After lunch, during which our group of fourth-year Badgers agreed to practice magic, we headed to our usual spot—an unused classroom not far from the common room.
It took exactly one hour of spell drills for the others to get tired, fall into a mild state of despair, and collapse at the desks for a break. They switched to normal school activities: gossip, magazines, discussions, and games. Naturally, the girls organized tea from an ever-hot pot, along with sandwiches and sweets.
And me? I wasn't tired. I kept grinding, firing off endless chains of spells—from household charms to pseudo-combat hexes—at transfigured mannequins. Every three or four spells, the mannequins would be blown apart, so restoring them became part of the drill. The casting was loud, requiring me to maintain a silencing perimeter around the target area. But since my spells kept crossing the boundary of the charm, the silencing wards would shatter every seven or eight casts. Re-casting them became part of the workout, too.
"Hector," Hannah called out.
With a Reducto, I obliterated a mannequin and turned to the group. They had pushed the desks together to mimic the Great Hall's setup and were sitting on either side, sipping tea and buried in magazines.
"Yeah?"
"Come have some tea."
Fair point. It was time for a snack. I walked over and sat next to the girls—there was more space there, and the sweets were closer.
"Here," Hannah poured me a cup. I grabbed a sandwich loaded with two types of ham, cheese, and lettuce, but I didn't neglect the pastries.
"Thanks. Bon appétit."
"We've already eaten."
"Well, can't be helped," I smiled and dug in.
They didn't disturb me while I ate. I listened with mild interest as they discussed recent events in the country, sports, and other trivialities. But the conversation soon dried up—they had already been chatting for fifteen minutes. Eventually, they all just stared at me as my plate emptied, leaving only the tea that Hannah generously kept refilling. And yes, purely on instinct and reflex, I checked the food for magical signatures. Clean.
"Tell me, Hector," Justin looked at me with genuine curiosity. "How do you cast so much? I can barely lift this teacup to my mouth..."
"Technically, you're lifting your head to the cup," Ernie snorted, and the others grinned.
"You know what I mean," Justin conceded. "Waving a wand at arm's length for an hour... It sounds stupid, but I just don't have the strength."
"Well, I train a lot," I answered his question, taking a few sips of the aromatic tea. "Physically, too. Every day. For quite a long time and with heavy loads."
"It shows..."
Justin said the words, but all the boys looked at their own arms, then at mine, then back at their own. Zacharias even tried to flex a bicep, but there was... not much there. Just a fourteen-year-old boy. The gesture made me look at my own arms and flex.
Yes, there were muscles. Definition. I poked my arm with a finger. Rock hard.
"Wait..." Justin looked at me with mild surprise. "You didn't even know you look pretty athletic?"
"Why would I?" I was genuinely indignant. "I looked in the mirror recently... over the summer... in France... I thought I looked decent."
"Decent..." Justin drifted off into thought. "Decent... I thought I was decent, but this... Look at that..."
"What's the big deal?"
"You see, Hector," Hannah smiled, giving her face a slight shade of mockery and superiority—typical for her. "You are one of the few boys in school who can wear those tight shirts with pride."
She gestured to the blue turtleneck I preferred to wear on weekends.
"Really?" I looked down at myself. "No, well, it's just soft and warm."
Of course, I understood what she meant. But we had athletic guys. Herbert, for example. McLaggen from Gryffindor, and... was that it?
"I can see the gears turning in your head," Hannah continued to smile. "That's good."
"What's good about it?" I looked at the quasi-blonde with mild exasperation. "So what you're saying is, the whole school is unfamiliar with sports and nobody takes care of their health..."
. . .
"I suppose," Justin glanced at Ernie and Zacharias, who were smirking at the conversation, "our talent has his priorities in a different order."
"I get it, I get it. Attractiveness, attention," I waved it off. "That's why the Durmstrang guys attract so much attention—their school clearly emphasizes physical development."
"You have no idea," Hannah continued, her smile shrinking a fraction. "Have you noticed the older girls glancing at you in a very... ambiguous way?"
"Older girls are always glancing somewhere ambiguously. So are the boys. I don't track them."
"Mmm, right, right," Hannah nodded, and the others followed suit. "You're very popular right now. You were already quite cute before..."
"You think so?" I interrupted, earning a poke in the ribs. "Ow, okay, I get it."
"Yes, but don't interrupt. All cute, athletic, top Chaser. Before, people didn't focus on you because you're a 'Puff. You know what the others think of us. That we're the house of dim-witted leftovers."
"I've heard it a couple of times."
"But now, it turns out you're not dim-witted. You bypassed Dumbledore's own wards. Rumors are spreading that you're surprisingly good in a duel. On top of that, everyone remembered that you have top grades, without exception. The only reason girls haven't started besieging you yet is that they can't find a pretext to approach. Watch out, open season is starting soon."
"I don't think it's that scary."
Zacharias laughed.
"Ha! Look at Krum hiding from everyone and Cedric's cardboard smile, then say that again. And there are no upsides—only problems."
"Really?" The irony in my voice was palpable.
"Of course!" Zacharias threw up his hands. "Imagine: you're going about your business, to the library or just to sit in the courtyard with friends."
"Okay."
"Right," he nodded. "You walk, and behind you trails a tail of girls. Always whispering, moving in a flock, giggling. You're studying in a classroom—they peek in the door and giggle. You sit down to eat—they practically look over your shoulder and giggle. You sit on a bench in the garden—they peek out from behind trees, columns, windows, and doorways, just giggling and whispering. You go somewhere—and they follow. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, stomping along in herds."
As Zacharias described his vision of the hard life of a popular guy, it became harder for us to suppress our laughter. But at the "clip-clop," we finally broke—aided by his frantic hand gestures.
After laughing it off, the guys asked a question that interested them far more than popularity.
"Hector," Justin looked at me seriously. "How do you learn new spells so easily?"
"Well..." Since we were talking magic, I unconsciously pulled my wand from its forearm holster and started twirling it. "It seems to me there are two approaches to learning. Learning 'to check a box,' just to pass the material or the exam. And the thoughtful approach, where you don't just memorize the instructions but internalize every word in the text, no matter how silly or confusing it seems. Remember how we studied the Patronus Charm?"
"Yeah..." everyone groaned. That had been genuinely difficult.
"The reason was simple—a lack of basic knowledge and skills needed for easier mastery. At least, that's what I think. And that charm is outside the curriculum; the literature on it is written for established wizards. What does that mean?"
"It's logical to assume," Justin scratched his chin, "that the author expected the reader to have a certain baggage of knowledge. So he didn't intend to chew up the material and feed it to you with step-by-step instructions."
"Exactly," I nodded, and the others agreed. "So, part of my success lies in a thoughtful approach to every spell, recipe, formula, or whatever is in the books. If it says you need to feel some unknown sensation, imagine a strange formula and image, then that's exactly what I'll do, trying to feel how to do it best for the best result."
"But still," Ernie shook his head, "you learn too fast."
"That is a consequence of my illness."
Everyone looked at me questioningly. Even Susan looked up from devouring a pastry with a predatory gaze.
"My brain works very fast and processes a lot of information. Plus, I have perfect memory."
"Still, it's too... just too much. Lucky," Ernie drawled.
"Well, if you consider being unable to move voluntarily, think clearly, or speak for thirteen years 'lucky'—then yes," I nodded with a smile. The group looked embarrassed. "Alright, enough wagging our tongues—time to cast."
After practicing for a while longer, we all went our separate ways. I headed to the Dueling Club with a highly questionable idea—to ask Flitwick to hit me with a Stupefy.
The Club hall was nearly empty. Only two older students sat at a table by the bookcases, arguing actively under a privacy charm, poking fingers at open books and parchments. Two others were sluggishly dueling on the platform, clearly practicing the Protego defense and Expulso attack sequence. It's a difficult exercise, by the way, because a properly cast Expulso has no visual beam or projectile. The drill boiled down to timing the shield correctly while the attacker tried to cast Expulso without any visual giveaway. Aside from a small explosion with a spark. But if you don't try to caress your opponent properly, even a weak firecracker can cause a concussion.
Professor Flitwick, whom I was looking for, stood near the dueling platform, monitoring the safety of the duelists with mild boredom.
. . .
"Professor, hello," I approached him and nodded in greeting.
"Oh, Mr. Granger," the tiny professor smiled, looking up at me. "Good day, good day."
"I have a small request for you."
"I am listening intently, young man."
"Information has reached me that Stupefy is an excellent spell."
"Heh-heh-heh," Flitwick laughed quietly and somewhat wickedly, adjusting the neat glasses on his nose. "A very vague, yet accurate statement. In capable hands—almost instantaneous, fast, precise, and lethal. Perhaps only Expelliarmus, in equally capable hands, can boast similar, and at times superior, effectiveness."
"That is exactly what I heard. I would like to verify it. On myself."
"That can be done," the professor turned to the trainees. "Gentlemen duelists, please yield the floor."
The students paused their practice duel, nodded, and stepped off the platform. The professor and I immediately took their place. This naturally attracted attention, but the professor hastened to disappoint the few spectators.
"Just an educational demonstration of two spells in their ideal execution. Ready, Mr. Granger?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Ready to defend?"
I drew my wand, braced myself, and nodded.
"Excellent. First, the Disarming Charm," the professor took a stance, holding his wand like a rapier, pointing it at me. "No countdown, as no one will give you one in battle."
I nodded. For a few seconds, we just stood there—Flitwick letting me know an attack could come at any second. I barely noticed the microscopic movement of the professor's wand—the tip gave a dull flash, and absolutely simultaneously, an unknown force ripped my wand from my hand. It flew in an arc into the professor's outstretched palm.
"That, essentially, is it," Flitwick smiled. "Clean, precise, fast. Now you are left with only wandless magic, Mr. Granger. Or, if you have a spare..."
"I don't have one, Professor."
"A pity. Acquire one when the opportunity arises. Just not from Master Ollivander—such an approach offends him greatly. He is quite old—no need to give him cause for distress."
"Understood, Professor."
"Take it," with a gesture, Flitwick levitated my wand back to me. "Ready for the Stunning Spell?"
"I don't think so."
"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Granger," the professor smiled. "It is a useful experience."
We readied ourselves again. And again, just like last time, Flitwick moved incredibly fast. Just one imperceptible, microscopic flick of the wand, literally half a centimeter of amplitude. This time, even though I was mentally prepared and my brain processed information quickly, I missed the moment I was slammed onto my back by a blow to the chest. I almost reacted, but as they say, "almost" doesn't count.
Quickly getting up, I looked at Flitwick with even greater respect. I, for instance, couldn't create these spells that fast yet. I needed practice. Given the statistics of my progress in learning individual spells and the tendency for that progress to slow down as I perfected them, I would need... three months of training focused specifically on these spells to reach a similar level using strictly the local school of magic. Yes, my innate energy control, memory, and brain function would allow me to replicate it right now, but that wouldn't be skill, not reflex or experience, but a fully controlled manipulation requiring massive mental effort—unacceptable for combat application.
"You have phenomenal reaction time, Mr. Granger," Flitwick praised, clearly pleased with the demonstration. "I suspect that a couple of months of hard practice with an opponent of my level, drilling Protego variations for speed, as well as the spells themselves, and... Hmm... You could apply them just as successfully as you defend against them."
"You have a sharp eye, Professor."
"Experience, Mr. Granger. Nothing but experience."
"Perhaps a practice duel, Professor?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Granger. I do not engage in such matters anymore," Flitwick shook his head as we stepped off the platform. "To show something, to explain—always a pleasure."
"I understand, Professor. If any questions arise, I will come to you immediately."
In the end, there was no one really to duel with, but I had no problem joining the two older students who were actively discussing the application of Transfiguration in combat.
At dinner in the Great Hall, I observed the amusing picture of Krum and Diggory suffering from female attention. It sounds strange, of course, but you have to understand the nature of this attention. It's not exactly what men enjoy. Far from every schoolgirl, even in the upper years, clearly understands what kind of attention she wants from these prominent guys, let alone the younger ones. It all boils down to "Wow, look, a Champion! Autographs! He's smiling! Oh, he's not smiling! He's eating! Now he's not eating! Oh..."
Meanwhile, both Krum and Diggory would likely prefer the simple presence of a girl who understood them, supported them, and was just plain nice. But nobody cared about that. Look at Cedric, constantly glancing at Cho Chang from fifth-year Ravenclaw, while she, conversely, was dodging him by all means necessary. And Krum was moving through the school from safehouse to safehouse, and I wouldn't be surprised if he was using Disillusionment Charms.
After dinner, as I always did on Saturday evenings, I went to my remedial Potions lessons. And once again, as in previous sessions, Professor Snape sat at his desk, grading hated essays, slashing through one line after another with broad strokes. Daphne was waiting at our table: ingredients laid out, cauldrons prepped, tools clean and sharp.
. . .
"Professor," I nodded.
Snape, silent as a conductor, indicated with a couple of gestures that he had noticed me and that I should take my seat.
"Greengrass," I nodded to the girl as I sat down.
"Granger."
Without further preamble, we set to work. Ingredients were crushed, sliced, pressed, and poured into cauldrons in sequence, the brews stirred. Not by themselves, of course, but with our direct participation. When the first potion recipe for the day reached the "Sit and Wait" stage, a topic of conversation arose naturally.
"Greengrass."
"Yes?"
"I went to the Club."
"Should I be surprised?"
"I'm the one who should be surprised," I smiled with the corner of my mouth. "I didn't think you'd miss today's gathering. Actually, almost everyone missed it."
"Did something special happen today?"
"Professor Flitwick showed me the proper execution of the Stunning and Disarming spells."
At this point, Professor Snape shifted his gaze from the essay parchments to us, beginning to pay more attention to our polite chat. Of course, both Daphne and I were monitoring the bubbling potions in our cauldrons, but the conversation continued nonetheless.
"I assume you suffered a defeat?"
"It wasn't a duel, but yes, you're right. The Disarming Charm performed by the Professor turned out to be unpleasantly instantaneous. And I almost managed to defend against the Stunner."
"Impressive," Snape spoke, his voice quiet and insinuating as always. "Professor Flitwick is one of those who can unpleasantly surprise with the ideal execution of almost any charm or spell that has even a theoretical possibility of being used in a duel. But he dislikes the Disarming and Stunning spells, I will tell you that immediately. I recommend not using them too frequently."
"Why, Professor?" I didn't take my eyes off the potion, lest I miss a change in color or consistency.
"Professor Flitwick is a duelist to the marrow of his bones. Paradoxically, the Disarming and Stunning spells belong more to combat magic. And as I assume you know, a duel is a competition of wizarding skill. Clever and unpredictable combinations, precise sequences, calculating the opponent—not banal superiority in raw power or a single spell."
The conversation died down on its own after that. Almost. When the second, and final, potion reached the "Cool first, then wait, then heat again" stage, another topic surfaced as if by itself.
"Greengrass."
"Granger?"
"Will you go to Hogsmeade on the 31st?"
"Without any preamble? Just like that?"
"Naturally," I nodded. "You know, I was informed today that I am becoming popular, and I need to be careful."
