Dueling. It was a skill Hermione was interested in in an abstract kind of way. Certainly it was a worth-while skill and she was an accomplished witch who knew many spells. The practicalities of dueling, however, had always eluded her. Her reflexes were laughable and in stressful situations her brain was more of a hindrance than a help; it always simultaneously froze with terror and erupted in a geyser of unhelpful thoughts all at once.

Which meant that Hermione wasn't particularly looking forward to Wednesday night's first dueling lesson. Harry and Ron, however, were practically vibrating with excitement.

"Think we'll learn any nasty curses?"

"I dunno. Maybe some hexes?"

"You don't really think they'd teach us curses do you?"

"I mean, they are from Durmstrang, Mione. Who knows what they'll teach us?!" Ron's voice warbled with barely-contained excitement. "Maybe we can learn something to teach old Malfoy a lesson!"

Hermione grimaced at the level of glee with which the two boys began discussing the kinds of curses they'd like to inflict on the boy.

Hermione frowned. She wasn't certain what to expect from a Dueling Club led by supposed dark wizards, but she was entirely worried that the boys might very well be right. Although, Viktor certainly wasn't dark, and he went to Durmstrang. Perhaps she'd be pleasantly surprised.

The Great Hall was packed for the first Dueling lesson, although as Hermione looked around the hall, she noticed that not a single Durmstrang student was in attendance. Perhaps it was a mandatory class for them at home?

The whispers slowly halted as a tall blonde professor in a one-shouldered dueling cape stepped onto the dais in the middle of the room. His beard was neatly trimmed and his eyes were dark and hard.

"Welcome to your first dueling lesson. Before we begin, please set all your belongings against the far wall. You will not need your wands today."

"What kind of dueling club doesn't need wands?" she heard someone viciously whisper behind her. It sounded suspiciously like Draco Malfoy.

The professor's sharp gaze settled on the disgruntled students. His arms still clasped loosely behind his back, he took one step forward, his bootstep ringing out in the sudden quiet.

"If there are any of you uninterested in my class, I will remind you it is not mandatory. If you came here tonight hoping to unleash your pent-up teenage angst at your opponent, you may leave. Now." No one moved a muscle. "The rest of you, place your belongings against the far wall. I will not tell you again."

They all scrambled to do as he said. Setting her bag down against the wall, Hermione untucked her wand and placed it gingerly on top. It felt wrong, somehow, to not have it. But she certainly wasn't going to get disbarred from this class. Not after the emotional fiasco that had been Monday's Practical Magic.

Meeting Harry's eyes, he gave her a confused shrug and pulled his own wand out of his back pocket.

"I didn't bring my bag. Can I put my wand in yours?"

"Of course."

They walked quickly back to the center of the room, where the Durmstrang professor was waiting for them.

"I am Professor Aaberg. I understand that Hogwarts and Beauxbatons take dueling far less seriously than we do at Durmstrang. Believe me when I tell you: this class will push you to your physical and magical limit. If you came here to learn a quick hex or two, you will be sorely disappointed. However, for those willing to push themselves, for those with the necessary drive, you will find that the rigors of a true dueling regime will aid you in many areas. We will concentrate this year on your wand-work, your endurance, and your focus. By the end of this year, you will be able to block an incoming spell in your sleep."

The whole hall was silent with anticipation. "Now, today you will be learning the time-honored traditions of a formal duel. Arrange yourselves in staggered lines, with enough space between you to hold out your arms."

No one moved.

"Now."

The students, as one, scrambled chaotically to and fro as they tried to follow the professor's instruction. Hermione held out her hands only to have one of the twins bump into her from behind. Whipping her head around, she glared at him; his returning smile made her suspicious whether it had been an accident at all. At the front of the room, she could see Professor Aaberg pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Probably trying to remind himself that he couldn't expect any better on the first day.

After a few minutes, the students finally seemed to have arranged themselves into neat(ish) rows.

"In a formal wizard's duel, the first thing you will do is present your wand. You hold the wand in your dominant hand in front of your own face. Your fist should be level with the nape of your neck and your wand should be held parallel with your nose." He demonstrated the proper position. "Your wands are not with you, but practice the motion now."

Everyone hurried to comply. The professor began to walk around the room as they held the pose, correcting students on their hand placement and posture. When he got to her, he tapped her shoulder with his wand, nearly making her jump out of her skin. "Straighten your back, no slouching, eyes directly ahead." Rolling her shoulders back, she stood as straight as she could, suddenly aware of just how much she had been slouching forward.

Without so much as an acknowledgement, Professor Aaberg continued to the next student. He had had nothing to say about Harry, she'd noticed ruefully. Before she could be chastised again, she snapped her eyes directly forward.

