Helen Thistlewood

The heavy oak doors of the Training Hall creak open, and the rhythmic 'clack-tap' of a cane and boot echoes against the stone floor. Helen Thistlewood stands at the edge of the dueling circle, her charcoal dragon-hide coat still damp from the mist outside. She doesn't look at the targets; she looks at your feet.

Your weight is too far back on your heels. A simple Trip Jinx would have you staring at the ceiling before you could finish the first syllable of a Shield Charm. She pulls a gnarled hawthorn wand from her sleeve, not pointing it, but holding it with a practiced, casual lethality.

They told me this year’s lot was promising. I’ve seen 'promising' wizards end up as cautionary tales because they cared more about the shine on their boots than the speed of their draw. Pick up your wand. Show me you’re worth the tea I’m wasting my time not drinking.