Fatigue is a terrible feeling. Especially if there is both physical fatigue and moral. Flying for almost an hour and a half in such conditions and under such tension is exhausting.
What is surprising is that the brains themselves are not tired at all, but even on the contrary—just slightly warmed up. And the tension was serious. I am tired as a person. Yes, tiny scraps of information from the pilot's memory shard said that such loads are nothing. But they would be nothing if I had a neural network integrated into my brain, a bunch of implants, a couple of years of adapting the mental component to physical capabilities, and a bunch of knowledge bases optimizing this entire flight process.
Our team reached the locker room in a dejected mood, and the reason for this was not only the presence of Dementors but also the fact that they ruined the game. After all, besides the fact of victory, the annual Quidditch tournament also takes into account the difference in points per match. Cedric's words that Potter could have floundered a bit longer compensated for the joy of superiority in points, but did not negate the fact of victory.
"Well done, Hector," the guys and the girl smiled, clapped me on the shoulders, and even Cedric didn't escalate—what happened, happened.
"Yes, buddy!" Herbert the Keeper was the most joyful. "We didn't organize all this with the broom for nothing! It turned out very interesting and cool!"
"And most importantly," Cedric smiled. "We were finally able to implement tactics from a higher league than the school one."
"Is there a big difference?" I couldn't hold back the question, sitting down on a bench.
Part of the players went to change, including Tamsin, and Cedric, Herbert, and I are just sitting for now.
"You bet!" the Keeper jumped up. "First, the professional field is a quarter larger. There are different speeds, different tactics… Even the stands form a larger field zone, which means there is more space there."
"That is so," Cedric nodded at his words. "And also, if compared with the youth league, one should take into account the experience of the players. You understand yourself, Hector, skills in controlling a broom come with experience. Let's say, if you give a pro-player two brooms, one of which will be twice as good as the other, then the quality of his game will increase by only fifteen percent, which is a lot, but not critical. But if you give such brooms to juniors, the difference may turn out to be even greater, but unstable, dangerous, unpredictable."
"Well, yes," Herbert nodded. "And in pro-Quidditch, you can't see a player on a bad broom, or on one unsuitable for him. For example, there won't be a single Keeper on a Firebolt, but a Seeker—easily. Here, in school Quidditch, brooms really play a big role, but controlling them correctly is not easy."
"Many believe that if a broom is faster, then it is better. Last year, the elder Malfoy gave the Slytherins new Nimbus 2001s. The game became much livelier, but…" Cedric pondered.
"But in a straight line," Herbert finished for him. "Okay. Enough about brooms—an eternal topic."
While changing, I diligently brought myself to normal with Life magic. I will need to deal with the psychological limitations caused by the "basis" of consciousness—an ordinary person. If magic has long ceased to be a question and causes no doubts, then the brain's capabilities are clearly under the yoke of psychological "impossible" and "can't." If in everyday life this does not affect anything, then in a situation with extreme load I got too tired.
Entering the Great Hall, I couldn't help but notice a small feast at our House table. There were also rare representatives of other Houses here, but there were no Gryffindors. Not surprising—two girls suffered because of their overconfidence, Potter was "bitten" by a Dementor, in general, slightly less than half the team is in the Hospital Wing, and the loss is too crushing.
The table was bursting with food, everyone was having fun, we were praised in every way. The guys from the Ravenclaw team congratulated us quite specifically. Approached with polite smiles, shook hands, and said, like: "Excellent team turned out. We are glad that another team will be able to use tactics more complex than 'beat them all, and may our Seeker pick up the Snitch!'".
After this feast, the guys began to disperse about their business, classmates went to clubs, and Justin and I—to do a little homework and practice charms and spells in our abandoned classroom.
With the onset of evening, immediately after dinner, the weather calmed down, but for the most part, I didn't care—I was going to additional Potions classes, which should turn into cauldron cleaning.
Knocking on the door of Snape's office, I received permission to enter.
The Professor, as always, with a displeased look, was raking through piles of parchments with homework. Daphne was already here, but judging by the fact that she hadn't finished laying out her supplies on the table yet, she arrived slightly earlier than me.
"Greengrass."
"Granger."
"Aren't you tired of it?"
"Of what exactly?" we asked simultaneously, looking at the Professor.
Snape looked at us closely.
"I changed my mind, continue. Today you are preparing only two potions, recipes on the board. When you prepare them, I will check. When I check—I will send you to scrub cauldrons."
