The Hogwats Gaijin

Harry smoothed the crumpled sheet of the Prophet once more — the one he had practically wrested from Ron — and felt a lump rise in his throat. Skeeter had outdone herself. The article was not mere gossip; it was a venomous concentrate capable of ruining anyone’s reputation. Harry glanced sideways at Hermione, expecting to see at least a shadow of the storm raging in his own soul, but his friend behaved as though the newspaper were nothing more than a dull insert in a box of breakfast cereal.

She walked down the corridor with her head held high, completely ignoring the sniggers behind her and the meaningful glances from passing students. Her attention was wholly fixed on her textbooks, and this frightening productivity made Harry more nervous than if she had been sobbing.

In Transfiguration they were given guinea pigs. The task was no simple one: turn the fluffy creature into a seashell. Hermione sat directly in front of Harry and Ron, her partner once again Kieran. Harry could not help but be distracted from his own guinea pig as he watched them. It seemed to him that at any moment Hermione would crack, that the mask of the perfect student would shatter under the weight of public opinion.

But Hermione merely spoke energetically to Morgan.

‘Kieran, you don’t simply wave your wand,’ her stern whisper reached Harry. ‘You must visualise the internal structure in detail. Every particle of calcium, every curl of nacre. You are replacing flesh with solid organic material. Concentration must be absolute!’

Kieran, who until then had been dubiously prodding his subject with his wand, sighed and leant closer.

‘Hermione, I simply feel sorry for the guinea pig,’ he replied just as quietly. ‘It’s looking at me as though I’m about to roast it. At Mahoutokoro we rarely practised on living creatures; it was considered… unethical without extreme necessity.’

Harry noticed the corner of Hermione’s mouth twitch. She was clearly fighting the urge to laugh — whether at his sudden sympathy or at the situation itself.

‘It won’t die, Kieran!’ she hissed fiercely, leaning forward. ‘This is reversible Transfiguration. If you don’t concentrate you’ll end up with a pig in a limestone shell, and then it really will hurt! Come on, picture the shell. Smooth, cold, spiral. Go on!’

Morgan obediently bowed his head and stilled, eyes closed, evidently constructing that complex mental model. Harry, inspired by the example, returned to his own creature. By the middle of the lesson his guinea pig — after one last indignant squeak — had become a pretty striped seashell. Ron’s progress was worse: his guinea pig remained a guinea pig but had acquired long twisted horns and a suspicious pearly sheen on its ears.

When the bell rang to end the lesson Harry felt he had earned a rest. Visions of a cosy armchair by the fire and perhaps a game of Exploding Snap beckoned irresistibly. He was already turning towards Gryffindor Tower, hoping to slip past any Tournament discussions, when Hermione blocked his path.

In her eyes burned the fire Harry privately called ‘exam-preparation mode’, only magnified tenfold.

‘Where do you think you’re going, Harry?’ she asked, arms folded.

‘Er… the common room?’ he said uncertainly. ‘Thought I’d have a bit of a rest.’

‘A rest?’ Hermione raised an eyebrow, and steel crept into her voice. ‘Harry Potter, if you think I’m going to let you lounge about in front of the fire while the egg’s riddle remains unsolved, you are sorely mistaken.’

‘But I really don’t know what to do with it…’ Harry tried to interject.

‘Which is exactly why we are going to practise spells!’ she cut him off, ignoring protests. ‘If we can’t yet find the answer to the riddle, at least we’ll make sure your arsenal of protective and offensive charms is flawless!’

Harry’s shoulders slumped. The image of the soft armchair and quiet dissolved like smoke from a Firebolt. He looked at Hermione — she was so resolute that arguing with her felt no easier than trying to stop a Horntail with a paper shield.

‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s go.’

Fresh snow that had fallen overnight blanketed the Hogwarts grounds in a thick white carpet. There was no wind, and in the frozen air hung that special, ringing silence found only on clear winter days. Harry wrapped his scarf more tightly and shivered.

They reached the familiar clearing on the edge of the Forbidden Forest where Harry had exhausted himself hauling boulders in autumn. Now the stones were white mounds, and the trees stood with branches bowed heavily under frost.

Hermione, without a word, dropped her bag straight into a snowdrift and drew her wand. She turned to her friends, and Harry instinctively took a step back. Dangerous sparks danced in her eyes. He understood: the Prophet article had pierced her armour after all, and now this accumulated fury needed an outlet.

‘Who wants to warm up?’ she asked. Her voice rang clear and sharp.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. In this mood Hermione was truly alarming — focused, angry, and ready for battle. Harry ostentatiously adjusted his glasses; Ron suddenly became very interested in brushing nonexistent snowflakes from his robes.

Hermione gave a heavy sigh, swept her gaze over them, and finally settled on Morgan.

‘Kieran?’

Morgan looked at Harry and Ron with such undisguised longing, as though they had just thrown him into a Blast-Ended Skrewt pen. When no support came, he sighed, tucked his hair behind his ears, and stepped forward.

‘All right, Granger. Let’s give it a go.’

They moved apart, facing each other in the centre of the clearing. Both raised their wands in the duelling salute. Harry found it faintly amusing to watch them: Hermione barely reached Kieran’s shoulder, yet her stance held such determination that he felt no sympathy for her at all.

‘Begin!’ Hermione called, and the air between them instantly filled with multicoloured flashes.

Harry watched this peculiar dance with interest. Kieran did not stand still like a statue. He moved lightly, springily, like a boxer in the ring: constantly shifting right or left, circling to flank Hermione. He let her Petrificuses sail past simply by leaning sharply out of the line of fire, then countered with short, harmless spells — Tickling Charms or Jelly-Legs Jinxes.

Hermione, however, acted differently. She scarcely moved from her spot, merely turning to follow her agile opponent, yet her Protego shield was impenetrable. Realising that chasing Morgan with beams was a thankless task, she narrowed her eyes shrewdly and changed tactics. Instead of direct attacks she began working with the environment, turning the duel into a lesson in applied magic.

‘Glisseo!’ she cried, aiming at Kieran’s feet.

The loose snow instantly became a perfect ice rink. Kieran — just moving in for a Rictusempra — gave a yelp, lost his footing, and skidded, waving his arms wildly to stay upright.

‘Oppugno!’ Hermione added at once, not viciously but with clear relish.

A pair of snowballs flew up from the drift and struck Kieran squarely in the shoulder and back, throwing off his aim. He swore and laughed at the same time, attempting to regroup with a roll to break distance, but Hermione was already in her element.

She Transfigured the snowflakes drifting towards her into a flock of small rubber ducks that squeaked and dive-bombed Morgan, obstructing his view. Kieran fended them off with Depulso, spinning like a top as he sought a gap in her defences, but Hermione controlled the entire field. She herded him: now raising an ice barrier right in front of his nose to force a sudden stop, now turning the snow under his feet to sticky treacle.

In the end, dodging yet another Jelly-Legs Jinx, Kieran failed to keep his balance on the conjured ice. His feet slid out from under him, and with a ridiculous windmill of arms he fell flat on his back.

Morgan immediately tried to push himself up on his elbows, wand raised and ready to counter the next attack. But Hermione had already lowered hers.

Harry had been so engrossed in the spectacle — how Hermione’s academic ingenuity had utterly dismantled Morgan’s straightforward speed — that he failed to notice someone arriving behind them.

Sudden loud clapping and a hoarse laugh made the duellists freeze. Hermione and Kieran, still releasing stray sparks towards the forest on momentum, turned.

At the edge of the clearing, leaning against an old oak, stood Mad-Eye Moody. He continued to clap his gnarled hands, his magical eye whirling madly as it surveyed the spell-torn snow.

‘Not bad, very not bad!’ Moody declared. His voice was croaking and pleased. ‘These days students practise real duels far too rarely. They all seem to think magic is just essays on parchment. It does my heart good to see that Gryffindor still has some who understand: in a fight, parchment won’t save your neck!’

He limped forward, his wooden leg thudding dully as it sank into the snow.

‘Mr Morgan,’ Moody pointed a gnarled finger at him. ‘You’re doing very right. A wizard must be light on his feet. A stationary target is a dead target. I was just as nimble once…’ He gave a chuckle and slapped his wooden leg. ‘For a time. But speed alone won’t win. Especially not against an opponent like Miss Granger.’

Hermione listened, still breathless, her cheeks flushed from cold and excitement. Kieran merely looked at the professor dourly, in no hurry to holster his wand.

‘Tell me, Morgan, do you fence?’ Moody asked abruptly.

‘Yes, sir,’ Kieran answered shortly, rising and hastily brushing snow from himself.

Moody shifted his gaze to Hermione, who stood panting and smoothing her dishevelled hair.

‘And you, young Miss Granger… your attacks are exquisite. I swear by Merlin’s beard, not every adult Auror can manage such combinations. Your brain works faster than most. But…’ He pointed again at her feet. ‘You’re too static. You stand like a fortress, but even the strongest fortresses fall under siege eventually.’

Moody narrowed his normal eye slyly.

‘I recommend you take a few fencing lessons. At least from Mr Morgan. Learn to move — and you’ll become practically untouchable. Constant vigilance, Miss Granger!’

Hermione nodded seriously, then glanced at Morgan as though already planning lessons.

Moody pondered for a moment, his magical eye freezing as it stared inward. Then he spun sharply towards the castle.

‘Right, warm-up’s over. Come along, all four of you. I’ve something for you.’

Shrugging and exchanging puzzled looks, the friends shouldered their bags and hurried after the limping professor.

The classroom Moody led them to lay in one of the oldest and most neglected wings of the castle, almost on the border of Slytherin territory. There were no desks or cupboards — only a spacious stone hall with high vaults and thick walls that breathed centuries of cold and damp.

With a sharp flick of his wand Moody lit the iron wall sconces. Shadows leapt instantly across the uneven masonry, picking out empty corners.

‘This room’s stood empty for thirty years,’ the professor rasped, surveying the hall with his spinning eye. ‘Walls thick enough to take even a careless curse. Practise here. At least you won’t accidentally turn some passing first-year into a footstool.’

He turned to them, his scarred face looking even more grotesque in the torchlight.

‘I strongly advise you not to be here after curfew,’ Moody paused, and his magical eye stilled for a second. ‘Though I reckon Mr Filch won’t venture into this backwater without urgent cause. Constant vigilance, naturally, still applies.’

Then he crooked a finger at Harry.

‘Well then, Potter,’ he asked quietly as they moved aside to the wall. ‘How are you getting on with your… golden acquisition? Worked out what the thing’s singing about?’

Harry felt heat rush to his cheeks. He remembered Hermione’s recent words and his own complete helplessness.

‘I… I’m working on it, sir,’ he replied evasively.

Moody’s face twisted. For an instant such clear exasperation flashed across it that Harry involuntarily stepped back. The professor jerked his cheek irritably and growled:

‘Working on it, are you? Time’s a resource, Potter, and you’re wasting it. If nothing’s occurred to that head of yours… come and see me. Share your thoughts.’

Without waiting for a reply Moody turned and beckoned Hermione. She approached warily, watching every movement of the professor.

‘Miss Granger,’ Moody drew from beneath his robes a heavy tome in leather binding. ‘A book on the inhabitants of the Black Lake. Given that you’re constantly practising somewhere near water, it won’t hurt to know what creatures live there… and which of them might grab an unwary student by the ankle.’

Hermione accepted the book, but Harry noticed her brows draw slightly together.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said quietly.

Moody merely grunted and limped towards the exit without farewell. The thud of his wooden leg — thump… thump… thump — echoed down the corridor for a long time before fading completely.

Hermione watched him go with a long, deeply suspicious look. She glanced at the book in her hands, then at the closed door, as though trying to piece together some complicated chain of logic.

‘This is all very odd,’ she muttered under her breath.

Harry, however, had already turned his attention elsewhere. The duel on the clearing and the way Morgan had moved had caught his interest.

‘Listen, Kieran,’ he said, approaching the boy who was briskly inspecting the room. ‘You… you boxed, didn’t you? The way you fought Hermione — you moved like Naseem Hamed!’

Kieran looked at Harry, and for a moment a shadow of memory from the Sulphur Rift and Kenji crossed his gaze.

‘Yes,’ he replied, a little embarrassed. ‘A bit. Father said I wouldn’t touch a wand until I learned to control my own body. So I learned: sword, boxing.’

‘Boxing?’ Ron cut in at once, stepping closer. Curiosity lit his eyes. ‘What sort of spell is that? Some Japanese combat magic?’

Harry could not help grinning, wondering how to explain the noble English sport to the red-haired Weasley.

‘No, Ron, it’s not magic,’ he began, gesturing energetically. ‘It’s when people fight with their hands. Well, fists. In gloves. It’s a Muggle sport…’

While Harry enthusiastically enlightened Ron on the finer points of Muggle hand-to-hand combat, Hermione remained standing a little apart, thoughtfully stroking the spine of the gifted book.