The Test of Magic

The dawn crept golden over Wisteria Hollow, painting the ancient stones in a hopeful glow that did nothing to quell the jittery anticipation churning through the Academy. Tables in the Great Hall buzzed with more gossip and speculation than even the looming exams could provoke. Elara picked at her toast, only half-listening to Corin’s elaborate retelling of their midnight adventure. Rowan drummed her spoon nervously, and Lina blinked through her morning tea, fidgeting with the moon-shaped pin on her sash.

When Professor Blackwood’s polished shoe heels clicked up the aisle, the hall slipped into that rare state: total hush. She stood at the dais, silver in her hair catching the first true light.

“Witches and Wizards of Wisteria Hollow,” she declared, her voice ringing with restrained excitement, “it’s time for our ancient tradition. Today, we commence The Test of Magic.”

A delighted ripple swept the crowd. Some first-years gasped; older students exchanged confident, hungry grins. Even the teachers straightened, the usual wariness replaced by competitive gleam. The gold and violet banners overhead fluttered in a no-breeze.

Professor Blackwood’s gaze swept the room. When her eyes met Elara’s, something unreadable flickered there. “This year, the competition will demand not only skill, but heart and cunning. Victory goes to the team that proves their unity—each challenge solved must be solved together. No single witch can win this alone.”

Lina’s hand trembled beside Elara’s. “We should try, shouldn’t we?”

Rowan whooped, punching the air. “Absolutely! We’ll show those potionhead purebloods what a real team looks like!”

Corin nearly toppled a jam pot in excitement. “We need a team name! Wait, no, that’s the least important thing—”

“Don’t be so sure,” Rowan cut in, eyes flashing. “A good name’s at least half the battle.”

Elara’s smile wobbled. Her own magic still felt unpredictable, her confidence thinner than Rowan’s bravado or Lina’s quiet steadiness. First-years barely ever made it through the first round. But as her friends leaned in near her, she felt the beginning of something bold thrumming deep inside—a different kind of magic than she’d conjured from scrolls or spilled from accidental cauldrons.

---

The rest of the morning dissolved in a rush of team sign-ups, whispered strategies, and frantic training. Potion bottles and spell-books soared from tower windows; laughter echoed off the battlements. Elara’s team staked out a patch of sun near the stables, surrounded by the scent of hay and magical sigils cut into the flagstones over decades of competitions.

“All right, team,” Rowan said, brandishing a list. “I say we practice a quick-draw charm, a defense spell, and something for unlocking. Seems to cover most disasters.”

Corin set out a row of battered objects: a mouse carved from quartz, a wooden box locked with runes, and a flask shimmering with rainbow smoke.

Lina consulted her books, frowning. “Maybe we should start simple. Elara, want to try the lift spell with me?”

Elara hesitated, but nodded, readying her wand. Side by side, they aimed at the quartz mouse. “Levitatus suavem!”

The mouse rose—but wobbled, spinning wildly. Suddenly it twisted in midair, multiplied, and a dozen tiny quartz mice scampered off towards the stables. Corin squeaked in amazement.

“I’m so sorry, I—”

Lina squeezed her arm. “We’ll round them up later. See? Something’s happening. That’s magic.”

Rowan grinned. “Let’s build on surprises. That’s practically our style.”

But not everyone on the field was as supportive. Beyond the stables, another group practiced perfectly synchronized spells, forming ice sculptures and weaving banners made of living flame. Their leader turned—Magnus Crane, resplendent in emerald robes, eyes sharp over his wand.

“So you’re really entering?” he called, his tone cool but not entirely unkind. “This test isn’t for children, Moon.”

Rowan bristled. “We’ll manage fine without peacock feathers, thanks.”

Magnus’s mouth twitched, part-smile, part-warning. “Let’s see how far bravado gets you.” With a precise flick, his team conjured a glass bridge, their laughter trailing behind them as they stalked away.

Elara’s cheeks burned. “Maybe he’s right. I can barely—”

Corin interrupted. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just cross because your accidental enchantments make his look predictable.”

Lina gathered the scattered mice, her movements soothing. “We learn by doing. I trust your magic, Elara.”

Those words stayed with Elara as they practiced through the day: defense spells fizzled, unlocking charms sometimes snapped open tree knots thirty yards away instead of boxes at their feet, and conjured winds carried Rowan’s hat up onto the stables’ weather vane. But every time Elara nearly gave up, the others steadied her. By sunset, their mishaps had become a strange sort of rhythm—teamwork built not from perfection, but persistence.

