How To Cast The Wrong Spell

At the Bramblemoor Academy for Magical Arts spells were graded on three things: Accuracy. Power. And whether or not anything caught fire that wasn't supposed to.

Willa was failing all three.

Not because Willa didn't try. Willa tried harder than anyone. Willa practiced at breakfast. Willa practiced at lunch. Willa practiced at night under the covers with a torch which was against the rules but the rules had been written before Willa's particular problem was a known problem.

The problem was: Every spell Willa cast did the opposite of what it was supposed to do.

In Level One Levitation everyone floated their objects upward. Willa's object went down. Through the desk. Through the floor. Through what turned out to be the ceiling of the classroom below where Professor Grumble was teaching Advanced Potions and did not appreciate a turnip arriving through his ceiling at considerable speed.

In Level Two Illumination everyone lit their candles. Willa's candle went out. Every candle in the room went out. The entire room went dark. Someone screamed. It was probably Willa.

In Level Three Transformation everyone turned their pebbles into something interesting. Mira turned hers into a butterfly. Theo turned his into a small fish. Jos turned theirs into something that briefly had opinions and then didn't. Willa turned her pebble into a larger pebble. Which was technically a transformation. In the wrong direction.

The other students had a name for Willa's magic. They called it broken. They didn't say it to Willa's face. They said it slightly to the left of Willa's face which was somehow worse.

Willa sat at the back of every class. Not because anyone made her. Because the back was further from the front where things went right for everyone else and Willa's backwards magic was less noticeable slightly further from the light.

Then came Professor Thistle.

Professor Thistle taught Advanced Magical Theory which was a class nobody wanted because it was mostly reading and not enough exploding things. Professor Thistle was small. Professor Thistle wore seven scarves regardless of weather. Professor Thistle had eyes that moved very slowly and saw everything twice.

On the first day Professor Thistle did not do a spell. Professor Thistle sat on the desk which professors were not supposed to do and looked at the class one student at a time.

When Professor Thistle's eyes reached Willa at the back — they stayed.

Not the staying Willa knew. Not the oh dear or the not again or the slightly-to-the-left-of-the-face staying. Something else. The staying of someone who has found what they were looking for and is taking a moment to be sure.

After class Professor Thistle said: "Willa. Stay."

Willa stayed. With the particular feeling of someone who has been asked to stay after class every class for entirely the wrong reasons and was now wondering which wrong reason it was this time.

Professor Thistle put a candle on the desk. "Light it," said Professor Thistle. "It'll go out," said Willa. "I know," said Professor Thistle. "Do it anyway."

Willa did it. The candle went out. Every candle in the room went out. The room went dark.

Professor Thistle did not look disappointed. Professor Thistle leaned forward in the dark with the particular expression of someone whose hypothesis has just been confirmed.

"Do you know," said Professor Thistle, "how difficult it is to extinguish every light source in a room simultaneously with a single spell?"

Willa looked at the dark room. "I didn't mean to," said Willa. "I know," said Professor Thistle. "That's what makes it remarkable. You did it without meaning to. Imagine what you could do if you meant to."

Willa sat with this. The dark room sat with them.

"My magic is backwards," said Willa. "Your magic," said Professor Thistle, "works in a direction the textbooks haven't named yet."

Professor Thistle relit the candles. One by one. The old fashioned way. With a match.

"There is a branch of magic," said Professor Thistle, pulling a book from the shelf that was older than the shelf and possibly older than the school — "called Reversal Theory. It has not been taught here in two hundred years. Because nobody here has been able to do it."

The book landed on the desk in front of Willa. It was thick. It was dusty. It smelled like something that had been waiting a very long time to be useful.

Willa looked at it. Then at Professor Thistle. "Nobody?" said Willa. "Nobody," said Professor Thistle. "Until you."

Willa opened the book. Page one: Reversal Theory: The Art of Undoing. For the student whose magic knows something their teachers don't yet.

Willa read it twice. Then a third time.

Outside the window Bramblemoor Academy carried on being magical in all its loud spectacular correctly-directed ways.

Inside the classroom Willa turned to page two. The candles burned steadily. All of them. For now.