In a gloomy, austere, and richly furnished study, under the soft light of two lamps, sat a distinguished middle-aged man. His most striking feature was his platinum hair, cascading below his shoulders. He sat at his desk, reclining lazily in his armchair, reading a letter. Or rather, he had already read it and was now merely searching for the hidden cues his friend loved to embed in his words.
"What does Severus write?" a female voice asked from the window, where an equally striking blonde sat in an armchair, dressed in a house gown. She sat gazing at the starry sky outside, occasionally shifting her gaze to the grove, black-blue in the moonlight.
"All about Draco, what else?" Lucius Malfoy—for this striking platinum blonde was none other than he—set the letter aside and looked at his wife. "He says Flint brought Granger to our Dueling Club."
"Is that so?" Narcissa turned her head toward her husband.
She held a small cup of extremely delicious herbal tea, a marvelous Asian blend. However, for some reason, Narcissa squeezed her fingers in such a way that the thin porcelain handle snapped. The cup instantly plummeted, landing on the woman's lap and spilling the still-hot remnants of the brew onto her gown.
"Mordred..." Narcissa hissed sharper than a snake, pulled out her wand, and vanished the traces of this disgrace.
"Hmm," Lucius chuckled with a faint smile. "It's amusing how Granger reflected that little jinx of Minor Misfortunes you cast in jest. How much longer will this go on?"
"The last misfortune. You could have punished the offender of your beautiful wife," Narcissa feigned indignation, allowing herself to drop the mask of aristocratic coldness in her husband's company.
"In fairness, I wish to note that I do not feud with children, and you, my beautiful wife, received a reflected jinx, not a targeted one. If you wish to feud with the boy—feud away."
"But he insulted Drakie..."
"Judging by what I know," Lucius nodded toward the letter set aside on the desk, "at the moment, a kind word is spoken about Drakie only for mercenary purposes. Are you suggesting we stage a mock battle of jinxes with all the students of Hogwarts?"
"And why not," Narcissa shrugged, turning back to the window.
"Being a Black is a diagnosis," Lucius shook his head.
Both perfectly understood the absurdity of the situation in particular and in general, but both also understood the necessity for Draco to learn to handle problems on his own. Yes, his past schemes bore both positive and negative results—it was a bit foolish to "play" against a stupid half-blood with his "dream team," but Dumbledore keeps one eye on that whole team. Lucius was willing to bet a great deal that the old man introduced elements of chaos into the inter-house intrigues with deliberately elephantine grace, just to laugh at the students' faces over dinner later. He'd found himself an amusement in his old age—covering for a group of dim-witted and brave adventurers...
Lucius thought for a second about how he would act in the old man's place. To his own surprise, he found such not particularly cunning manipulations rather amusing, and even smiled, imagining how he himself would cover the escapades of some Slytherins, effortlessly demonstrating the flip side of their opponents' actions, and then chuckle about it. True, there was the possibility that the old man had actually lost his mind while retaining his cunning and forethought; after all, as is known, a madman differs from a genius in that the latter hasn't been caught red-handed.
"So what does Severus write?" Narcissa reminded him of her question.
"Flitwick arranged a duel in honor of Granger's entry. With Draco."
"Did Draco really lose?" Narcissa looked at her husband with surprise. "You said yourself that Draco would be better than average for his age."
"If Snape is to be believed, our son lost his temper and decided to win in the most offensive way possible. But it didn't work. Only toward the end of the duel did he start applying at least Duo modifications, though he could have from the start."
"Hmm..." Narcissa pondered, looking out the window.
"It seems to me this will be good for Draco. You know he loves to slack off as soon as he achieves some success. So now let him catch up to Granger."
"And it doesn't bother you at all that a Mudblood who recently arrived in our world surpasses our son in duels?"
"Not at all. So he'll be the best at Hogwarts, what next?" Lucius made a mannered gesture with his hand. "The library there is good, I don't argue. He'll get something significant only in the Restricted Section, and you know how Dumbledore reveres complex knowledge. Put the old man on a chain in the Section, and the protection would be better than a Cerberus. The rest is basic and intermediate level, even if the volumes are huge. The children will finish school..."
