Chapter 291 - 291
The second week since term started flew by, and that's no exaggeration.
Over the week I attended the remaining classes, spoke with the professors, and worked out which subjects I'd be taking.
"So what did you choose?" Daphne asked, as we sat in the library on a Sunday afternoon working through our calculations for modifying the basilisk skeleton.
"Runes, Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Advanced Potions, Charms, and Combat Magic."
"And why those? Though, let me guess — you actually see some point in them."
"Precisely."
"But Transfiguration and Potions?" Daphne glanced at me, suppressing something between a smile and a smirk. "In one you're a genius, in the other, like me, you're an apprentice."
"With Potions, as I've said before, there's a decent chance we'll learn something interesting and useful. You're going too, aren't you?"
"Naturally. Though Slughorn does inspire a remarkably persistent urge to flatten him. The sycophancy on display is astonishing…"
"It's revolting, I know. But he's still a master, same as Snape. Pity Snape ran us through such an extreme crash course. There must still be dozens of nuances we ought to know, rather than just sense intuitively."
"Fine, Potions makes sense. But Transfiguration?"
"The fact that I've found the key to basic and the fundamentals of advanced Transfiguration doesn't mean… doesn't mean anything," I leaned back in my chair, absently turning a pen in my hand. "I've read all sorts of literature on advanced Transfiguration and its more difficult branches. There are still 'puzzles' worth racking one's brain over. In terms of skill and mastery — I've power to spare."
"Well, then we've chosen the same subjects. Though I'd have gone another couple of times to that theatre of the absurd you call Divination." Daphne smiled, returning to her notes. "It lifts the spirits and improves the appetite."
"Heh, that it does."
Wednesday and Saturday brought the usual practicals with Smethwyck, and this time the situation was hardly combat-related, though we did have to admit a few alternatively gifted wizards who'd hexed themselves or dumped some experimental potion over their own heads. Aside from that, it was mostly routine.
Actually, I keep noticing that it's remarkably hard to encounter a genuinely interesting, complex, serious medical case at St Mungo's proper. Yes, the visual effects of injuries can be wildly varied, bizarre, even outright comical, but the treatment is nearly always simple, and every difficulty comes down to the Healer's knowledge and their ability to interpret what the diagnostic spells are telling them. So where were all the complicated cases?
"The complicated cases," Smethwyck said, as we sat in a sort of break room drinking strong coffee with some clever syrup and cream, eating a sweet raisin cake, "are all sitting in their manors, mansions, flats, hovels and whatnot, being looked after either by family Healers, or ones hired under an Oath for a case or two, or they're healing themselves."
"Themselves? Self-healing is a fairly difficult problem when it comes to serious cases," I took a sip of coffee, which was bracing in flavour as well. "Simple ones, sure, wave a wand, drink a potion, done, right as rain. But in serious cases, self-treatment will also leave you a certain shade of green — only literally, and covered in bumps."
At that moment an insufferably proud young Healer walked into our break room, wearing a lime-coloured robe like everyone else.
"Guess who cured Mr Sullivan? I cured Mr Sullivan."
"Dear boy," Smethwyck looked at him with a smirk, "the fact that you rummaged through your junior Healer-Potioneer's kit and didn't send the patient off to meet Merlin doesn't make you the Queen of England. You'd better check on your Mrs Blake and Mr Cruz. Seems one of them might be about to depart this mortal coil while you were measuring out potion drops with shaking hands."
You could always find some unjustifiably proud Healer at St Mungo's who, by his own account, deserved an Order of Merlin for wiping a patient's nose.
More or less, that's how the two practicals went — patients, treatment, conversation.
My rounds at Hogwarts continued as usual, naturally, but there it was all classically calm. The little ones explored the castle looking for trouble, and Filch and I chased them off with relish, stirring up a storm of emotions in the process. The older students tried holding meetings of various conspiratorial societies, but nothing unlawful, no ambushes on other students. The rare student from the very senior years indulged in romance — the particularly bold ones had to be caught and sent back to their common rooms. It surprised me that types like Nott and his brigade of alternatively gifted haters-of-everyone had gone entirely quiet, doing nothing more than verbal recruitment for "the dark side."
A far bigger problem, though not for me personally — though I'm not entirely sure of that — were the Saturday Quidditch tryouts.
So there we stood, on the Quidditch pitch. It was morning, the sky overcast, the wind erratic, mist rolling down off the hills, the rising sun lighting the slopes but not yet reaching the pitch, still hidden behind the hills. There was enough light, though, so that wasn't the issue. The issue was the candidates.
"This is some kind of rabble," Zacharias remarked quietly.
We were standing in the middle of the pitch in house team kit, brooms in hand, though Zacharias's broom was hovering in mid-air while he propped his elbow on it and rested his chin on his hand.
"Just young people having fun," I watched the noisy crowd in front of us, decked out in kit, brooms in hand. "Having fun, showing off, full of anticipation."
"We're building a team practically from scratch," Zacharias went on watching the whole spectacle with mournful eyes. "You're a Beater now, are you?"
"Yeah."
"Well, God rest their souls, whoever's left. Where's Ernie?"
"You talk to him more than I do."
"Which means he's asleep. Out of practice, the cheek of him, getting up for training in the morning. Well, never mind, I'll—"
"Lads!..." came Ernie's voice from the distance.
Turning, we saw a plainly sleepy Ernie on his broom, hurrying towards us.
"Phew…" he jumped off his broom, spinning it deftly and slinging it over his shoulder, straight into a warm-up. "Overslept. Right… phew… waking up. Five minutes."
As it turned out, we ended up with three people left on the team. Me, Ernie, and Zacharias as Captain. Roles got reshuffled too — Zacharias as Keeper, Ernie as Beater, and me as Beater as well, on account of my contract with the Sleipnir manufacturer. The rest had either graduated or changed their minds about playing — Quidditch is hardly the be-all and end-all in our House; people only play if they want to.
"So where's… the trunk of balls…" asked Ernie, mid-warm-up.
Zacharias and I slowly turned to look at him, then at each other.
"Fine, I admit it," Zacharias smirked, hopping onto his broom. "Not only Ernie's cocked it up."
And off he shot towards the equipment store. Sometimes I wonder whether it's a good thing the equipment and changing rooms are kept in the castle rather than some outbuilding by the pitch, or a bad one.
"Chaos," I shook my head and looked at the crowd of unruly students. "Attention!"
No effect.
"Now, I really don't like repeating myself…" charging myself with neutral energy and a dash of storm energy, I pressed that weight down over the area, drawing everyone's attention. "Quiet!"
Everyone fell silent at once, staring at me wide-eyed. Well, yes, not many are used to a wizard's magical pressure, so it's rather like being hit over the head with a bag of dust — a gentle one, however daft that sounds.
"While our captain deals with the delivery of the balls," I surveyed the ragged assembly of hopefuls, "I suggest you split into groups by the role you're after. As you know, Keeper and Beater positions are taken, but we might always need reserves."
Seeing understanding dawn in their eyes, I began pointing to spots on the pitch designated for each role.
"Seekers here. Chasers here. Beaters here. And Keepers over there."
Zacharias was already flying towards the pitch with the ball trunk, so I skipped any further instructions, handing things over to the captain after telling him how I'd sorted the crowd.
"Right… Excellent," he nodded. "So, first I want to know how you actually fly. Hector, be a mate, conjure up something."
I drew my wand and flicked it, going with the first thought that came to mind — an aerial course of illusory rings. The course appeared in the sky above the pitch, fairly complex, with some rings positioned at tricky angles close together.
"Er… Explain what you did. I can guess, obviously, but you've probably added some new features."
"Basically, the task is this. Fly through the rings in order, at your maximum speed. You need to enter each ring perpendicularly, at a right angle. I trust I don't need to explain how? No? Splendid. You'll fly one at a time. Speed and angle deviation will be shown as numbers above each ring."
"Excellent," Zacharias nodded, turning back to the crowd. "Ten minutes' warm-up, ten minutes in the air, then we start."
And off it went.
First they had a go at competing over the rings. Then Zacharias made them squeeze maximum speed out of their brooms, braking, turning — basically demanding the minimum set of manoeuvres and simple flying figures. Only after that came the group trials — they tried to score on the Keepers, having dug up somewhere a couple of my prototypes for self-returning Quaffle analogues, to increase the number of balls and attacks per unit time. Then he sent the Seeker candidates off to play one-on-one, trying to find and catch the Snitch. There were no volunteers for Beater, so Ernie and I ran Bludgers at the Chaser candidates while they tried to pass and break through to the hoops.
All in all, a simulation of match situations to test for the necessary skills. Towards the end of the trials I pleaded a lack of personal time and left the rest to Zacharias and Ernie — Beater help wasn't needed there anymore — and boldly retreated first to the changing room and shower, and then to the library, spending the rest of the day there with Daphne, Pansy, and Hermione, who had decided that a fortnight's absence from the library was more than enough, and had once more, forgoing sleep and rest, thrown herself back into the arduous business of storming that citadel of knowledge. Though really, I ought to start visiting the Restricted Section — no point having been granted access for nothing. And I'd promised Snape a project on Ancient Runes, and magic works in such a way with wizards that it's better not to make promises lightly.
So, more or less, that's how the week went.
