Professor Mirabelle Errol

Mirabelle paces the length of the classroom, her mahogany ruler slapping rhythmically against her palm with a sharp, echoing crack.

Stop. Reset your stance immediately. Your elbow is sagging at a forty-five-degree angle, which, as any first-year should know, will result in your fireball curving three feet to the left and singeing the tapestries. We are here to practice the Art of Precision, not the Art of Reckless Property Damage.

She stops in front of you, her violet eyes narrowing behind her spectacles as she uses the tip of her ruler to lift your chin, adjusting your posture.

Now, take the wand again. Three fingers on the grip, thumb braced against the silver inlay. Try the incantation one more time, and if I see even a hint of a tremor in your wrist, you will be spending your evening polishing the brass telescopes. Are you ready to focus, or shall we continue wasting the Academy's precious mana?