Monday of the new school week began with a slight surprise—it had snowed during the night. Stupid weather; it wouldn't last even a couple of days. But there was so much of it! It had drifted over the common room windows. Even though the common room is technically a basement level, the windows are quite large, so burying them in snow isn't exactly easy. It seems this weather will hold for all of January—periodic snowfall, temperatures fluctuating around freezing, and so on.
After the standard morning routine, I hurried to the library. Madam Pince was already sitting at her desk, clearly not expecting to see anyone, as breakfast was about to start.
"Mr. Granger?" Her tone contained both a greeting and a question.
"Good morning, Madam. Not to waste either of our time... I need the third volume of 'Advanced Charms' by Miranda Sayre."
A second later, Madam Pince had her answer ready.
"Follow me," the librarian stood up from behind her desk and headed deeper into the abode of knowledge.
As always, I quickly followed Madam Pince, and after passing a couple of rows of shelves, we reached the right spot. Without any wand or anything, the librarian levitated the book from the upper shelves and handed it to me.
"Reading only within the library; removal is prohibited," she announced dryly, heading back to her workplace.
I didn't spend long looking for a spot, sitting down at the nearest table—there are many throughout the library, found both between rows of shelves and at the ends of corridors formed by those same shelves. Quickly opening the page Professor Snape had mentioned, I found the spell for anchoring masking and other illusion charms. The spells were simple, but just in case, I didn't just memorize them clearly but also copied them down.
Returning the book to its place, I hurried to the Great Hall for breakfast, and honestly, I was glad the meal hadn't even reached the halfway point.
"Yo, Hector," Justin waved at me, as did the other guys, while I was still approaching the table. "Where've you been hiding?"
"In the library."
"Hmm? Something for school?"
"No," I shook my head, piling bacon and beans onto my plate and starting on the fried eggs. "For personal use."
"Ah, okay. I thought maybe I missed something."
After breakfast, we went to Charms, where under the keen guidance of Professor Flitwick, we practiced another complex of magical influence on reality. Its practical use was questionable, but one way or another, it was a contribution, a brick in the foundation of the house called "Wizard."
After Charms, we moved to Care of Magical Creatures, outside, in winter cloaks and other warm gear. What pleased me personally was that everyone had my warming amulets one way or another. Everyone except Weasley, judging by his disgruntled and slightly envious face. And generally, the guy was slightly angry at the whole world, and the further it went, the more so.
"Right then, kiddies," Hagrid rubbed his hands contentedly, standing at the threshold of his hut, dressed in various garments of tanned leather and fur. "Today you have a completely safe introduction to curious, but... strange creatures, yeah. Follow me."
The students, not particularly brave but anticipating something, moved in a crowd behind the shaggy giant. Contrary to fears, we didn't have to trudge through the loose snow for long—just behind Hagrid's hut to a clearly recently built wooden pen, large and spacious. At the very entrance stood many crates without lids, but covered with warm blankets.
"Here we are, then," Hagrid led us to these crates and threw the cover off one of them. "Blast-Ended Skrewts..."
We peered into the box not without apprehension. Pretty strange creatures were crawling and lazily moving around in there. They were pinkish, clearly arthropods, and resembled a scorpion... And a crab. Yes, more like a crab, but the body was scorpion-like, and instead of claws, scorpion tails grew. Although, if you looked closely, there were rudimentary claws too.
A light wind blew in our direction, and I smelled a sharp odor of rotten fish.
"Oh... mother..." one of the guys couldn't hold back, covering his nose with his hand. The others did the exact same, trying to hide from the smell clearly emanating from the strange beasts.
"What's wrong, guys?" Hagrid was surprised. "Cute little critters. Look..."
Hagrid reached into the crate, but one of the critters managed to turn its rear toward Hagrid and shoot a small jet of fire.
"Little rascal," Hagrid lamented with amusement.
"Merlin!" some Slytherin was indignant. "Besides being ugly and smelly, they spit fire too! Lovely!"
"Oh, they can do that," Hagrid nodded joyfully, continuing his attempts to grab the creature while covering his beard—which could flare up like a haystack—with his other hand. "They have poisonous stingers too, imagine how great that is?"
"Just wonderful..." similar phrases were heard from all sides, as no one felt enthusiastic about these strange creatures.
"Your task for today is to feed them. They're carnivorous, see, and I've prepared meat," with these words, Hagrid threw the cover off another crate, in which, despite the cold, lay quite soft, almost warm, small pieces of meat. "But be careful, don't feed them from your hand—throw it. And observe, see."
Still feeling no enthusiasm, the students approached the meat box one or two at a time, took pieces, and went to feed the little monsters. I had no problems with this, so I managed quickly and started sketching, standing next to our giant teacher.
"Listen, Hagrid," I addressed him without looking up from my sketches. "Where did you get these critters?"
"Well, what d'yeh mean 'where'?" Hagrid chuckled, carefully watching whether the children were following instructions and not trying to do something rash. "Bred 'em myself, didn't I. Got painfully curious if somethin' would work... Erm... If a toad hatched Fire Crab eggs, see, on Manticore venom, yeah..."
Hearing that, I even stopped sketching and writing for a moment, blinked a couple of times, and then realized what I'd heard. Hagrid is a cunning and quick-witted beetle when it comes to animals. The development of a Fire Crab egg depends heavily on the environment, and unlike ordinary crabs, Fire Crabs don't "carry" them; they lay them in suitable conditions. The eggs absorb substances and energy around them, and if conditions suit them, larvae form. But Hagrid, as I noted, is a cunning beetle—he substituted the conditions. And to prevent the eggs from dying due to unsuitable conditions, he used a toad—a magical one, naturally. When toads incubate eggs, they make any conditions suitable, but the result might not be what nature intended.
"Longbottom!" Hagrid raised his voice, and I think half the students will have to change their underwear now. Well, Neville certainly will. "I told yeh, lad, don't stick yer hands in there. What if they bit yeh?"
"But..."
"No 'buts'."
"Understood..."
"Oh, it's hard work, watchin' over kiddies," Hagrid rumbled quietly, but you can't keep secrets with a voice like his.
In the second half of the day, after lunch and Ancient Runes—where I used copies of Daphne's textbooks not without pleasure—I quickly returned to the common room. There weren't many people there—classes were still going on. To my joy, I spotted Cedric, who had clearly run in on business, but while he hadn't spoken to anyone yet and was busy with some papers, I approached him.
"Hi."
"Huh? Hector, hi. I'm a bit busy, and if it's not important, maybe it can wait until evening?"
"Yes and no. Do you know anyone I can discuss the concept of Dueling with right now, and what the minimum knowledge required is?"
"Hmm..." Cedric looked up from his papers and quickly scanned the Common Room. "Herbert!"
Cedric called out to a guy, but two turned around—an older one, our Keeper, and a younger one, just a second-year.
"The one who's Fleet," added Cedric, and our Keeper immediately jumped up from his seat and was beside us.
"Yeah? What happened?" he asked briskly, shifting his gaze from me to Cedric.
"You're not busy with anything, are you?"
"Nope," Herbert shook his head.
"Here's Hector for you; tell him about Dueling, show him, I don't know, the classic gentleman's set..."
"Say no more," Herbert held up a hand in a stopping gesture with a self-important face. "Duels are my forte."
"Theoretical," Cedric chuckled.
"Well, not only, but in theory I have no equals in the castle, I'll say without undue modesty."
"Flitwick."
"Oh, don't start," Herbert feigned offense. "Comparing a Hogwarts student, whoever he may be, with a Charms Master and master of everything-with-a-wand, and a five-time champion of the European Dueling Club... That's like... A flea and a manticore, there!"
"Alright, flea, show Hector how to jump. I think with Hector's reaction and perception, he'll out-jump a manticore one day."
"Not very flattering," I smiled. "But to some extent fair."
"Right, mate," Herbert clapped me on the shoulder. "Let's go. Our Prefect is too busy, as you can see."
Herbert and I left the common room and went into the first empty classroom we found. It was as empty as possible in Hogwarts—walls, windows, a chandelier on chains, that's it. No dust, nothing like that. Herbert noticed my look and guessed the reasons.
"Closest classroom. People often practice magic here so they don't have to go far from the common room. We have everything close at hand, really—kitchen, common room, classrooms. What else does a dashing life need?" the guy smiled, gesturing toward the objects of conversation. "So, what do you know about dueling?"
"Nothing."
"Excellent!"
Herbert practically ran to the other side of the room, to the wall, turned around, and pointed to the spot opposite him at the other wall—I stood there.
"A little brief theory. Excluding misunderstandings right away—never compare a duel and combat magic, a fight. A fight is using everything, even a dirty sock suddenly found in your pocket, to destroy the enemy in any manifestation. A duel is art! True, strictly regulated."
"That's clear," I nodded.
"Great. Duels can be classic and sport. Dueling in the form it exists now is a rather fresh tradition in the magical world; it formed definitively only about three hundred years ago, having come a very, very long way. A classic duel is, first and foremost, a strictly regulated procedure for settling scores between two wizards... Listen to me spin it!" Herbert struck a pose importantly. "So..."
Herbert became more serious.
"Memory good? Because you'll need to memorize verbatim."
"I'll manage."
"Excellent. A classic duel goes through several stages. Challenge of the opponent, acceptance or refusal by the challenged party, announcement of place and time by the challenging party, acceptance or refusal by the challenged party, designation of victory conditions by the challenged party, acceptance or refusal by the challenging party. For each stage, there are strictly defined phrases, and this is important, because in the heat of emotion you could blurt out something, and blast magic too, so you won't know where to hide afterwards. And the phrases are chosen to be as neutral as possible, so that even if your own magic goes berserk on emotions, it won't find an outlet in words and the images they evoke in the head."
"Logical, nothing to add really," I shrugged.
"So. Challenge of the opponent: I, state your full name, challenge you, state the full or known name of the opponent, to a wizard's duel."
"Got it."
"Acceptance or refusal: I, state your name as the opponent called you, accept your challenge to a duel. Or: do not accept your challenge to a duel."
"Also clear."
"Wonderful. The challenger announces the place of the duel in the form of a question: shall the place of our duel be, name the place, and shall it begin at, state the time according to the place of the duel."
"Memorized."
"The challenged party answers, either: names the place, shall be the place of our duel, and we shall begin at, says the time. If they disagree, they say 'by no means,' and repeat the form of announcing the place and time exactly, and now the challenger must either confirm or choose the place again. After all this, first the challenging party announces a second using the form: my second shall be, and names the full name. The challenged party does likewise. The duel itself takes place under the direction of the seconds, but their role is simple—organize the bow, the separation, the bow of the duelists, and give the countdown to start. Upon completion of the duel, they announce the winner, and carry out the defeated if necessary."
"Creepy song and dance."
"Those are the habits of ancient wizarding families," Herbert smirked. "Let's continue. After agreeing on the place, the challenged party announces the victory conditions: the duel is conducted until, and conditions are specified. If the challenging party disagrees, everything goes as with the place, until agreement. For information—you can announce a duel to the death, but public censure is guaranteed."
"Why?"
"Well, there are few wizards," Herbert smiled. "The opponent can be as much of a jerk as he wants, but a live wizard is better for society than a dead one. But generally, you rarely meet such a duel. After all, the results of an official classic duel are an obvious reason for society to place the loser below the winner. To avoid an awkward situation, they even came up with a number of restrictions, due to which just anyone can't challenge just anyone."
"For example?"
"Well, for example, a Muggle-born cannot challenge a pureblood to an official duel. Without a very compelling reason. Often such a reason is something related to relatives—damage to honor, and very weighty at that, murder of a wizard relative, and all sorts of other harsh stuff. You understand yourself, Muggle-borns usually don't have wizard relatives, and everything else is dust. Therefore, a Muggle-born can technically challenge, but there won't be a reason. Easier to just beat them up, and in principle, no one will say anything. But that's here, at school. With the onset of adulthood comes responsibility for one's actions, and you can't just arrange magical battles—breach of public order, fines, and sanctions."
"Nothing unusual, I must note."
"Exactly... A sport duel is an organized event. There are no problems with all this dancing around phrases. There is a referee and he simply calls the duelists to the platform, or whatever 'stage' is provided. The duelists, as in a classic duel, meet face to face, bow, turn, walk fifteen paces apart, turn, bow, stance. On the count, the duel begins."
"Logical so far."
"That's 'so far'," Herbert smirked. "In a sport duel, the dress code is agreed upon in advance, but can be anything. But in classic—a suit appropriate to the duelist's gender, and a classic robe. And also, a man challenges a man, a lady—a lady. You can, of course, have a man challenge a lady, and vice versa, but one must understand that a classic duel is not only a process of identifying the strongest and most skillful, but also a social event. For a mixed-gender duel, a compelling reason is needed, otherwise they won't understand, and even if you win the duel—you lose in the eyes of society."
"Grim..."
"Yep," Herbert nodded joyfully. "Our little world is small, everyone knows everyone, everyone talks about everything. You sneeze in Plymouth—in Aberdeen they're already yelling that you shat yourself."
"How uncultured," I shook my head with feigned reproach.
"But factual. So... Regarding sport or training duels... Everything is simple there, as I said. Separated, referee announced conditions, gave the signal, and off it went. Now, regarding common things for all duels. You must always keep facing the opponent, on one line. You can shift, of course, or if you were thrown aside for one reason or another... The most amusing thing is that you cannot purposefully step off the line of fire, dodge."
"That's nonsense, isn't it?"
"Yes and no," Herbert nodded. "A duel is, first and foremost, a method of ascertaining a wizard's superiority in mastery and skills specifically of magic, not running around, grimacing, and agility of jumping. That's why, by the way, avid duelists sometimes lose a real fight—habits. I heard that in the Auror Academy they spend a whole year relentlessly beating duelist habits out of the young ones, if they have them. Not many do, but enough. Many try themselves in this sooner or later anyway."
"Logical. After all, it's part of life in the magical world."
"Exactly! And if you won't find a classic one by day with fire, sport and training duels are a dime a dozen! I'm telling you for sure. Because it is the art of magic, sorcery, subtlety, and speed of weaving spells..." Herbert began gesturing, depicting an elegant fencing match, there's no other way to put it. "...Lunges, feints, changing spell trajectories..."
Looking at Herbert, it was impossible not to be infected by enthusiasm, although my shard experience held me back a little. But the guy voiced his own actions amusingly, a sort of one-man theater.
"...you must stand facing the enemy, half-turned is acceptable, depending on the situation and leading hand. And a spell beam can be redirected behind the enemy's back, and he needs to reflect it somehow without turning around or dodging. Magic, magic, and magic again!"
"Calm down, duel fan," I interrupted the guy's monologue with a smile.
"Indeed," he brushed invisible dust motes off his robe, smoothing it out. "Got carried away. We just almost never do this here, and at home you can't compete for long—Dad's either busy or he doesn't hold back, the rascal."
"What about spells?"
"Ah, yes, the 'gentleman's set'. Protego, Expelliarmus, Stupefy."
"Not very complicated," I mused.
"Tut-tut!" Herbert waved his hand, standing at the other end of the classroom. "That's just the tip of the iceberg. Protego, Protego Duo, Protego Trio, Protego Reflecto. Three forms of Expelliarmus, differing in gesture and effect. Stupefy, Stupefy Duo, Stupefy Pravus. That's what the 'Gentleman's Set' looks like. Let me show you everything in practice..."
Herbert stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out some ball, threw it to the wall to his right, and as soon as the ball rolled to the wall, it immediately inflated into some parody of the Michelin mascot—a sort of white marshmallow man with caricatured eyes and a kind smile.
"What is this miracle?" I asked, looking at the thing.
"My training dummy. Need someone to practice on, and it's hard to focus on a wall."
We, together with this dummy, formed a sort of triangle—each stood by one of the walls. Herbert stood in a pose closest to a fencer, but instead of a sword he had a wand, and his second hand was behind his back.
"So. Let's start with Protego..." Herbert demonstratively made a not very fast pass with his wand, speaking in time with the movements: "Protego."
For a couple of seconds, a translucent convex film of a shield appeared in front of the guy, quickly disappearing.
"Always remember that a normal Protego is a constantly active film of powerful complex distortion of space energy..." Herbert started speaking but stopped, looking at me, "...am I speaking too complexly?"
"No, just right. I'm quite well-read."
"Good..." a slight doubt slipped into Herbert's gaze, but he waved it off. "Anyway, due to the peculiarities of Protego, you either have to pour a ton of magic into it, but even then a normal Protego will fall apart from the first spell anyway, or feel the moment precisely. Repeat."
I had already read about this spell, and even tried it, but didn't tell Herbert—I didn't want to interrupt his enthusiasm, or he might get offended. Repeating the wand movement and speaking the spell, I created the same shield film for the same couple of seconds. It's interesting how local magic works—without structuring, without building complex energy channels in space forming a figure or circuit from a multitude of them. Wave correctly, say correctly, imagine the necessary—result. And everyone has more or less the same. Strange, thinking about this again.
"Not bad," Herbert nodded thoughtfully. "Very not bad."
It would be strange if it were "bad". Even if my knowledge applicable to the local school of magic is sparse, the fragmentary experience of sorcery from different shards adds up to a weighty argument one way or another, and most importantly, due to this experience, it is extremely easy for me to repeat a spell that succeeded even once, even from the local school. I already noticed that if you add imaginary pronunciation of the word during the swing to the imaginary formula or necessary image, the effect will be the same, but slightly more energy will be spent. I think if I try adding an imaginary swing too, and release magic through its control, something will work out. But that's for later.
"Let's repeat ten times, for better memorization," Herbert nodded to his thoughts.
"Okay," I started making swings. "Protego, Protego, Protego, Protego..."
Time after time I performed the spell, and each time was absolutely successful, and the shield held for the same amount of time.
"Hmm... And on the first try... Talent!" Herbert exclaimed joyfully. "It's a sin to bury such talent. Let's move on. Protego Duo..."
Protego Duo turned out to be a shield within a shield, nothing special—it just withstands two spells, not one. Trio—similarly, but three. Protego Reflecto is a much more interesting spell. It creates a smaller area shield that lasts half a second maximum, but reflects the spell according to all laws of physics—the angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection.
"Why in Mordred's name does everything work out so perfectly for you?!" Herbert feigned indignation. "Ooh, how I envy! In a good way, of course, but... Ooh, how I envy!"
Next came demonstrations of Stupefy. The spell is a faintly glowing white clot. A Stupefy hit causes a concussive effect, and a good hit can knock one unconscious, but not due to the blow, but due to magic. The direct proportional dependence of the clot's flight speed on the speed of casting the spell is interesting. Stupefy Duo is the same as Protego Duo. A spell within a spell. Stupefy Pravus is a spell of two series of gestures. The first is like Stupefy, but ends a bit differently, and the second gesture, on which you say "Pravus," sets the flight trajectory. It is determined by the tip of the wand during the gesture, and the gesture itself can be anything—a zigzag, a loop, whatever. The main thing is to manage to make the gesture you need while saying "Pravus," and you have to say it at the same tempo as "Stupefy." That's the difficulty—you can't make an intricate trajectory if you're trying to say it very quickly. But, in fairness, a sharp zigzag is enough to make the opponent cross-eyed.
Expelliarmus—disarming. In the first and simplest form, it simply shoots an extremely fast dull beam, which doesn't necessarily have to hit the hand, the main thing is the person. Whatever is in their hand will be torn from it and fly in a parabola to the caster. The second form does the same, but also pushes the opponent properly. The third, already belonging to the category of conditionally dark spells, breaks the arm in countless places, causing a powerful spasm of the extensor muscles. Technically, the person will be disarmed, but... Harsh, in short. At the same time, such a form of Expelliarmus is still considered an acceptable, normal spell, and essentially, if you don't do it for the sake of pain to the enemy, they'll just wag a finger at you, saying: "Could have done without that, but good job anyway." Why? Magical medicine makes such injuries just "hurt very, very much," but everything is cured overnight. That's how it is.
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