured sharply, and several instructors stepped forward.

"For the next hour, we will begin the first step."

Her gaze sharpened.

"Control."

The students were split into smaller groups, each assigned an instructor. Severus found himself in Holt's group once again. The scarred duelist gave them a flat look before raising a hand.

"You will not cast spells today," he said bluntly. A few students blinked.

Alessandro raised an eyebrow. "Bit of a problem for a magic lesson, don't you think?"

Holt didn't even look at him.

"You will not cast spells today," he repeated. "Because most of you cannot."

A ripple of offense passed through the group. Severus didn't react. He already knew he wouldn't be able to do it immediately. Because his magic had always been channeled through a wand. Not through his hands. Not through his body.

"Magic," Holt continued, "is energy. Most wizards don't bother learning how to manipulate that energy because they don't need to. They have a wand to do the work for them."

He held out his palm, and a faint golden shimmer danced over his skin.

"You will not be casting spells today," he said again, slowly, "because you need to learn how to feel your magic first."

The training hall was silent, save for the occasional crackle of magic sparking through the air. Severus kept his breathing steady, his mind focused. He had expected difficulty. What he had not expected was to be this far behind some of the other students.

Across the room, a Wampus student—Damian Connors—lifted his palm, muttering something under his breath. A small, controlled gust of wind curled from his fingertips, pushing a training dummy back a few inches.

Next to him, a Thunderbird student—Selene Ward—was calmly levitating a feather, her fingers barely twitching as she guided it through the air. Severus narrowed his eyes. Some of them... had done this before.

Not masters, not yet, but adept enough that they were beyond struggling for a simple flicker of energy.

"Some of you," Marchand's voice rang out, "already know the basics. You've been practicing wandless magic for years—your families teach it, or you've trained yourself."

Her golden gaze swept the room.

"For the rest of you? This will be like training a new muscle. And that muscle is going to be weak until you build it up."

Severus exhaled slowly.He could feel his frustration growing. He had never struggled like this before—not with potions, not with dueling, not with anything he put his mind to.

But now? He felt blind. Deaf. Mute. Like trying to play an instrument with no strings or write with no ink. Magic had always been a tool, something he wielded. Now, he had to become the tool.

Holt stood nearby, watching as each student tried, failed, and tried again. Severus closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing. He stretched out his fingers, willing the magic to move through him.

Nothing. He inhaled, trying again.

Still nothing. His fingers twitched, but there was no pull, no hum, no connection.

Around him, he saw Alessandro, ever the natural, was summoning tiny sparks of magic—but had no control over them. Jonas was gritting his teeth, small waves of energy rippling through his palms, but no precision. Ben had his eyes shut tight, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

Meanwhile, the more experienced students were already using basic spells—minor levitation, simple heat charms, tiny gusts of wind. It was humiliating.

Severus clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm.

"You're fighting it," Holt's low voice cut through his thoughts. Severus's eyes snapped open.

"You're reaching outward," Holt continued. "You're trying to grab something that isn't there."

Severus exhaled sharply. "Then how am I supposed to—"

"You're trained to command magic," Holt interrupted. "To make it bend to your will. That's the wrong approach."

He lifted his own hand. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—a faint shimmer of gold pulsed across his fingers, soft and effortless.

Severus stared. Holt lowered his hand.

"Stop forcing it. Magic isn't something you control. It's something you let flow through you."

Severus frowned, digesting that.

For the next hour, Severus kept trying. Slow breaths. Unclenched fists. No commanding. No forcing. Just feeling. Most attempts ended in failure.

But then—for a fraction of a second—a pulse.

A flicker of warmth, barely noticeable, but there. Severus's eyes snapped open. The sensation was already gone. But he had felt it. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

Holt saw it. He gave a satisfied nod.

"Good," he said. "Now do it again."

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