Charms class was held in a cheerful, sunlit room filled with anticipation and a faint shimmer of lingering magic. The walls were adorned with moving illustrations of spell work—feathers levitating gracefully, candles lighting themselves with a flick of a wand, and enchanted teacups marching in tidy rows. Neatly arranged desks faced the front of the room, where a large blackboard displayed today’s spell, written in looping script and surrounded by animated arrows emphasizing key movements.

Charms was one of the most versatile subjects, its spells practical and often delightfully whimsical. Wands twitched and flourished as students practiced, producing sparks, faint whooshes of air, or, occasionally, a small puff of smoke. The room seemed to buzz with possibility, as though it could barely contain the energy of so many spells being worked at once.

Despite the playful nature of the subject, precision was critical. A spell cast too forcefully might send a quill zooming out the window instead of floating gently to the desk. Cast too weakly, and nothing would happen at all, earning a reproachful tut and a reminder to focus. But when done correctly, the results were magical in the truest sense—objects danced, hovered, or shimmered in response, as if eager to obey.