"Popular?" Daphne raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Do not overestimate yourself."
"Nonetheless. I assume it would be unacceptable for you if your colleague and Potions partner suddenly became extremely stupid due to the pernicious influence of various cunning ladies."
"Ah, so you decided to use me as a shield? How devious," Daphne shook her head in mock indignation. "But this plan has an obvious flaw. Such a thing plays into your hands, but not mine. I hope I do not need to explain why?"
"Indeed, I completely forgot," I feigned sadness. "I'll have to ask Miss Romanova for help. They won't go against her; they'd prefer to wait until the end of the year."
"But, on the other hand," Daphne was clearly hasty with her reply. "A walk in Hogsmeade with a talented young wizard could have a completely different effect. The main thing is to present it in the right light."
Snape snorted quite loudly, having almost finished checking the essays.
"And they say the Hat makes no mistakes."
After the lesson ended, I headed to the House common room—Daphne, as always, would return to her own common room with the Professor. It turned out his quarters were within the Slytherin dungeon. So, technically, not a single Slytherin lives outside their common room. Yet the quarters of other Heads of House are located outside their common rooms. It felt... demonstrative, somehow.
The common room was crowded and noisy. Everyone was "one of us," no strangers, but still. However, even in this friendly and slightly rowdy crowd of students of all ages, one thing stood out: no one here was bothering poor Cedric. All his fangirls were from other Houses. Specifically "fangirls"—those who simply offered friendliness and support were our own.
taking my seat in our corner by the fireplace with the guys, I began to think, relaxing into the waves of rhythmic noise in the room. There were three topics for reflection, though the importance of each was ambiguous.
First, the shock of the Tribunal being in the Goblet of Fire had almost completely faded. Essentially, it was an incredibly powerful crutch that could bypass a wizard's various limitations on casting, whether simple physiology or innate stupidity. But greed at the sight of such rare treasure, and the realization of its value specifically to me, had gone to my head a bit—that was definitely the dwarf shard talking. It's their prerogative to start wars over some unique but useless trinket. Suppose I obtain a sample of the flame, run tests, and it turns out to be incompatible? Then what's the point? Good thing I decided against entering the Tournament. But be that as it may, I would still help Cedric.
The second important topic: Halloween is coming soon, just under a month away. I need to adjust my library schedule and look for books on what exactly happens on this day. I feel it's important—Spirits of Seers don't walk between dimensions for no reason.
Third: I hate politics and all that maneuvering. But, grudgingly, I have to note that if you want to avoid the influence of political currents, movements, morals, and the like on your life, you need to know and monitor the situation. Even here at school, simply among the students, almost imperceptible hints of various factions, trends, morals, complexities, and intrigues flash here and there. I'm not interested in it at all, but I need to know it. Get involved directly? Spare me! But organizing a system of observation and data collection... It's a pity I don't know specific methodologies.
But while I don't know methodologies, I always have ideas—it remains only to figure out how to implement them. Elves, for example, used animals and insects to gather information. Dwarves used various artifacts. Too bad I don't remember even approximate magical manipulations to realize this. It's like a computer—I know it exists, I know what it consists of, but I don't know the full operating principles, algorithms, or the exact structure of specific elements. So it is here: a bird with an embedded magical construct flies around; what it sees is transmitted via the construct to an artifact acting as a sort of hub; and the elf, connecting to this hub, receives the necessary information from the specific bird. But what constructs, what runes and scripts on the artifact, how to connect—all this is a mystery to me, hidden... No, not hidden—it's simply not in the shard.
But is the idea itself enough to implement via local magic? That is what remains to be tested.
So, the plan: before Halloween, find out what happens to the world on that day; draft at least a sketch of an intelligence-gathering project in and around Hogwarts; find out what the tasks will be and develop a plan to help Cedric, if he even needs it. Yes, excellent plan.
And now, I can write an essay, or play some chess over there, and head to sleep.
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