---

That evening, students gathered in the Great Hall for the opening ceremonies. Candles floated high above, drifting into the star-dappled rafters. Professor Blackwood called teams by name to receive their first riddle—a scrap of silvery parchment that shimmered with hidden text when the four of them together recited the opening line:

“In shadowed mirror and trick of glass, Through unity strong, a true heart shall pass.”

Elara’s skin prickled at the word glass—a pang of memory: the silvered doors, the warning note. But she pushed the shiver away. Tonight, she belonged to her team.

“First challenge at dawn,” Professor Blackwood intoned. “Be bold. Be wise. Be careful.”

As teams departed, Ivy Corvus glided near. Her eyes, green-black and deep as forest pools, landed on Elara. “Some magics find us when we need them most—but only if we’re honest about what we fear.”

Elara opened her mouth to answer, but Ivy was already melting into the crowd, trailing secrets.

---

The next morning, under the chill banner of first light, the first challenge began in Wisteria’s south gardens. The teams assembled, wands at the ready, nerves electric. Spells from everywhere burst with color and surprise.

Rowan tackled the first test—a maze lined with illusions—with reckless delight, blazing a path that occasionally looped them back to where they started. Lina countered with careful observation, spotting the real from the false. Elara, however, faltered when required to disarm an enchanted lock. Her wand wobbled; sparks fizzled, nothing worked right. Corin’s encouragement could only do so much. Behind them, Magnus’s group sliced efficiently through every obstacle.

“Come on, Elara,” Rowan hissed as the seconds slipped away. “You can do this.”

She gulped. With her friends focused on the next section, Elara took a breath, remembering Ivy’s words. What was she afraid of? Failing. Letting them down. Letting herself down. She pictured not the lock, but her friends’ faith, her mother’s eyes as she’d left the station, and let that feeling guide her wand.

“Revelis verum!”

The lock clicked, soft and sure, falling open as if it had been waiting for her all along.

They raced onward, reaching the finish just seconds after Magnus’s team. The older students glared, clearly rattled. The judges announced the two teams to advance—Magnus’s and, to their shock, Elara’s.

---

The final test, revealed at dusk, was a classic trial: spell relay. Each team member stood in a circle, passing a ball of light from wand to wand, amplifying it, weaving layers of magic—no drops, no stutters, or all was lost. The twist: several spells would be chosen randomly, revealed only as the ball passed.

The first few rounds were a blur. Rowan infused the orb with flame, Lina with a breeze of healing mint, Corin added an illusion so strong it briefly resembled a thundercloud. When it came to Elara, the orb pulsed, morphing wildly under her touch—glimmering silver, crackling with volatile power.

Suddenly, without warning, the ball flickered, then spat emerald sparks. Lina cried out—the magic rebounded, trapping her in a tumbling whirlwind of vines and spectral brambles, a spell far too advanced for any of them to have cast. Panic seized Elara’s chest. The other students froze. Somewhere, Magnus’s team shouted in confusion. Faculty moved to intervene, but a transparent wall had formed around the circle—magic gone wrong, or twisted by unseen hands.

“Lina!” Rowan screamed, battering the barrier. Corin’s eyes brimmed with tears.

Elara stepped forward, terror and resolve fighting for space. She pressed her palm to the shield, feeling it burn cold. In that moment, something in her remembered—not a spell from a book, but her mother’s gentle voice, her friends’ trust, the feeling of belonging finally earned.

She didn’t call a spell. Instead, she focused on Lina, heart thundering. “Let her go. Let us through. Bring her back.”

Silver light unfurled from her fingers, gentle and fierce. The wall unraveled. The brambles parted. Elara’s magic melted the chaos—fierce but kind, the shape of hope and defiance.

Lina spilled into her arms, coughing but safe.

For a heartbeat, all was silent. Then the crowd erupted in cheers and awed whispers.

Professor Blackwood’s eyes blazed with a look Elara could not decipher—pride, fear, or warning. Magnus stared, unreadable, as Ivy Corvus disappeared in the crowd, her smile small and knowing.

Rowan tackled Elara in a teary embrace. Corin slipped Lina some water with trembling hands. Above them, banners shifted, new silver threads woven into the midnight sash.

Elara stood blinking in the quiet after. For the first time, she did not feel out of place. She felt powerful, seen, and maybe, just a little bit dangerous.

In the deepest shadows of the hall, something unseen watched—all the closer, all the more intent. Danger, Elara now understood, had chosen her as well as she had chosen it. But for the moment, there was joy: friendship hard-won, courage found, and magic that, for once, had come when she called.