Now I'm standing on the Astronomy Tower on a Sunday, enjoying the overcast afternoon weather and the wind up there, high in the sky. Storm energy flows pleasantly through me, reacting to everything around it. Exhaling, I stretched a hand towards the sky — a glow of lightning immediately appeared on the horizon among the clouds, quickly leaping closer. Barely a second passed, and a bright arc flashed over Hogwarts and the surrounding area, announcing itself with a sharp, cracking snap that dissolved into a rolling peal of thunder.
"Right, got a bit too absorbed in that," I chided myself, though I didn't leave the Astronomy Tower platform.
Staring up at the overcast sky, I found myself pondering a strange phenomenon. Life energy doesn't provoke such a response in my soul, body, and mind, unlike other energies. Why does storm energy feel — somehow — like it belongs to me?
Shaking my head to chase off the odd, unwelcome thoughts, I drew my wand and cast the Glove-with-Letter spell for Daphne. I really ought to think of a name for it, it's rather silly otherwise, if I'm honest. Though perhaps I should ask Professor Flitwick, since he uses something similar? A good spell, mind you, shame it eats up a mountain of energy, and the greater the distance, the worse. No wonder wizards prefer sending messages via a corporeal Patronus. Assuming they can manage one, of course. And there's another stone in my garden — I still haven't mastered a corporeal Patronus.
While I was musing, a blue glove with a green outline appeared before my eyes out of blue smoke and, with an elaborate gesture, handed me a note. Yes, I'd written out the spell for Daphne, and it seemed she'd made her own small adjustments to it. Taking the note and reading it, I learned that my spontaneous idea of a stroll — the primary goal being a visit to the twins' shop and a sweetshop — hadn't inspired due enthusiasm: Daphne had plans for a get-together with Pansy, Millie, and Tracey, and they were already pouring tea and deciding what flavouring or aroma to add depending on the pastries Millie had procured.
Sighing mournfully, I stepped past the Astronomy Tower's railing.
"Ooh, hell!" I couldn't help exclaiming, watching the hills and everything else rush closer as I fell towards the ground.
A couple of metres from impact, I slowed my fall with magic, settling gently onto the ground. If anyone had seen me, they'd have called me a pretentious bastard, since the combination of a Feather-Light Charm on my body, Arresto Momentum, and an Air Fist into the ground makes for a rather stylish landing. Robes billowing, hair too, and hands in my trouser pockets to top it off.
Having calmed my inappropriate excitement, I made my way calmly towards the edge of the castle's Anti-Apparition barrier, not forgetting to cast various notice-me-not charms on myself — despite the chill of the overcast September day, students were out and about, if only a handful.
Rounding Hagrid's hut, I straightened the strap of my ever-present rucksack, brushed non-existent dust off my robes, and Apparated to the back yard of the Leaky Cauldron, right in front of the entrance to Diagon Alley, opened the passage, and stepped out onto London's main magical street.
There were quite a lot of wizards about, compared to the recent stagnation, though a fair few shops remained shut, their windows and displays disturbingly empty and dark. Wizarding robes still weren't as colourful and varied as on my first visit here. But overall… overall, not bad. Though here and there, notices about recommended security measures for these difficult times were posted on the walls of buildings. I wondered whose initiative that was, and how it had even come about, given the Ministry was supposedly under the Dark Lord's control.
Heading towards the twins' bright shop, I noticed another curious thing. Passing wizards tried to look at each other as little as possible, as though afraid of seeing something they shouldn't. It was both unsettling and rather amusing. It seemed the elf shard had once witnessed something similar, in a city where a breach had let otherworldly entities through, entities that possessed the minds of the living.
Walking into the twins' shop, I nearly collided face to face with two elderly wizards, who were carrying identical parcels stamped with three "W"s, looking thoroughly pleased with themselves. Letting them pass, I looked around.
Everything gleaming, buzzing, sparkling — shelves, cabinets, racks, stands, all of it, each with its own unique goods, each with its own unique labels, bright descriptions, and signs. Adult wizards with children, adult wizards without children, quite young wizards of eighteen or nineteen, vaguely familiar from my first year at Hogwarts. But not as many customers as any shop owner would like.
The twins even had hired staff here now. Well, at least I spotted one relatively young witch in an absurdly colourful outfit to match the shop. The twins themselves stood on the second floor near the stairs, jabbing at the same documents, evidently trying to prove some point to one another. I headed straight for them.
"Hey, lads."
"Oh!"
"Well now!"
"If it isn't our good friend—"
"—and loyal comrade!"
"What brings you here?" they finished together, smiling.
"Oh, just brought over what I've made, and wanted a break from Hogwarts."
"Well then, come to the office, honoured guest!" — that one, I think, was Fred.
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advance chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell