Hermione sat the sword on her nightstand, then changed her mind and hefted it over to the bed - would he appear lying down? She changed her mind again and put the sword on the floor, that way he would be good if he appeared standing, lying or sitting. Then she just sat there for a moment, staring at the sword on the floor and wondering what on earth she was meant to be doing with it. It was plain, the dark brown leather scabbard decorated only with a small amber bead on a string tied around the top.

'Er, Hi Mordred?' She tried, feeling rather foolish... then because that didn't seem magical enough she rephrased it. 'I summon you to speak with me, Mordred.'

The formal wording made her feel even more foolish, if that were possible.

Deciding on a different tack, she brushed her hand over the hilt, pushing her magic into it. He was there, she could feel the consciousness inside the weapon. He was aware of his magical surroundings, although perhaps not the physical, considering he was trapped inside a sword. His magic was hot, dark fire. It was the closest magic she'd ever felt to her own, almost the same except dark where hers was light. Then she noticed a bond, part of the nexus of family magic that stretched from him to her. Experimentally, she tugged on it. Then she sent a firm command along it to wake.

It pulsed with bright life, then she heard the amused chuckling of a man. She opened her eyes to look at him. He lounged on the floor opposite her, dressed in a long mail coat and a red, fur trimmed cloak. Unlike the previous spirits that she'd seen, he was in full colour, with his dark hair tumbling wildly around his ears and oddly red lips. He still held a distinctively ghostly quality, and left no depressions on the rug where his hands rested.

'I summon you to speak with me?' He asked, arching a brow. 'Are you sure you've only been High Priestess for a week?'

Hermione scowled at him.

'Yes. I thought you were meant to teach me, not mock me.' She grouched and Mordred chuckled again, pushing himself to his feet and taking a stroll around her room. He stopped several times, first at the tapestry, then at her dresser where both the Grindelwald comb and her new crown sat on a little pillow. He seemed very interested by her battle dress, then his eyes widened as he looked out of the window.

'Nobody told me you were under siege.' He leaned up against the sill, his dark eyes scanning the ring of tents that surrounded the castle. It wasn't many, perhaps twenty at best but they were all seasoned fighters and perhaps more importantly, held half the Coven hostage.

'Nobody told me either. Trust me, we'd rather not be.' She wasn't sure whether she liked him. He was clearly intelligent, she could see it in his dark eyes, but something was very off with him. Perhaps it was in his magic, or his manner. He looked at her like he could read her mind, despite her reinforced occlumency shields.

'It seems a rather passive siege. Do you know much of the situation?'

'A reasonable amount. We outnumber them but we believe they have more skill, but more importantly, they have half of the Coven hostage.'

'Half? What in Woden's name happened?'Mordred exclaimed, pacing across the window in agitation.

'I believe it was a somewhat misguided and emotional attempt at retaking Tunninger Manor.' Hermione said carefully, 'Alice Tunninger, the witch that I am due to duel, took down her family wards from the inside.'

'Well, this is sticky. Its a large enough space and you don't seem to cramped. Provisions?'

'Plenty. The family gardens and herds are supplemented by the general public.'

'So no rush. If I were them, I'd be planning something on the day of your duel.'

'Yule.' Hermione added and Mordred nodded.

'Now, you say I'm meant to be training you. Get dressed and we'll go outside, I like the look of that lawn.'

He faded and a moment later Hermione was left in her room with nothing but a sword. She pulled on the duelling robes quickly and hefted the sword, lugging it down the stairs and out the lawn as instructed. There, she dropped the sword onto the grass and Mordred reappeared. He still wore his chain mail, but now there was a sword hung at his waist; an exact replica of the one on the ground.

He stretched, turning his face up to the sun and she noticed with some surprise that he was much more solid this time. The grass depressed beneath his leather boots and when he drew the sword and spun it, it whistled through the air viciously.

'This feels wonderful. Alright, let's see how you fight.' He instructed, spinning his massive sword again as though it weighed nothing.

'It's a spell fight, not a sword fight.' Hermione pointed out, looking dubiously at his expert moves. She absolutely did not want to be on the receiving end of that.

'Come now, you know sword fighting is an excellent foundation for duelling. I want to see how you move before we worry about magic.' He sighed. Hermione summoned an elf and asked it to fetch her sword. It reappeared a moment later with a pop, the weapon held in it's hand. She'd been taught to fight with a three-musketeers style rapier, short so that it wasn't unwieldy for her small form. Something told her her sword was designed for a completely different style of fighting and that her thin blade wouldn't stand a chance under the sheer weight and power of Mordred's.

The spirit knight took the weapon curiously and unsheathed it, bending the flexible blade a couple of times. He swished it once of twice, then muttered dubiously and gestured for Hermione to square up against a conjured wooden post. She demonstrated a couple of her best moves, then his sword intercepted hers with a loud clang. His wrist twisted, the bigger sword looping around her smaller one with a shing, and then flicking it out of her hand. It sailed through the air, glittering, before landing in the grass several meters away.

'You're not trying to look pretty, you're trying to chop it's legs off before it chops off yours. Stop twirling.' He scolded, then pointed at the heavy, Saxon sword in the grass a couple of meters away. 'Use that one.'

'But its heavy, I can barely lift it.' She moaned as she shuffled over and wrapped her hand around the handle. It slid from the scabbard with a fluid hiss and she wrapped both hands around the hilt, lifting the point to eye level. It was heavy, but not actually as bad as she had expected. It felt like lifting a bag of sugar, heavy but not unbearable although swinging it around might be another story. Mordred opened his arms invitingly, his left hand holding his replica sword out to one side whilst his other motioned at her to strike him.

She swung, lunging with her left foot, lifting the sword up above her head and bringing it crashing down in a vertical arch. Mordred slid smoothly to the right, curving his body away from the blade. Suddenly, deprived of even the expected parry, she found herself off balance. The momentum of the plunging sword carried it downwards until it sunk into the grass with a dull thud. She huffed and tugged at it twice, then gave up the effort as futile, crossing her arms and glaring at her.

'I thought you said no twirling.' She huffed.

Mordred laughed, 'That was a dodge, not a twirl. See here, I've only moved one foot. Minimal movement, minimal energy - efficient and quick, less chance of tripping over.' He pointed to the single depression where one of his feet had once stood. Hermione sneered, but recognised his point. She tugged with more commitment at the blade embedded in the grass, succeeding in pulling it out in inch long increments.

'Try again. This time, remember your balance.' Mordred instructed. This time he held his sword ready, hovering at about eye level. Hermione wavered for a moment, the sword flickering from side to side as she decided what to do. Then she swung sideways, cutting down diagonally from left to right. Mordred's sword shot up and they collided with an impact that shook down her arm. She drew back and cut again, this time aiming for his knees. He blocked it with another arm shaking clang, and she quickly tried again, aiming for his head on the other side. Her blade glanced off this time, not as painful, but it sent the sword tumbling out of her hand and once more into the grass. She moaned in dismay.

'Better, but you're predictable.'

'Sure, because you're making me swing around a heavy lump of metal.' The young witch grumbled as she started working the sword out of the dirt again.

'It's not heavy.' Mordred argued as he spun his expertly again, twirling it between his fingers like a twig. 'You'll get stronger. But for now, try not to look at what you're trying to hit.'

'How am I meant to hit what I'm not looking at?' She demanded irritably.

'You should be looking everywhere, at my eyes, my torso, arm, legs, looking for an opening, but don't stare at it, you'll miss other things, and tell me exactly what you're about to do.'

They moved again, this time Hermione was hyper aware of exactly where she was looking. It was sweaty, hard work that left her arms burning but by the time he finally called a break, she actually felt like she'd improved. Mordred vanished back into the sword and Hermione almost left the lawn before remembering her own discarded rapier in the grass. They'd moved some distance away from it whilst they were training, and she spent a little while looking for it. It had been kicked into one of the topiaries at some point and now she hefted the delicate blade and looked it over. It was lighter, and fitted her much better, but now that she'd wielded Mordred's much larger sword, it did feel rather silly.

The few coven children that weren't at Durmstrang were still eating lunch in the children's dining room and all talk ceased when she appeared, hanging her rapier on the hook and Leaning Mordred's sword against the wall.

Neele's magic had finally bloomed and she was already loving to be as natural as her mother. Surprisingly, it seemed Frau Fleiss had chosen to teach her daughter in the same method Hermione and Gellert had learned, and now the younger witch did absolutely everything with magic. She also had an annoying habit of randomly touching Hermione's hands to try and copy the magic she used.

Hermione sat at the opposite side of the table to her and began wolfing down lunch, ignoring all but the most essential rules of ladylike behaviour. She received a snide update on their real lessons from Yannick, who seemed to think that without the formal education framework, she would inevitably find herself falling behind and not fulfilling her full potential. Of course, Yannick also had his very rigid practice of practicing a list of spells and Hermione had already made her thoughts on that completely clear.

She departed as quickly as possible, dropping off her sword in the armoury then making her way back outside. Really, she was meant to be working in her assigned classroom, but Mordred seemed to enjoy the sunlight. He reappeared, back to his more ghostly form this time and she wondered what exactly dictated how he appeared; as much as he seemed to enjoy being outside, he was quick to return to his prison.

'Right, first things first. You need to clean the sword. You should never put it away dirty like that.' The next hour was spent cleaning, sharpening and oiling the sword which was calming even if it wasn't overly productive. 'You will practice with the sword every morning for an hour after dawn, then clean it before your regular lessons.' Mordred instructed. Hermione restrained any annoyance as she carefully polished the pommel and slid the sword back into its sheath. Then he sat cross legged opposite her, sword between them and held his hands out, palm down. She rested her wrists on her knees, palms up and a moment later felt the cool, ghostly brush of his hands over hers.

Then, in the same way that Gellert had shown her the magical process of transfiguration, Mordred showed her how to chill the air into a fog. She found it unsettling to work with him like this; unlike Gellert's magic which was a perfect counter for her own, Mordred's was almost a mirror. It made it very easy to follow what he was doing, and the results were excellent as her magic seemed to act and react in exactly the same way. She wondered often whether dark magic was what changed the feel of someone's magic - she remembered the dark oiliness of Livius Lucan, and the cold rigidity of Frau Fleiss, now Mordred had his dark fire. Had his magic once been as bright and hot as her own? It was so similar in every other way, but it seemed crass to ask, so she stifled her fears and continued following his lead. They condensed the air into mist, then burned the mist off, again and again and again until her magic itself had learned the process. She only had to think "I want mist," and the temperature would drop and cool clouds would roll across the lawn.

They moved onto wind next, and she learned to guide the air with a magically imbued hand gesture. A gentle breeze stirred through the fog, creating swirling shapes and false eddies. Then they worked up to a stronger and stronger wind. It felt a little like her hand was a paddle and the air was water that she was trying to stir with it and the faster she moved, the harder it became.

Mordred faded just as the sun reached its afternoon heat and Hermione was left with a strong feeling that every other witch and wizard had entirely the wrong impression of magic. It wasn't about spells and wands and power, it was about this seamless connection which allowed her to change the world around her with just a tug in the right place.