Lucius waved his hand, and a bottle of firewhisky and two snifters flitted out of a nearby cabinet. The blonde deftly poured the drink into the glasses, just a little, so the aroma and taste would be conveyed fully, and levitated one of them to Narcissa, who accepted the glass with a slight nod. Both took a sip, after which Lucius continued.
"There. They'll finish Hogwarts, and leadership will gradually pass to Draco and other children from our families. Where will a Mudblood get money for high-quality, rare, and necessary literature to develop further? Where to go to work, where someone would undertake to teach you? Where to go for study? What Master needs Muggle-borns at all, from whom there's nothing to take? And there are very, very many such questions. What is the average ceiling? An Auror, and with persistence and considerable luck—a good enforcer in about thirty years?"
"Amusing. Someone else also started without connections, without books, without money and knowledge."
"So what now?" Lucius shivered slightly. "Look with apprehension at every talented ragamuffin?"
"What about the Greengrasses?"
"What about the 'Greengrasses'?" Lucius took a sip of firewhisky. "They gave the eldest a talking-to about not associating with the Mudblood."
"Did it help?" an impudent smirk appeared on Narcissa's face.
"How should I know?"
"Let's plan the summer for Draco," Narcissa cheered up at her own idea, straightening in the armchair. "So that next year he returns to Hogwarts and is no longer worse than the Mudblood."
"As if next year anyone will care at all about who and what anyone is," Lucius clearly didn't want to engage in such things, but seeing his wife's look, decided to yield. "Although, why not?"
. . . . . .
Joining the Dueling Club changed life completely. No, that's not a joke. The feeling of anticipation when you stand opposite another wizard, wand at the ready; the slight nervousness, not knowing what they'll cast first. The chance that you'll get taken apart like God does a turtle—it's exhilarating. But without going overboard, and I'm glad for that trait in my character.
For a month now, I've been running into the Dueling Club for an hour literally every day, picking a time just right for two or three duels with someone and a short lecture from Flitwick or Snape about this or that spell. Yes, Snape, it turns out, is also a frequent guest here, and his reputation is rather... Cool. Yes, there's no other way to put it. He co-authored with Flitwick as many as five manuals to eliminate the illiteracy of the club members, casually citing about two dozen original, harmless spells. Deliberately harmless in terms of health and bodily integrity, but capable of leading to victory in a duel. For example, a shortened form of the spell that sticks the tongue to the roof of the mouth. Or a singing spell—it forces you to sing words and phrases. Nothing special, but for a wizard who hasn't switched from verbal casting to non-verbal—it's a fiasco. Even for someone who has learned, it takes time to realize your inability to pronounce something, and thus to restructure the pattern of the fight.
My constant opponent, though not immediately, and apparently not without a "kick" from Snape, became Malfoy. By mid-January, every visit to the Dueling Club began with a duel with Malfoy. It seems his list of spells for the duel was compiled in advance, for I saw in his eyes the desire to curse me more offensively, but he started with Stupefy, and by the end of January had already switched to Stupefy Duo. Well, I just practiced spells, increased the speed of their creation, and tried to move to mental pronunciation.
I didn't even realize how the time for the Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw match arrived. Honestly, I wasn't particularly drawn to watch the game, as I had studied the teams' styles thoroughly. But something interesting happened—Harry Potter was flying a Firebolt. The fastest racing broom, with everything seemingly in order. Essentially, if you take a Firebolt and my Sleipnir, the former would be faster in the hands of the same pilot. But someone accustomed to Sleipnir could give the Firebolt a run for its money easily, albeit with the risk of killing themselves. After all, the Firebolt was made according to all safety rules and with fool-proofing.
In general, there turned out to be something to watch, especially since the weather at the beginning of February was wonderful—despite it being a winter month, the sun warmed things up nicely, almost no trace of snow and winter remained, and thanks to the general magical background from the castle, grass began to break through the earth, delighting with bright green color. The only thing in nature hinting at the just-ended cold, blizzards, and snow was the gloominess of the Forbidden Forest's conifers.
On the Firebolt, Potter flew just as recklessly as I did, but generally, the styles were quite different. But he beat Cho Chang with a classic Wronski Feint, going into vertical acceleration toward the ground and pulling out at ninety degrees right at the grass. The trick is supposed to either deceive the enemy Seeker, like: "Aha, he saw the Snitch, can't fall behind," thereby leading them into a trap. But that's provided you are more maneuverable than the opponent. Or simply chasing the Snitch—well, and the enemy will "crash" in any case, or fall very far behind, not daring to repeat the trajectory.
"Want to be Seeker for the match against Slytherin?" Cedric nudged me in the side.
Our whole team was huddled in the stands on the Hufflepuff side, and everyone supported either a specific player or a team. What pleased me was the absence of any oppression in the House, like: "Look, that one rooted for Slytherin." To each their own, and everyone is free to choose who to root for, who to be friends with, and other democracy.
"Seeker? Me?" I had to shout over the raging fans rejoicing at the match just ended in favor of Gryffindor, albeit with not too big a difference in points.
"Why not? The rules don't forbid changing roles during the season. The main thing is to notify before the match. It's just not practiced."
"But I'm... a Chaser, no?"
"I'll tell you a secret—with Slytherin, and they are our opponents, no one wants to play. Rough, boring, uninteresting."
"And what do I have to do with it?"
"You'll catch the Snitch immediately, and we'll go about our business. And imagine—they've already developed a method for suppressing you."
"But that would be interesting to me."
"Look, as you know. But it would be great if you played Seeker, I'd hang around as a Chaser, we'd win in a minute, and disperse. Besides, it became known to me that you have a rivalry with Malfoy..."
The spectators began to gradually leave the stands, and us with them.
"Oh, come on," I waved it off. "It just happens somehow."
"That's excellent."
"So, you guys just don't want to play?"
"Nope. No one. Well, only Herbert a little. He started training hard, saying he lost. Any idea what he's talking about?"
"Oh, just stuff," I waved it off, as we were already walking on fresh and bright green grass, moving toward Hogwarts. "No one pulled his tongue. By the way, how are you at dueling?"
"Why such interest? But, whatever the answer—not very. I prefer other directions of magic, and ostentatious near-self-mutilation is not for me. I like Transfiguration. But I heard you've gone far ahead of me."
"I don't know," I shrugged, as a flock of happily giggling girls from different houses and years rushed past us. "I just understood Transfiguration."
"Yeah?" a smirk was easily readable in the Prefect's light and polite smile. "And what's the secret?"
"Magic control, due to which you encompass with the spell only the necessary area of transfiguration, thereby avoiding one of Gamp's laws, and clear imagination."
"Hmm," Cedric pondered. "And I only reached that last year. But you have to consider the energy spent..."
"Yep. The more complex the transfiguration, the deeper it changes the structure of the object, the more concentration and mental effort are needed."
"Precisely. And formulas allow omitting many nuances of visualization, freeing up resources..."
Herbert wedged between us quite abruptly, hugging both by the shoulders.
"Why are you always about magic and magic?" He spoke with a smile, looking from me to Cedric. "See how Potter lit it up? In madness, he'll compete with you, Hector."
"Let him compete," I smiled back. "I'll gladly give him the palm of supremacy as 'Hogwarts' Chief Madman'."
That's basically how my days went. But Saturday after the match ended somewhat differently than I planned. No, nothing happened, just after dinner, as always, another Potions session took place, where we were to get rid of the remnants of pre-purchased ingredients. Still, if a teacher works directly with only one or two students, their progress becomes much more obvious than during classes with the whole group. Why? If only because the professor is forced to align with the worst result when working with a class, and get distracted by everyone too. Which means the one who is doing successfully is forced to just sit and wait for the others to finish the work.
"Tomorrow is an outing to the people," Daphne said quietly, throwing a batch of prepared ingredients into the cauldron.
"The spells are ready. I suppose we need to discuss this quickly in the morning..."
"Then right away, in the Great Hall?"
"Can be a little later..."
Snape looked at us over the parchments with homework.
"I see, you have approached, the study of old prose, overgrown with dust and decay?"
Tearing my eyes away from the ingredients being butchered, I looked at the professor.
"We were assigned a Shakespeare drama, respected Professor."
"And which one, enlighten me?"
"About Romeo and Juliet..."
"Well, a wonderful creation, relevant in every century. But I dare to hint, extremely clumsily and directly—if you are caught on a walk tomorrow, and not with everyone, then I will slap you with detentions."
"Such a problem will not be," I shook my head, throwing my part of the ingredients into the cauldron.
---------------
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