When Professor Aaberg climbed the stairs back up to the dueling platform, Hermione was intensely grateful. It must have been several minutes standing at attention with her imaginary wand in front of her face and her back was beginning to feel tired.

"Good. Maintain your position. Next, you will sweep your wand down to your side in a single fluid arc. When you do this, there should be almost no movement of your upper arm. Now you."

The hall was filled with the rustle of robes as every student snapped their hand down to their side.

"Again."

By the fifth time, Hermione was beginning to feel frustrated. Surely this wasn't that important?

"The final courtesy you pay your opponent is a bow. Your legs do not move. Your back remains straight. Your eyes remain on your partner. You are aiming for a bow of twenty to thirty degrees, forty-five if you are dueling a champion. Any less and you do your opponent an insult."

As Hermione practiced her bow over and over with the other students, she couldn't help but remember the stiff and barely-there bow Professor Snape had given Professor Lockhart their second year. She'd never have guessed that he'd been purposefully snubbing his opponent. Yet another part of wizarding culture she'd never learned. Because before now no one had seen fit to teach her. What else had she missed?

"You may cease."

Thank god. Who'd have thought bowing would begin to feel like exercise?

"Now that you know the courtesies involved, I have arranged several demonstrations for you. Three of the Hogwarts professors have agreed to aid me in today's lesson. I will attack and they will defend. I want each of you to take careful note of the strategies each professor adopts, both physical and magical. These are seasoned duelists who know how to play to their own strengths and weaknesses. After each demonstration, I want you to discuss the strategies involved with one of your classmates."

At this, Harry and Hermione locked eyes and nodded. Harry looked ecstatic, happier and more enthused about a class than she'd seen him all year.

"First, Professor McGonagle."

The Hogwarts students gasped dramatically as Professor McGonagle entered the hall and climbed the three steps up to the platform. She was dressed as though she were about to teach any class, complete with her customary pointed hat. Her face was as stern as ever, but there was a small glint in her eyes that made Hermione think that she'd been looking forward to this.

What followed was astounding. McGonagle moved very little on the platform, blocking spells in strange and unique ways, ways Hermione had never thought possible. An incoming spell disappeared in a puff of smoke. A snake was wordlessly transfigured into a beautifully patterned necktie. She'd never been prouder to be a Gryffindor.

"A tremendous example of the power of unexpected transfiguration in dueling. Now discuss."

"I can't believe it!" Harry gasped. "That was brilliant!"

"I know! The way she used transfiguration to disarm his spells was tremendous. Did you notice how she didn't even have to move?"

"Yeah! Her hat's even still on. Not a hair out of place."

"I wonder if it's because she's…older? Maybe she can't move around a lot and so she's adapted so she doesn't have to?"

"Huh. I hadn't thought of that. That would make sense though. Aaberg did say that duelists should play to their strengths and their weaknesses. McGonagle's strength is definitely transfiguration. And maybe her weakness is her physical age?" Harry ended the last part on a whisper, as if he was worried she'd be able to hear him and cuff him around the ears for calling her old.

After a few more minutes, Professor Aaberg regained their attention. "Next, we have Professor Flitwick, a master duelist." Aaberg's bow was noticeably deeper, and Flitwick grinned broadly, clearly having fun.

The duel between the two was very different from the one before. Flitwick was much smaller than Professor McGonagle, and it was obvious that he was using that to his advantage as it made him harder to hit. The spells he used were ones Hermione had never even seen before. She couldn't count the number of different shield spells he used, and he seemed particularly fond of ricocheting Aaberg's spells off course with deftly cast ones of his own.

"A masterclass in precision, accuracy, and spell identification." Aaberg bowed again to Professor Flitwick, who beamed out at all of them.

"That was tremendous! I've no idea what even half the spells Professor Flitwick used were."

"I know! He was obviously playing to his size to keep Aaberg from hitting him. And he's got fantastic aim. I can't believe how hard it must be to misdirect spells like that. And I think all he had to use was a simple stunner."

Hermione smiled at her friend, excited to have a discussion with him about schoolwork that didn't feel like pulling teeth.

"I wonder what his weakness is?" Hermione asked. It didn't seem like he had one.

"He's like McGonagle. Moves around more than she does, but from the way he moves, I think he's got some pain in his legs."

"How'd you know that?"

Harry shrugged. "I watched him. I've done enough dueling that I could tell he was ricocheting the spells that moved too fast for him to dodge."

She was impressed, and a bit sheepish that she was impressed. Harry was a good wizard, and Defense was his strength. It made sense that he would pick up on things she didn't.

Finally, Aaberg introduced their final demonstration. "As our last demonstration of the night, I introduce Professor Snape."

His pronouncement was met with murmurs and whispers across the whole hall. Even most of the Beauxbatons students had met Professor Snape by now, and they seemed just as confused and anxious as the rest of them. And just as ready to see the professor put in his place.

Hermione glanced over at Harry, who leaned over and whispered "this'll be good." They were both obviously remembering the last time Professor Snape dueled.

Both men gave perfunctory bows, and Hermione got the impression that Professor Aaberg didn't particularly like Professor Snape. Or didn't think he'd be much of a challenge. The bow was almost mocking, just shy of the twenty degrees he'd said was polite. Snape barely did more than nod.

She'd never actually seen Professor Snape do much magic before. He taught potions, and he was a Master, so he was obviously good at it. But besides an Expelliarmus or two, or wandlessly writing on the potions blackboard, she'd almost never seen him cast a spell. And watching him now was fascinating. And a little frightening.

For the first minute, he didn't even use his wand. Professor Aaberg sent a red stunner and Snape simply pivoted one foot and let it whip past him. Aaberg tried again and Snape ducked and weaved, bringing his wand up into an immediate offensive position but not responding. His face was haughty and controlled, nearly condescending. When it was clear that Aaberg was getting frustrated, he began to send spells one after the other. Snape would neatly pivot past one before reaching his empty hand up to wandlessly block another, the offensive spell dissipating before it reached him. At the very end, Aaberg sent four dark violet spells and Snape erected a shield so strong it was visible before somehow pushing it forward, slamming through each spell before knocking Aaberg back a step. Snape's face was contorted in a feral grin, his teeth bared, before he seemed to catch himself and the expression disappeared. He nonchalantly brushed a speck of dirt from his frock coat, turned on a dime, and left.

Aaberg was quiet a moment. "A fine example of athleticism and raw power. We have reached the end of our class time. Before next week's class, I want you to think about your own strengths and weaknesses and what strategies may play to your best advantage. You are dismissed."

"That. Was. Wicked." Ron caught up to them on their way up to Gryffindor tower. "I thought old Snape was going to murder him. Though I bet McGonagle could take him any day."

Hermione hummed in acknowledgement, too deep in thought to follow what the boys were saying. Everything about this year seemed to be telling her one thing: Hermione could not rely on her own preconceived notions about people. Or about herself.

Which begged the question: who else was she wrong about?

=/=/=

"Hagrid, can you tell me more about house elves?"

"Oh, not this again," Ron moaned, slumping sideways, his cheek resting heavily on his hand.

Hagrid took a contemplative sip of tea and pushed the plate of rock cakes closer to his three guests. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Harry slip one of the cakes from his plate and into Fang's waiting mouth. Even the huge boarhound struggled to bite through it, but seemed to enjoy the treat well enough to put up with the struggle. She liked Fang well enough, although she could have done without the seeping wet splotch Fang left on her skirt when he rested his drooling head in her lap, desperate for another ear scritch. She obliged, but only just.

Ignoring Ron, Hagrid turned to her. "Well, depends on what you want to know, Hermione."

"It's just. Over the last couple of years, we've met two house elves: Dobby and Winky. And they were both treated horribly. And I thought the practice must just be some old Pureblood thing, because of course people like Mr. Malfoy wouldn't treat any servants with respect. But then I found out that Hogwarts has over a hundred house elves. And they're not paid, or given holidays, or sick leave. They can't choose to leave if they want. They're…well they're slaves. And now I've no idea what to think at all."

"What you have to understand, Hermione, is that they like serving wizards. It's in their blood. It makes them happy to take care of wizards."

A cough from beside her sounded very much like an "I told you so."

"But how can they decide it makes them happy if they're not allowed to do anything else? It's not like they have any other options."

This seemed to make Hagrid pause for a moment. The fire popped and crackled merrily in the hearth, a cheerful contrast to the blustery wind outside and her rapidly darkening mood.

"It's just the way things are, Hermione. You won't convince the elves that they want something they don't want. Best to just let them be."

"So because most of them are happy, the ones that are unhappy should just suffer? The ones like Dobby, who are beaten and abused and forced to iron their own ears, we should just not help them because it's the way things have always been?"

She could feel herself getting combative, but this was one fight she wasn't going to back down from. This wasn't her scoffing at Lavender for liking makeup or Eloise Midgen for being insecure about her acne. This was her, Hermione Granger, standing up for what she felt was a great moral struggle. Shining a light on the places those raised in the wizarding world didn't want to look.

And this was going nowhere.

Hagrid's face pinched.

"Now listen here. I understand you're worried, and I know it's because you care. But sometimes you just got to let things lie. The elves don't want your help and that's just the end of it."

The rest of the visit passed with an obvious undercurrent of tension. The crackling fire was the only sound for long minutes at a time. And Hermione wasn't the least bit sorry for it.

Finally, on their way back to the castle, Hermione rounded on Harry, her hair flying out around her in a mad bush. Gripping her scarf more tightly against the chill, she wrapped it a second time around her neck as the wind picked up. Anger colored her cheeks pink and made her eyes shine almost madly from her face.

"You understand, don't you Harry? You freed Dobby because you saw how poorly he was treated. There must be others that need help, too."

Harry looked a bit uncomfortable, glancing between her and Ron. It was obvious that he didn't want to get in the middle of what was undoubtedly going to end up being a massive fight between the two. In the end, he said nothing.

"I can't believe you two. They're slaves. Literal slaves. And it's like you don't even care."

Marching off with a huff, Hermione didn't even wait for a reply, huffing audibly as she began to march across the grounds, slipping more than once on the slick path and splashing cold mud up onto her socks. Without much thought, her feet turned towards the well-worn path to the library, pausing only for a moment to wipe her shoes clean of mud lest she incur Mr. Filch's wrath. Surely somewhere in the library she'd find information on house elves.

Bursting through the door, she shot a feigned look of contrite apology at Madame Pince. The librarian sucked her teeth, narrowing her eyes shrewdly, but didn't say a word as one of the best students in the school marched determinedly towards the deep shelves. Passing by a few of Viktor's previously-giggling girls, she noted with a feeling of utmost superiority that they seemed disheartened as they searched the library, unable to find their quarry.

Viktor looked up from the table as she dropped into the chair next to him, ripping off her scarf and tearing off her coat, her fingers shaking slightly with rage as she tried to undo the buttons. His mouth was opening in a greeting when she rounded on him.

"You're a Pureblood, aren't you?"

Round eyes, confused and hesitant, met her furious gaze.

"Da. Why?"

What followed next was a heated, initially one-sided, exchange about the enslavement of house elves. She'd been itching for a fight, ready to tear into someone she was less emotionally attached to than Harry or Ron. Yet what she found was an actual debate partner. One who listened to her, heard her, and tried his best to understand. Where Ron would have immediately told her she was being an idiot and Harry would have politely and silently pretended to listen to her, Viktor pushed her to explain why things bothered her. He asked her to look at things in different ways and never once did he seem to take things personally. He'd patiently, if hesitantly at first, answered all the questions he could.

"Is good, I think. That you are outsider. You see things as they are, not as wizards wish they were."

He'd become much more talkative during their debate, happily taking corrections on English words before continuing right along. The soft v sound of his w's was beginning to feel so natural she didn't even register it anymore.

"But what can I DO about it? They don't deserve this. They're sentient beings with thoughts and feelings and needs. They deserve so much better than a lifetime of enslavement. More than a lifetime! Their children are born slaves, too. And their children's children."

"I do not know, but I think if anyone can help make change, it is you." This one simple statement, said with such surety, stopped her in her tracks.

"You really think that?"

"You are smart, dedicated, work very hard. I think, you will do anything you want."

For the first time in ages, Hermione heard the words she'd needed to hear. That something was possible and someone believed in her.

Launching herself towards him, she'd wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed before her head caught up to what she was doing. This wasn't Harry, or even Ron. This was a seventeen-year-old international quidditch star from a school with a decidedly dark reputation. Feeling him return the embrace, one arm banded hesitantly across her back while the other gently stroked down her hair before cupping the back of her head, she gave up on being embarrassed. At least, for as long as it took to realize that Viktor was really quite fit and that he was probably choking on her hair.

Retreating, she self-consciously patted down her hair, embarrassed to note that it was even worse than usual. The humidity, the wind, the furious upset that had sent zaps of magic down her hair: all of it had caused it to balloon out until it was a chaotic ugly puffball. She began babbling some sort of apology about it, too discombobulated to even note what she was saying.

Viktor reached out a hand to grasp hers where it was trying to tame her hair back into submission. "I like your hair. Is fierce, wild. Like you."

Later she wouldn't be able to identify it, but something in Viktor's face made her pause. He was looking at her with a serious expression, and yet, it wasn't grumpy. It was—intense. Searching. It did things to her insides that she'd never admit to anyone. Ever.

He glanced down at his watch, the moment broken. Shrugging ruefully, he began to pack up his belongings.

"Must get back to ship. I see you tomorrow, da? In Alchemy?"

"Da." Her tongue snuck between her teeth as she smiled, surprised and enraptured when she could see his eyes visibly darken as he licked his lips. Glancing to the near-empty table, he looked back at her, a crooked smirk on his face.

"Nice scarf."

On his way out of the stacks, she watched him pause nearly out of sight and roll his shoulders back, standing up straight and proud before walking quickly out of the library.

Her only thought that night was of Viktor's tongue darting out to lick his lips. And realizing he'd done so while staring at hers.