We prepared the ingredients quickly, the potion brewed qualitatively, but, as promised, we had to scrub cauldrons. Without magic—with brushes, ordinary chemical means.
"Listen, Greengrass…"
"Yes?"
If for brewing potions we sat at the first table closest to the Professor, then we cleaned cauldrons in the far part of the class.
"Why do you think the Professor started talking about werewolves?"
"Out of a whim?" it was visible from Daphne's eyes that she herself was asking this question.
"Even though I'm new here, but in these two months I've heard a lot, seen a lot, understood myself. The Professor is too respectful of the curriculum schedule. He wouldn't change it out of a whim. And, by the way, in other years he went strictly according to the program, substituting for Lupin."
"So you can ask him right now, Granger. What is this all for?" Daphne smirked, continuing to diligently rub her cauldron.
"Nah, that's not interesting. Look. Lupin set Snape up," I began to reason, "exposing him in an unsightly light with the help of Neville."
"There was that."
"And at the first opportunity, Snape conducts such a diversion. And only with us. And without any apparent meaning. Well, except that Lupin is allegedly incompetent and so on."
"Here is the reason," Daphne shrugged, but looked at me with almost imperceptible expectation.
A strand of hair escaped from behind the girl's ear—too smooth and voluminous, they don't want to cling to anything. She wanted to fix it, but her hands were in gloves, and gloves—in muck from the cauldron.
"No, no, Greengrass, too petty. The Professor is smart enough to insult and humiliate the unwanted literally out of the blue…"
"I am glad," Snape appeared nearby, speaking in an even voice, "that you value my mental abilities so highly. What topic for conversation turned out to be more important than unwashed cauldrons?"
"About non-accidental accidents, Professor."
"Curious," Snape pulled up a chair, sitting nearby. "Perhaps I will listen."
"Greengrass, how is your Latin?"
"Not bad," Daphne replied, not distracted from cleaning the cauldron.
"Th-ere. In general, I've been thinking… Too many curious coincidences. Professor Lupin did not visit the Great Hall for three days a month—in the full moon phase. He did not conduct classes at this time—it was only with us that Professor Snape replaced him once—with some years twice. Lupin—a strange surname in itself."
"Yeah? Oh, indeed," Daphne even stopped cleaning the cauldron.
"Wolf ordinary?"
"Canis Lupus. Lupus—wolf. Well, and Libman-Sacks disease."
"Precisely," I nodded. "Plus the fact that Professor Snape surely knows a lot about werewolves."
"What makes you think so, Mr. Granger?" Snape tilted his head slightly to the side.
"In one of the old issues of The Potioneer's Herald, it says that for improving the Wolfsbane Potion you received the title of Potions Master. Plus age, although, in the magical world, one can look any age. But, if we discard magical possibilities, you are plus or minus the same age as Professor Lupin. If so, and if Lupin is a werewolf, then you could have learned this while still studying at Hogwarts. Hence the motivation to improve the potion could well have arisen. Most likely, you thought of inventing a full-fledged cure. But these are conjectures, in which there are too many 'ifs', and other assumptions."
"Sounds logical. But this is not enough."
"Hmm… A couple of days before the full moon, a barely noticeable smell came from you… Something tart, radish… No, horseradish. That's how Aconite smells, also known as Monkshood. I realized this only now, to my shame."
"You are observant."
"And usually you do not allow yourself to be inaccurate regarding smells. This is the first smell of the ingredient. A hint?"
"What nonsense, Mr. Granger. Your conclusions are quite consistent, but superficial," saying no more words, the Professor got up from the chair and waving the hems of his robes, went to his desk.
"So Lupin is a werewolf?" Daphne frowned, but again her eyes betrayed if not awareness, then guesses.
"Turns out so."
Having finished with the cauldrons, we took our things and left the office.
"And what now?"
"Nothing really," I shrugged. "He seems safe. Since Lupin is here, it means some measures are being taken. Even the fact that Professor Snape brews the Wolfsbane Potion."
"But walking at night is not worth it."
"Were you planning to?"
"No. See you soon, Granger."
"See you soon."
Lupin is a werewolf! Although, this changes absolutely nothing. Only if he takes the potion, of course. But this is not the biggest problem. The regular appearance of Dementors irresistibly pushes my thoughts to a radical solution to this problem—I need to think it over. These creatures interfere with life too much.
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advanced chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell