Gabriel and the Duelling Club III
…
Harry practically leapt out of bed the next day with only one thought on his mind: Defence Against the Dark Arts. He almost bounced to the showers. Defence Against the Dark Arts! He hummed the phrase out in a tune while scrubbing himself down. Then he was so eager to get going that he almost forgot to practise his giswiften wand movements. Which, he decided, was ironic, considering that they were part of Defence Against the Dark Arts.
After rushing his exercises, his wrist stinging sore, Harry bounded up the stairs to the Common Room… Where he swiftly slowed, and slowly curbed the stupid grin on his face. The few upper-years lounging around the room were looking at him as though he were mad. Harry felt his face burning.
Soon Susan arrived to distract him, and they discussed (what else?) but Defence Against the Dark Arts. Her aunt, obviously, was an expert, but Susan herself didn't know much about the subject. Apparently, Amelia Bones rarely let her work leak into her personal life.
Harry felt there was more to it, but didn't want to pry. Still, they were both excited; his enthusiasm soon caught on. "It's amazing, isn't it?" Harry gushed, knowing he was being uncharacteristically loud. He didn't care. "Defence is really everything else we learn at Hogwarts, all applied into practice! Charms, Transfiguration, even Potions and History of Magic! … A bit at least." He shrugged. "I'm actually not sure about the History of Magic."
Susan nodded, smiling shyly. "It is," she said. "But… but I don't think that's why you're so… so interested. You said you wanted to be a duellist, right?"
"Of course." Harry replied. He was practically bouncing in his seat.
They were interrupted for a moment by the sound of Megan Jones trudging up the girl's side staircase.
"Wha- what sort of duellist do you want to be?"
Harry blinked. What sort of duellist? In the month since he'd witnessed the fight between Montague and Auror Kneen, the thought hadn't come up once. "The kind that… duels?" He ventured.
Susan giggled; from across the room, Megan gave her a very tired evil eye. "There's no money in duelling for duelling's sake Harry. Some duellists go around the circuit, others become Aurors, or Hit-Wizards, or bodyguards - you know, that sort of thing."
That made Harry pause. Until recently, Hogwarts had been a misty dream. After Hogwarts… that'd been less than a dream, not even the shadow of a ghost on a sunny summer day. He considered the options Susan had laid out for him. Aurors and Hit-Wizards were like magical police, with Aurors being akin to detectives compared to any old policeman. Becoming a bodyguard, well, that was self-explanatory. The circuit, on the other hand… "What circuit?"
"The duelling circuit, silly! You know, people duelling each other for a prize, like a Quidditch tournament."
Harry's mind did not go to Quidditch, which he barely understood, but tennis. He imagined duellists like Montague and Auror Kneen, or the Lyle brothers, battling each other while a crowd watched on. What a spectacle that would be! Back when he'd met Auror Kneen, he had said he was interested in becoming an Auror. A Hit-Wizard, he thought, would be much the same; but if he did, then he'd have to do what he was told…
His mind turned toward the thousands of galleons piled high in his vaults. When he was an adult, he didn't really have to obey anyone, did he? So why put himself under the government? And he didn't exactly need the winnings from a tournament.
The arrival of Justin Finch-Fletchley broke him from his reverie. Susan was still waiting patiently for his answer. Would she have waited until they had to go without a word? "I want to duel," Harry eventually said, "for the sake of duelling. For the fun of it."
From his own chair, Wayne Hopkins sniggered. "Don't let Melissa Lovell hear you say that."
Lovell, Harry recalled, was the surname of Dennis Falkirk's seventh year co-prefect. Strangely, they were not related at all. "Why not?"
"Oh," Hopkins said, in an unerringly accurate mockery of Mellisa's voice. "Duelling is so barbaric!"
"Knock it off," Megan Jones said. "Mellisa's lovely."
"Well that's Lovell-ly," Hopkins said cynically. "So's the gazelle. It still gets eaten by the lion."
The conversation seemed to be pulling all the First Years into its orbit, as McMillan pointed to the crest on his robe. "We're badgers, not lions."
Finch-Fletchley decided to jump in too. Harry and Susan watched on quietly, as they all started to discuss… Whatever it was they were discussing. Harry didn't have the heart to tell McMillan about the time his stupid cousin was bitten by a vicious badger. He did decide to keep an eye on Hopkins. There was something strange about him. He always sounded older than he was.
They met up with Alan just outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. His nose was notably wrinkling, and Harry soon discovered why. The whole corridor smelled of garlic. Susan looked ill.
"Where's that coming from?" Harry asked the Ravenclaw.
At that moment, Alan's expression would've made a baby cry. He shrugged. "Maybe someone's been cooking something awful."
"Maybe a thousand Frenchmen," Susan muttered.
Harry smiled. Susan was cleverer than she let on. The only problem was that most of her witticisms were hushed due to her subdued manner.
"I'm sure it'll be better in the classroom," Harry said hopefully.
It was not better in the classroom. It was worse. The whole dingy room reeked of garlic. The only saving grace was that, after being exposed to the smell for enough time, Harry became numb to it.
Professor Quirrell too was disappointing. He stuttered terribly, so that lectures were often difficult to understand. Worse, his chosen textbook (The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Tremble) focused almost entirely on minor dark creatures like Red Caps and Grindylows. They were interesting, but were only slightly more relevant to duelling than Professor Sprout's magical plants.
The rumour quickly bounced around that the DADA professor had met a vampire during an expedition in Romania, and had never been the same since. That would explain the garlic, though its potency against vampires was (as far as Harry knew) more of an old-wives tale than a magical fact.
The strange choice of a headwear Professor Quirrell explained himself, ostensibly to dispel any hearsay. It was, he said, a gift from an African prince for ridding his land of a particularly troublesome zombie. Harry wasn't sure he believed it; Alan definitely didn't.
They all left the classroom a little let down. Harry left the classroom immeasurably disappointed. His day was ruined.
Another batch of Herbology filled the day. Malfoy kept his distance while Professor Sprout showed them basic potting techniques. They were no different to Muggle methods, and Harry had potted so many plants at the Dursley's that he could do it in his sleep.
Not that Harry got that much sleep that night. His mind kept returning to Defence Against the Dark Arts, irritation building in him like an avalanche, slowly picking faults like a moving snowface might pick up rocks, then branches, then trees. He was too tired to practise his wand movements in the morning, but by then his anger had simmered down and stewed.
It quietly smouldered throughout the week, which was filled with the three primary subjects - Charms, Transfiguration, and Defence Against the Dark Arts - and punctuated by the secondary classes of Herbology, Astronomy (which took place, predictably enough, at the top of the Astronomy Tower), and History of Magic.
Harry found himself enjoying astronomy in a casual way. There was something wonderful about climbing the steps of the Astronomy Tower at midnight, at whose apex the vastness of the cosmos spread before them. The clear Highland air revealed detail suburban Surrey concealed, while handheld wizarding telescopes magnified those details with an accuracy Harry was sure could not be replicated with anything less than that Hubble-thing NASA had just launched*.
The class was led by Aurora Sinastra, the Astronomy teacher, whose personality reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall. They had the same no-nonsense approach, the same stern warnings ('don't look at the Arietids* for too long or you'll go mad'), and the same sensible methods of teaching.
Even so, the subject itself could not assuage his irritation. Duelling and Astronomy was as far apart as the Earth and a distant star. Susan, however, loved each and every lesson. The stars seemed to mesmerise her; behind the telescope, she seemed to lose all sense of time. Sometimes, Harry had to drag her away from the eyepiece.
Alan, meanwhile, spent his week in anticipation. He'd heard about flying on broomsticks from his cousin Gabriel Jorkins (or so he said) and had become obsessed (which he didn't say, but Harry and Susan plainly observed). He spent almost every moment outside classes discussing what it would be like, how it worked, endlessly speculating. Even when they managed to shut him up, they could tell he was still thinking about it.
But before Saturday's one-off Flying Lesson, Harry had to tackle Friday's double Potions with Professor Snape - whose reputation was dire in Hufflepuff House, to say the least. Apparently, he made at least one Hufflepuff cry in their first lesson every year, and at least one a fortnight thereafter - sometimes more. What was the point of that? Dread was making him feel ill; it layered atop his long-burning irritation like ice frozen atop sludge.
Fortunately, a pleasant surprise arrived in the post to distract him. Hedwig arrived with a hundred other owls, who circled the tables, dropping off packages, envelopes and papers. It was quite a sight. Usually, Hedwig just came for a fuss, a nibble on his ear and a streak of bacon. This time, she arrived with a message.
Dear Harry, (it read, in large, untidy letters)
I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.
Hagrid.
"What's that?" Susan said.
Harry handed the paper over and looked for a quill reply with. The thought of seeing Hagrid filled him with a pleasant joy. He'd only ever been nice to him. It made him reconsider Professor Snape's upcoming lesson. After all, how bad could it be?
...
...
Quite bad, as it turned out. Harry had only briefly seen Professor Snape at the start-of-term banquet. He swooped into the murky, cold classroom like a bird of prey. Or, Harry, thought, observing his plain black robe, a bat.
Professor Snape said nothing; he strode to his desk, where he immediately began to take register. He stopped at Harry's name. "Ah, yes." He said tonelessly. "Harry Potter. Our new - celebrity."
A few of the Ravenclaws sniggered behind their hands - one of them was Jacob Smythe, who he recognised from Transfiguration. Harry felt himself tense. What was this? There was poison in the professor's tone. Why?
He finished the register without further comment, stood, and stared out at them all, his hands behind his back. He was like a ghost wrapped in a shadow, with pallid skin, dark hair and black eyes, which observed with passionless contempt.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he said. His words were smouldering quietly, but Harry heard every vowel and consonant. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't believe you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death - if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
It seemed he'd bewitched the whole class, because no one said anything for a long while. Of the serious professors, Sprout had been pleasant, McGonagall stern and Flitwick cheery. None of them had been so… Harry struggled for a descriptor… Profound.
"Potter!" Snape barked suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry jumped, his heart pounding. Again? What was his problem? He searched his memory desperately, particularly his reading of Magical Drafts and Potions. Nothing struck immediately, and he briefly wondered if it wasn't in the textbook - if it was just a cruel trick by the professor.
"I… er," he searched hopelessly among the shelves, bookcases and drawers for some clue and, surprisingly, found it with a ratty book in whose title was the word infusion. There was only one infusion-based ingredient in Magical Drafts and Potions, and it wasn't even meant to be brewed by First Years. It was a trick question, of a sort. He was too scared to be angry. "They're, er, the two primary ingredients of the Draught of the Living Death."
Snape didn't even blink before firing off another question. "And where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Lily Moon of Ravenclaw raised her hand. Snape ignored her; Harry felt his eyes boring holes into his skull. He tried to wrack his brain, but couldn't think of anything at all. He'd frozen. "I… I don't know sir."
"Hmm," Snape sneered. "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?
Harry breathed a sigh of relief. This he knew; it was one of the first things he'd memorised. "They're the same plant sir." It was also, he knew, called aconite - but he didn't think Snape would appreciate that. Harry had been taught by similar - though less extreme - teachers at Saint Gregory's Primary School*. Mrs Williams especially would look for anything that could be considered 'cheek'. Snape, he judged, was much the same.
"Less than adequate," Snape snapped. "But teachable - perhaps. Wolfsbane - my preferred name for the plant - is also called aconite as well as Monkshood. A bezoar might be found in the stomach of a goat, and will save you from most common poisons. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"
The rest of the lesson was similarly grim. Snape charmed a piece of chalk to write the instructions to Lamprey's Boil Curing Potion on the blackboard, split them into pairs, and set them to work. He said little the entire lesson. Harry felt like he was sweating into his own potion; Snape had lurked over them the whole way, silently criticising, judging with every joyless flicker of his gaze.
Eventually, the pressure exploded - just not at Harry's table. Lily Moon shrieked as a cloud of green miasma burst from her cauldron with an unearthly crackle. Spinning mechanisms (just like the one in the Hufflepuff Common Room) whirred into action, sucking the acrid smoke into the ceiling. When it was gone, Moon was revealed to be standing on an adjacent table, crying her eyes out. An evil-looking green liquid had burned a hole through her cauldron and the table beneath it.
Snape cleared it away with a wave of his wand. "Stupid girl!"
Harry felt a headache coming on, glad that his potion needed only simmering - if he'd missed a step while distracted by the commotion, no doubt Snape would relish his own misfortune. He took a look down at his own concoction and frowned. It was a deep grass-green, which did match the colour wheel in the textbook. But it was still due fifteen minutes of simmering. Was that right? Was it supposed to be the colorem finalis - the final hue - with so much time remaining? Harry checked the instructions. Jigger made no mention of its ideal colour before the final simmering. Damn.
As it turned out, the colour didn't change at all in the final fifteen minutes, so Harry handed in his vial of potion without incident. Lily Moon, on the other hand, had been taken to the Hospital Wing as a precaution. Snape said she might've inhaled something during the explosion. Harry just thought he couldn't stand the sight of her.
Harry could barely stand the sight of Snape, either. What an awful man! He didn't even bother to teach - with him glowering over the class, he'd only made them all skittish. Would Moon have blown her cauldron up if Snap hadn't been hovering over her like an overgrown bat?
Harry doubted it.
Fresh Scottish air proved a welcome balm to his sense of injustice. He, Susan and Alan sat by the lake and watched as Hogwarts' infamous prankster twins - Fred and George Weasley - skipped stones across the surface. That was nothing unusual; but the sucker-lined tentacle poking out the water, copying them… was. Apparently, a Giant Squid had made its home in the depths of the lake, and it was friendly. Playful, in fact. Even Susan was staring.
Soon three o'clock was drawing near, but none of them really wanted to move. Relaxing on the warm grass, the late summer sun glinting off the gentle lake; why do anything at all? A pleasant breeze caressed his cheek, lifting his hair; Harry closed his eyes, and sighed. "We've got to get to Hagrid's hut."
"D'we have to?" Alan grumbled. He was laying back on his elbows. "What's Hagrid like, anyway? I only really saw him on the first day, and he was… big."
Harry thought back to when he first met the giant of a man, back on that island. He'd been fierce, making a mockery of Uncle Vernon's shotgun, and kind, with his squashed cake. And ever-so-slightly mischievous, with his tail-sprouting charm when Dudley had tried to eat the cake. No, Harry corrected himself; that was a punishment too. It was his way of being just, in a small way.
But Harry didn't really know how to articulate any of that, so instead he said he was nice. "The nicest person I've ever met," he added.
Susan just looked pensieve. "H- he's awfully big…"
They were, Harry thought with a roll of his eyes, being silly. "Come on," he said, standing. "Let's get going."
So they tracked around the lake, with Hogwarts looming over them like a living mountain, until they came to Hagrid's small wooden house by the forest. A crossbow the size of a child was propped up by the door. Susan whimpered.
When Alan knocked - fairly softly, it must be mentioned - they were startled by several booming barks. Susan stepped back, flinching with each sound. Harry peered toward the door, himself a little wary. Whatever kind of dog that was, it sounded as though it were as large as Hagrid, and twice as mean.
"Back, Fang - Back!"
The door swung open, revealing Hagrid holding back a giant black boarhound. He waved them in with a hand the size of a dinner plate.
Trepidation was plain on Susan's face, and Alan was frozen. Harry alone entered, and his friends followed reluctantly. Inside was a single room. Pheasants, rabbits, and hams were hanging from hooks in the ceiling (which, Harry assumed, were somehow enchanted to keep the meat fresh). A copper kettle was boiling on an open hearth, whose smoke was sucked away by an Awkright Spinner (Harry had recently learnt their name from Professor Flitwick). In the corner sat a massive bed with a patchwork quilt.
"Make yerself at 'ome," Hagrid said, letting Fang free.
To Susan's terror, he immediately bundled over to her and began to lick her face. She sat stock still like a young deer that had just spied a wolf in the grass.
Hagrid reached over and placed a reassuring hand on her back. "'E won't 'arm yer girl. Look, 'e's soft as muck."
Fang, indeed, was just licking - and gently, at that. His eyes were as dark as Hagrid's, and equally gentle. He was not as rough as his name - though by the reddening of Susan's cheeks, his tongue might've been. Slowly, she relaxed. Then she put a hand by Fang's ear and petted him. The boarhound leaned into her touch, and Susan giggled.
"This is Susan," Harry said. He nodded toward Alan. "And Alan."
Hagrid made an amicable sound, which very much resembled a motor car's horn. "Susan Bones an' Alan Jorkins, I knows of yer both. Yer aunt's a great woman, a great woman. Always a good ally of the Headmaster. An' your cousin Alan - lovely character, so excited t'get to know you. Helps me with me classes, does Gabriel. Always standin' up for what's right."
Susan turned from red to crimson, while Alan just looked… uncomfortable. He was always tetchy around the subject of his new-found family.
Tea was quickly passed out, and rock cakes so hard they'd have to be soaked in water to be edible. To anyone except Hagrid, it seemed. "So how've yer found it so far?"
Alan did most of the talking for a while, relating their shared experiences of Hogwarts. Hagrid chuckled at their complaints about Professor Binns ("aye, bad business there") but took issue with their issue with Snape.
"But he seemed to really hate me."
"Rubbish!" Hagrid said. "Why should he?"
Despite his denials, he couldn't quite hold Harry's gaze as he said it.
"Lookin' forward to Flying?"
That was a definite change of subject - but Harry saw it work. Alan launched into a gushing analysis of his new-found love of Quidditch, and flying more broadly. Meanwhile, Harry picked up a newspaper cutting half-hidden by a tea cosy. It was dated for that Friday, from the Daily Prophet.
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31st July, widely believed to be the work of dark wizards or witches unknown.
Gringotts' goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.
31st July… Harry pushed that date around his mind. It only took a moment to click; "Hagrid!" Harry said, interrupting something Alan was saying about broom polishing. "That Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday. It might've happened while we were there!"
This time, Hagrid definitely avoided his eyes. Pursing his lips, Harry re-read the story. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day… Like vault seven-hundred and thirteen, with its strange little package. After all, that was the only item in the vault, so that must've counted as 'emptying', right? Which meant that whatever the thieves were looking for, Hagrid'd had it…
...
...
Harry didn't have much time to ponder the mystery of vault seven-hundred and thirteen. The day of the Flying Lesson arrived as though it wore wings. Alan was practically bouncing around the Great Hall at breakfast, nattering endlessly to all and sundry. At the Hufflepuff table, Finch-Fletchley was green at the gills. "I hate heights," he lamented. "My uncle took me to the grand opening of One Canada Square in August*. The Duke of Edinburgh was there - I vomited."
McMillan patted him on the back. "It won't be so bad, you'll have full control. And if you do fall, Madam Hooch will be watching. She'll catch you with a spell."
The word 'fall' made Finch-Fletchley swoon.
Hopkins was watching them, smirking as usual. "You've got a real way with words."
Harry, meanwhile, was sitting quietly by Susan, listening - observing - rather than speaking. Hannah Abbot seemed eager; so did Megan Jones. The latter was telling the former about her Quidditch-playing cousin, Gwenog Jones. Harry kept half an ear to their conversation. Perhaps he'd pick up something useful?
But whatever he might hear, he doubted it'd help his duelling. That irritation had never faded. Useless Professor Quirrell with his stupid turban and his garlic. Lately, even sitting in the DADA classroom had given Harry the most awful headaches.
The thought made him scowl. "Come on," he said shortly. "Let's get Alan and go to the lake, there's still an hour until the lesson."
Alan talked their ears off at the lake. While Susan was perfectly polite with him, nodding along politely, answering in her short, shy style when appropriate, Harry's irritation only grew. Lately he'd been dreaming of duelling; dreaming of those two fights, Montague against Auror Kneen and the battle of the brothers Eric and Edward (he spent less time thinking about Amanda and Lady Rosier, as - from what he saw - neither could be considered duellists).
In fact, he didn't want to think about Lady Rosier at all. But he'd had plenty of time to do so, and pity had grown like a weed in his mind, sometimes tinging him with melancholy, sometimes strangling his heart. She was, he judged, only doing what she thought best for her family… Edward had… Edward had taken advantage, and now who knew what had happened to them? Did the Order of Life sort those sorts of things out? The Rosiers couldn't go to the DMLE. Their justice would be, what was the phrase Susan had used once? By Folville's laws?* As he understood it, that meant rough justice.
It made something squirm in Harry's belly. It made the warmth of the sun feel a little cooler, the light a little dimmer. What if he hadn't gotten involved? Really, he knew that the the treacheries at Halt End would've played out some way regardless, but he'd been in the wizarding world a month. What if his presence had caused more harm than good? Nor did he want to know about that harm. He didn't want to sit awake at night, as he'd begun to do of late, turning it all over in his head. If he'd just listened to Auror Kneen's advice, if he hadn't searched for a Lightspeed…
His head throbbed. A Lightspeed he'd not even been able to use yet.
Harry snatched up his satchel furiously. "We should get going," he bit out. "Flying lesson'll be soon."
Thankfully, it seemed that Alan knew when to shut up. All the energy that would've sprung from his mouth transferred to his hands, so that he fidgeted like a toddler after a coca-cola binge. Susan, who Harry suspected had never been told to shut up in her life, just watched him silently. The trip did calm him down.
They arrived at a particular flat lawn to see twenty broomsticks neatly arrayed in two lines. Some of them looked a little crooked, or their bristles a little bare. School brooms did not have a good reputation. Harry picked - by his judgement - the best of what remained.
Madam Hooch, the Quidditch mistress, arrived with a scattering of Hufflepuffs. The Ravenclaws were already present; they seemed to have already chosen the best brooms.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Harry looked at his broom suspiciously. This was a part of witchcraft and wizardry he was not exactly sold on. It was, after all, just an enchanted piece of wood… if they could enchant a broom to fly, why couldn't they enchant something like a plane? He was sure there was a good reason - perhaps he'd already read about it, but nothing was coming to him now. Nothing except how very ridiculous this was.
"Stick out your right hand over the broom," Madam Hooch commanded, "and say 'up!'"
"UP!"
Harry's broom shot into his hand. Susan's rose slowly, almost gently, as though it were slowly waking; Alan's rolled over, as though it didn't want to wake. It took two or three tries before all the class had their brooms in hand. Strange, Harry thought. Was that because of the broom, or the rider? Either way, it was a good sign for him.
Madam Hooch then went up and down the lines, advising as to how to mount a broom without sliding off the end. Harry vaguely imagined one of those anthropomorphic cartoon characters slowly losing their grip, their broom shooting off into the distance, and gravity taking hold rather suddenly. Apparently, Susan's stance was perfect, and her grip nearly its equal.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground - hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle - three - two - one! -"
Harry bent his legs and kicked.
There was a brief sensation of floating, then falling, and then the power of the broom kicked in. Harry felt it subtly vibrating beneath him, holding him in the air; and with that feeling came a fresh, fierce rush of exhilaration. He leaned left, bearing his weight against the bristled rear; the broom pivoted a slow left on its axis. He leaned right, applying the same pressure; the broom pivoted right. Simple. His robes were fluttering behind him; the ground must've been ten feet beneath him, and the sky stretched beyond, infinite in beauty. He felt free.
"POTTER!"
Harry started. He'd been so sucked in by his first flight that he'd begun to daydream. Madam Hooch was shouting up at him.
"COME DOWN, POTTER!"
That didn't sound so good. Harry grimaced, angled his broom down, and made a soft landing a few feet from the teacher.
Madam Hooch sniffed. "You were supposed to hover a few inches off the ground, Potter."
"Oh," Harry said. "Sorry, I got carried away."
"Don't do it again Potter," she said sternly… "And well done for a clean landing."
There was, he detected, just a hint of approval in her tone. Harry grinned, still elated from his flight.
Thereafter, Madam Hooch split the class into groups. Alan trudged off to the lower group, pouting, while Harry and Susan, along with about seven others (including, predictably, Megan Jones), were given large wooden balls called quaffles and told to pass them around - gently. That proved trickier than it sounded, as not only did Harry have to manoeuvre himself to meet the arc of the quaffle, but he also had to take a hand of his broom to catch it. It was good practice though, and Harry soon got the hang of it.
And, with the wind in his hair, the sun on his back, and the world stretched out beneath him, he began to tune out once more. His world shrank to the warmth, the wind, and chiefly to the joy in his heart, the freedom of flight. He drifted within himself, thinking nothing, dreaming without dreams.
But he must've drifted close to another group, because words, snatches of conversation, began to enter his mind. Almost all of them he immediately forgot; all except one word. Club. Yes, Harry thought, his thoughts finally emerging, gathering speed like the Hogwarts' Express. Yes, that's what we need. A club, a club! If Quirrell was useless, and Charms and Transfiguration were mostly theory, then what he needed was a club! A duelling club, with a room and a teacher. A place to try out the Lightspeed when everyone else has left…
"Er, Harry?"
Susan's voice, startlingly close, broke the spell.
"Yes?"
"You d-drifted off again."
Harry smiled. "I don't think I did; I know exactly what I'm doing."
...
...
"... Sorry Harry, I'd love to, but I'm just so busy. I'm sure you understand - exams, prefect's duties, that sort of thing. Speaking of prefect's duties, I've got to be off now. Good luck!"
Falkirk shook Harry's hand and left the Great Hall. Harry watched him leave, morose.
"Well, that's another refusal," Alan said. He was sitting at the Hufflepuff table today.
'Another' was an understatement. Unsurprisingly, first years couldn't start clubs, so they'd began to ask older students to do so on their behalf. Those conversations were once nerve-wracking; now they'd become frustrating. Every single one of them had an excuse - except those few who refused on account of duelling being 'barbaric'. Melissa Lovell had even come around to give them a lecture on the topic - which irritated Harry, and upset Susan… which only made Harry more irritated.
"I think we're out of options," Susan said, in a voice barely beyond a whisper.
Harry thought so too. They'd ran through the Hufflepuff prefects first, then every older Hufflepuff student with a reputation for DADA expertise, then - using Alan as an introduction - they'd done the same with the Ravenclaws. Nothing.
It made Harry ponder his own celebrity. He'd been forced to wield his fame to see Montague in the Cage. It'd worked on Auror Kneen, but not on a single Hogwarts student. Why not? Was it to do with the age difference, with Auror Kneen remembering the 'dark times' as Hagrid had called them? Or was it because taking Harry to see Montague hadn't really cost Auror Kneen anything, while now he was asking for commitment to running a club?
It was all very frustrating - as was his fame itself, now that he thought about it. Ever since he'd stopped wearing a Hideaway Patch, he'd truly experienced what it meant to be a celebrity, and he couldn't help but feel torn. On the one hand, a part of him couldn't help but enjoy the attention he'd never had before; but nor did it take him long to remember why he was famous. His parents had died so that he could live.
That was when the other hand revealed itself; though it wasn't the public's fault, at times he couldn't help but resent the attention. And that only made him feel guilty, as they didn't mean badly. They were grateful for Voldemort's end. His guilt had only magnified when the real strength of feeling towards the legend of the 'Boy-Who-Lived' was explained to him; Susan herself had struggled with hero-worship those first few days.
And it was Susan who piped up then - except without anything half as loud as a pipe. "What about your cousin, Alan?" she said. "Isn't Gabriel a prodigy?"
Alan went rigid at the mention of his birth family. It hadn't been the first time. "I, er, I don't know - what if, you know -"
The encroaching redness of his cheeks was contrasting strongly with his steel grey eyes, which were, metaphorically, screaming; 'please just leave it alone!'
Susan looked ready to return to her shell, but Harry knew he had to push it this time. He had to get his duelling club; Gabriel was their best chance. "Alan, stop - stop. What makes you think Jorkins doesn't want to get to know you?"
"Well… well, what if- what if-" Alan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began again. Even after calming himself, he rapidly began to babble. "D'you that Draco Malfoy's family has two manors? They have an ancestral seat on the Wizengamot and wear robes like it's 1391 instead of 1991 and they have house elves and servants, servants Harry!"
Harry felt a spike of sympathy and winced. He could already sense Susan's unimpressed stare burrowing into the Ravenclaw. It was true, the wizarding world was strange. But, on the other hand… Harry opened his mouth, but Susan beat him to it.
"Hmm," she said dramatically, pouting. "I s-suppose you mustn't like me then. Thorny Hill has seen better days, but it's still the Bones manor."
To Harry, it was obvious play-acting; but to a panicked Alan, she must've seemed genuinely offended. "Okay - okay, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that! But, you know what I mean - I'm, I'm basically a Muggleborn, right? But… but it is our best chance, so… so I'll see what I can do."
Relief washed over Harry like a waterfall on a hot day. He had what he wanted… He could leave it there, but… "Alan, have you noticed how people tend to use each other's last names in the wizarding world?"
Alan nodded. "Er, yes? It's old-fashioned - you know, Victorian stuff, right?"
Once, Harry had thought the same - at least until Halt End. "Yes and no. Wizards and witches are more formal, but the real reason they use each other's last names is because that's the important name. The family name; it's the family that's important. You share that name with all the other Jorkins, so they'll always accept you."
Alan listened along, then glanced at Susan, who nodded. He sighed. "Really?"
"Really."
It was a good plan, but the first hiccup arrived quickly, when Alan informed them that Gabriel, as a fourth year, was technically a year too young to lead a club.
"Doesn't matter," Harry said, bulldozing forward. He was too far in to back out now. "I'm sure Professor Quirrell can make an exception for 'the Boy-Who-Lived'."
Alan looked drained, but still managed to snicker. "Careful, you'll struggle to fit through doorways if your head gets any bigger."
"Playing that card can open doorways," Susan pointed out quietly.
Harry grimaced. "It can, but Alan's got a point. I was just… just, Harry in the Muggle world, but here I'm someone else. I'd be an idiot not to take advantage but… but don't be afraid to tell me if I go too far."
"Gladly," Alan said. "Gladly."
He was less glad to go and find Gabriel at lunch. It took another round of encouragement for him to lead Harry and Susan to an enclosed quadrangle near Hogwart's vast bridge. It was the first time Harry had been in this part of the castle. He saw a mixed group of fourth years sitting around a couple of stone benches.
Alan stopped about thirty feet away, his hands clenched by his side.
"So?" Harry said. He could almost hear his friend's teeth clenching. "Which one's your cousin?"
Alan nodded jerkily toward… a tall, willowy… girl?
What? "Er, I thought Gabriel was…"
"... A boy," Susan finished.
Uncomfortable as he was, Alan still managed a sly smile. "I never said that, did I?"
Harry thought back through his previous references to his cousin, realising that he'd always avoided 'he's' or 'she's'. That could only have been on purpose - and he didn't correct them when they called Gabriel a boy.
"You bugger," he said. "But you're still going to have to introduce us."
Alan's jaw visibly flexed, but he nodded. Slowly, like a deer walking up to a wolf, he approached. Harry and Susan followed.
Gabriel noticed before the rest of the fourth years. Up close, Harry saw that she had wide, dancing eyes, the same steely colour as her cousin; they were alert, and Harry felt he was being evaluated as soon as she looked upon him. But mostly, she was looking at her cousin. Gabriel smiled - and it was a familiar smile. She could've been Alan's older sister.
"Alan!" she said, sweeping him into a hug.
Alan tensed until she released him. "Uh, ah, hi Gabriel."
"Gabby," she corrected, pouting. "And I see you've brought friends."
"S-susan Bones," Alan said, "and Harry Potter."
Her eyes lingered for a brief moment on his forehead. "Nice to meet you both." She had a blinding smile, and Harry couldn't help but feel taken in.
"Nice to meet you Gabby," Susan said softly. She dipped in a slight curtsy.
But Gabriel just laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "None of that silly old stuff. I'm just glad that Alan's finally brought his friends to meet me. You've got to tell me all about your time so far at Hogwarts!"
She practically skipped over to an empty bench, pulling them along the way. "Tell me everything!"
And so they did. They gossiped about Alan's Ravenclaw classmates (apparently Anthony Goldstein was a terrible snorer) and Harry and Susan's Hufflepuffs. McMillan and Finch-Fletchley's business conversations she found particularly funny. Then went over the classes; Harry made sure to approach Defence Against the Dark Arts last.
"... And that's why we're here, you see," Harry said. He swallowed; this was the moment he'd been repeating in his mind, planning what to say. "Professor Quirrell's no good, so we think… We think we should start a club. A duelling club - where people can learn practical self-defence magic."
Gabriel was looking at him with such attention that he wavered; Susan backed him up. "T-technically, only fifth years and above can lead clubs, but you're a defence prodigy, and with 't-the Boy-Who-Lived' behind you, we're sure Professor Quirrell could m-make an exception."
Gabriel was nodding along until that moment. She stopped, looked to the sky, then back. "Okay!" she said, as though they were discussing the weather. "When do we start?"
...
...
"... And with Gabriel's knowledge, I'm sure she'll make a great teacher for us all!" Harry finished.
Professor Quirrell was listening attentively from behind his desk, occasionally petting the flank of the monitor lizard he seemed to love (it was called Berty). His face had taken on a strange number of expressions during Harry's pitch, and looked very white against the deep purple turban. Now, it'd
settled on constipated.
Harry didn't feel much better. The stench of garlic was almost overwhelming. It was already giving him a headache.
"I-I-I see," the professor began in his stuttering statico, "I think i-i-it's an interesting idea, b-but the o-other teachers, t-they're on t-the w-ward's edge a-b-bout it."
This was the second meeting between the three of them. Professor Quirrell had accepted their idea in principle in the first one, but had demurred, saying he wanted the advice of the other teachers first.
"Because of the subject sir?" Gabriel inquired. "Or because of my age?"
"N-n-not the s-subject, no. N-not many rabid Campbellites i-in Hogwarts, c-certainly not among the teaching staff!"
Gabriel smiled brightly.
"... B-but b-bending the rules for y-you, i-is an issue. A-after all, r–r-rules are rules for a r-reason," he finished with that particular nervous laugh of his.
That, Harry thought, spelled the end. That laugh alone meant that he was going to refuse them. Professor Quirrell hated telling people no. And after all he'd done? He'd canvassed half of Hufflepuff's older students, just to be knocked back at the very end, when he was so close? Harry felt his headache reach the crown of his head, pressing against his skull like a band.
"What if," Gabriel said, "you were to chaperone the first few lessons at least, just to make sure everything's up to Hogwarts' standards? It'll be my first time teaching after all - I want to make the school proud!"
She had, Harry had noticed over the past days, a certain honest enthusiasm that was difficult to resist - not that Harry had tried. He wanted the club even more than her. In his historical studies, he'd seen both Albus Dumbledore and the Dark Lord described as possessing 'irresistible personalities'. Only now, in Gabriel's presence, was he beginning to realise what that really meant.
It made Harry feel small - but not in a bad way, not as he felt small compared to Dudley, or Uncle Vernon, but in the way a grain of sand was small compared to the ocean. Gabriel had a way of sucking in all the light of a room.
Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell shifted in his chair, then went very still. He seemed deep in thought. Harry waited for the refusal, his head still pounding.
"Very well," the DADA professor said. "F-find y-yours a s-sui-suitable classroom an-and I'll s-sign off o-on your c-club." His watery blue eyes turned to Harry, and he smiled a diffident smile. "... M-Mr P-P-Potter."
While a flood of relief crashed through Harry, cooling his awful headache, he also felt his cheeks burn. Fantastic! He thought… but clearly the professor knew the real origin of the idea. How could he not? If it went badly, would he be blamed? Harry smiled back skittishly.
"A-and Miss J-Jorkins, I-I'll expect to c-chaperone the f-first… seven lessons."
"Yes sir!" Gabriel chirped.
It didn't take them long to find a usable room. Gabriel had managed to rope half a dozen of her own friends into exploring the castle. Harry, Susan and Alan found some curious sights themselves. In a little chamber by the Astronomy Tower, they'd found a lever that opened a trapdoor. The steps below were rotting away, but retained strength enough to hold the weight of a first year. At the bottom, the tight, twisting staircase had opened into a catacomb, whose designs Harry recognised.
There he'd half expected to spy the glinting portrait of Quirinus Rosier in the darkness, and the glow of fungi in the distance. The latter, he had guessed, was out there, but none of them had wanted to journey further into the unknown Deep Earth.
Susan, as it turned out, had special reason to be wary. The stories she shared of the depths of Uroarbrunnr* gave Harry nightmares for a few days thereafter. How, he had wondered (shivering in his bed, after waking from a nightmare), could witches and wizards live above such places, where demons and worse might spawn?
It gave him a new, terrible, appreciation of his journey into the Deep Earth beneath Halt End. Only when he struck up the courage to discuss the catacombs further with Susan was she able to reassure him. Apparently, the spawning of a demon was a rare occurrence - and they were only ever birthed in the deepest, darkest depths. He and Hercules would've been infinitely unlucky to stray across one.
On that very same day, they finally found their perfect practice room - just a few doors down from where their search began. The floorplan was open, rectangular and plain. A few flagstones required repair; a few sconces were rusted. Otherwise, it was ideally empty.
Alan had come across it. He'd led Harry to the room with an unconquerable smirk on his face. It wasn't difficult to determine his intention, so when he pushed the door open with a flourish, Harry had feigned apathy. "What?" he said, trying his best to keep a straight face.
Alan's brow furrowed (Harry struggled not to burst into laughter), then he gestured silently at the room.
Harry made a show of looking around. "It's just another chamber."
There was a long moment of silence as Alan stared, open mouthed, while Harry carefully sculpted his face.
Then something tipped in the air, and Harry winced as Alan punched him playfully on the shoulder. "You dingbat!" the Ravenclaw said.
Harry could no longer suppress his laughter - or his glee.
Two days later, they had a club. Gabriel and Professor Quirrell had co-signed the parchment, officially turning (what turned out to be) an old Alchemy study into a duelling chamber. That gave them access to a small budget, which they duly spent repairing and furnishing the room. New sconces were found, and flagstones were borrowed (read: stolen) from next door; and, most importantly, the paraphernalia of a duelling circle was ordered in.
First to arrive were Hogwarts' banners, smaller copies of those adorning that Great Hall. They were plain, black, and edgeless; and emblazoned with the Hogwarts' crest. Gabriel had laughed giddily to see them delivered, and threw the heavy linen over Harry's head. "Oi!" he'd shouted, clawing at the darkness as Gabriel had giggled.
"You're wearing Hagrid's cloak!" she laughed.
Soon after, large pots of wizarding smelling-salts (labelled hartshorn), four decorative longswords, and four strange candelabras were delivered. Harry puzzled over them, until Susan explained that it was tradition that four sharp swords mark the edges of a duelling circle. The candelabra's purpose was to hold those swords.
Two days after that, the flyers were sent out. 'SLEF DEFENCE' they said, to much amusement. 'In the Dungeons, by the painting of Elagabalus the Mad. Led by Gabriel Jorkins: be there, or be square!' Harry didn't know where Gabriel had picked up that Mugglism, but he did know it was too late to fix the typo. Not that he'd even wanted the club called that in the first place - but Susan had suggested it help placate people like Melissa Lovell.
Finally, the day arrived; and Harry arrived at all his lessons first - and left first. He bounced through the day, not once raising his hand, almost turning a colour-changing charm into an explosion hex in Charms. Alan was very keen to point out who'd teased him for his own flying-related excitement.
Harry didn't care. What mattered were the people milling around the duelling room after classes. Everyone from first years to seventh years - maybe fifty of them. That number he expected to decrease over the weeks but, even if it halved, that was still twenty-five people to duel!
"I think I should've found a bigger room," Alan said, nodding at the mass, which had divided itself into chattering groups of three to five. Irritatingly, Jacob Smythe belonged to one of them, and Draco Malfoy to another.
"Half of them won't turn up for the next one," Harry said.
Susan looked at the crowd cautiously.
Just then, a crackling boom sounded from the duelling platform. The room fell silent; Gabriel Jorkins was standing there, her wand outstretched, beaming at them all. Wearing her characteristic ratty jeans and oversized jumper, she didn't seem fazed at all by the many sets of eyes now focused upon her.
"Good afternoon class!" she said in sing-song (which resembled Professor Sprout most strongly), cracking a grin. The room tittered. "I kid, I kid. You're not in class, and I'm not a teacher. I do know a bit about defence though, and I'll try and teach you what I know - at your own pace, as I see we've got a mixture of year-groups here.
Her voice was losing its silly sparkle the longer she spoke, dropping into ever more serious notes. "Now, what're we learning? This isn't a club about fighting - this is about defending yourself if needed, with an emphasis on practicality. But we're not - not - about going around picking fights."
Speak for yourself, Harry thought, restraining his grin. He knew all this was cover.
"In 1635, three-hundred and twenty-two witches and wizards died of wounds sustained during duels. We cannot say how many more were injured. This was the peak of Honourist culture, when men and women patrolled the streets seeking battle. They found it - to their deaths.
"Wizardkind has since begun to restrain itself, starting with the Gampian Enlightenment spearheaded by the Gamp family themselves. We do not want to see those dark days return; but neither can we leave ourselves defenceless. Every witch and wizard carries a weapon in their pocket-" she held her wand in the air for emphasis, "-so we must all know how to use them for good, not evil. We must all use them to advance the cause of justice!"
Harry listened intently, but picked out more with his eyes. He saw the belief etched on Gabriel's face as she spoke, the passion smouldering in her gaze. At that moment, staring up at her, Harry felt something indescribable, something he'd never felt before. It resonated in his heart, and in the resolve in her expression, in the conviction in Gabriel's heart. He needed to duel.
...
...
"Wands at the ready!" said Kevin Sterndale. He was one of Gabriel's friends - and was apparently a decent duellist himself. Harry hadn't seen him duel, and suspected he never would; because Sterndale was a troubadour, which in duelling terms meant something akin to a referee (rather than a singer as Harry understood the word to mean).
Harry gripped his wand tighter, feeling the sweat on his palm, the eyes of the Self Defence Club focused on him. This was their third meeting, and the first to involve a practical exercise beyond casting at dummies. Nerves had begun to devil him over the past days, doubts creeping into his mind. What if he couldn't fight? What if he was rubbish, after all the effort?
He glanced across at his opponent, a first year Ravenclaw called Michael Corner. He too looked green at the gills.
"Three-"
Harry took heart at the nerves of his opponent and stepped into the basic latus stance - side-on, wand en minaciae, to minimise his cross-section. Just as he'd been taught. Corner did the same. It made him look small, and Harry briefly wondered how he was supposed to hit him at twenty-five feet. Then again, Corner was surely having the same thoughts, wasn't he?
"Two-"
The revulsion jinx, Harry decided. The anonymous author of Tricks to Ensnare favoured it as an opener.
"One!"
"Relashio!"
"Expelliarmus!"
The disarming charm streaked toward him with disturbing speed, while Harry's purple flash kicked away from his own wand. A burst of adrenaline powered through his veins; time seemed to slow, and Harry stepped rightwards, knowing - triumphantly - that the charm would miss him. His triumph turned to panic as he stumbled, his trailing leg catching on his right.
Merlin! Instead of smoothly stepping, Harry ended up throwing himself into a flailing, inelegant crouch. The expelliarmus sailed by his left shoulder, while the revulsion jinx just scraped by Corner.
But hour after hour of Giswiften movements made his wrist move before he even knew it was happening. All he had to do was say, "-Flipendo!"
Caught on his heels, in the midst of casting, the knockback jinx struck Corner solidly in the flank, sending him tumbling out-of-bounds. The troubadour blew to signify the end of the duel.
It was music to Harry's ears; he released a long, relieved breath. He'd won! He'd actually won a duel! His first duel! Smiling ear-to-ear, he helped Corner to his feet.
"Well done," said Gabriel (in her best teacher's voice), stepping into the circle, just as she'd done for the dozen duels before. It was strange to hear her speak so… professionally. "Both of you. Michael, it's impressive that you can cast the disarming charm in first year - it requires some power. However, it's usually a bad choice for an opener with its slow travel-time.
"Harry, I'm surprised you know relashio. Then again, maybe I shouldn't? You read more words than you speak, after all."
There was a general good-natured laughter then, which made Harry blush.
"Relashio's a good choice. Fast and accurate - and a good opener for a spell chain, which I see you're beginning to develop."
Gabriel turned from Harry and Corner, looking at the assembled club. "That was the difference - Harry's poor footwork aside. He was half-way to casting his next spell immediately after he'd finished his first. He who thinks ahead gets ahead. Now, discuss the duel amongst yourselves for a few minutes then we'll have two more."
Harry, meanwhile, turned to Corner, hand outstretched in offering. "Good duel?"
Corner looked down. He had slicked-back brown hair, and a nose slightly too big for his face. "Good duel," he said. They shook hands.
Harry grinned goofily. He couldn't wait for the next one!
As it turned out, he shouldn't have been so enthusiastic. His next opponent was Isaac Sterndale, the troubadour's brother. He was a second year; and this time, the duel lasted much longer than ten seconds. It also ended with Harry being forced outside the circle (which was, in truth, a rectangle). Sterndale was a surprisingly fast caster, and he kept a cool head.
Isaac's brother sounded Harry's defeat with the whistle, and the sound burning into his brain like a bad song. Dammit, he thought, looking down to his feet. They were, indeed, just beyond the white lines. Why? He'd tried so hard…
Doubt beset him at once. What if he'd been wasting his time? What if he just turned out to be mediocre - or worse, plain bad?
He heard Gabriel hop onto the circle, no doubt to critique his failures. He stared at his shoes, gritting his teeth, and waited. But the commentary did not come; not immediately, anyway. He felt a hand brushing through his already messy hair. Jolting, he glanced up to see Gabriel, grinning reassuringly. "No worries kid," she said, just for him. "You're a Hufflepuff, right? We can work on it."
Then she did go on to analyse the duel, but Harry didn't mind. He listened and took it to heart, as his heart was warm, and open, and ready to fight.
...
...
Two days later, Harry lingered around after the 'Self Defence' club. The day's instruction was mostly led by Adelita Land. It was not the first time Gabriel had delegated; Land's family owned Hidden Hill, where - like the Rosier's of Halt End - the Land's lived off the produce of their estate. Judging by the cut of her muggle dress, Harry didn't think the Ministry was strangling the Lands as they were the Rosiers. She was very knowledgeable about dangerous creatures, which was the focus of her lecture - Gabriel had taken notes like everyone else.
It wasn't Harry's favourite topic (after all, fighting a kelpie, a redcap or a werewolf wasn't exactly duelling), but Adelita was an entertaining and informative speaker. That turned out to be a great excuse to stay and talk, even if it was painful. Starting casual conversations remained painful for Harry; he never knew what to say, and found himself planning them out in detail beforehand. Those plans almost always went awry, as he never correctly guessed what his conversation partner would say.
He persevered nevertheless, outlasting Alan, the other students, and even Gabriel. Anticipation was building within him; every student who left was another step on the ladder, another step closer… Finally, it was just him and Susan.
And the Lightspeed in his pocket felt like it was burning. Could he tell her? She was his friend, right? Harry bit his lip… Her aunt was the head of the DMLE, so she'd feel obligated to report him…
It would be wrong to make her choose.
His decision made, Harry made a show of looking at his watch, then glancing around the empty room. "I think we've forgotten the time," he said, wincing. Did that sound theatrical? "I suppose we should get going."
"Hmm," Susan said quietly. Her eyes flickered strangely, and a small smile crept across her lips. "Or I suppose I should leave, so you can use the Lightspeed in your pocket."
Harry froze, his stomach dropping like it'd turned to lead. Slowly, he turned to her, horrified. She knew?
"It fell out of your pocket once, when you fell asleep by the lake," she said. "I-I saw it before Alan, don't worry. I-I knew you wouldn't want too many people knowing, so… so I just slipped it back in your pocket."
Harry gulped. "I-I'm still worrying."
"Don't," Susan said, giggling. "It's funny, you know, c-catching someone off guard. My aunt doesn't agree with the ban either. Do you want to try it together?"
"Yes!" Harry exclaimed, pausing as Susan jumped. "Sorry, I just - it's been a bit of a burden…"
It was a burden he was eager to share. He delved into his pocket, grasping both the Lightspeed and Eric's instructions. He'd restrained himself from reading them until now.
Eric had written the following in a hurried, untidy scrawl (which was entirely forgivable, considering the circumstances):
1. The Lightspeed is not dangerous; do not worry if it hits you. Do not fear it. At most, it will leave a bruise.
2. To trigger, spark an say actus. Should glow yellow for a moment.
3. Then, say the name of the spell you want the Lightspeed to imtate and spark again.
4. Throw it at a wall; it will bounce bak at you exactly as a spell would.
5. Slowly the Lightspeed will increase vector speed past natural limts of spell, like there were two casters;
6. Cedo will stop the Lightspeed.
Good Luck,
Eric
Disregarding the spelling mistakes, Harry thought he understood it. 'Sparking' would've been a mystery before Professor Snape's lessons. It sounded serious, but really just meant the adding of magic to 'spark' - in potions, that usually occurred at the end of a recipe. He hadn't known it could apply to things other than potions until now. 'Vector speed' simply referred to spell-travel. Each charm had its own rate of movement; and some, so he'd been told, could move erratically.
Eager to try, Harry jumped to his feet. Holding the Lightspeed in his off hand, he took a deep breath, glanced at Susan, and spoke, "Actus."
For a disconcerting moment, nothing happened. Then, from the centre emanating outwards, the Lightspeed glowed. "Stupify," Harry said. The Lightspeed turned red.
He shifted into a duelling stance, palmed the orb, and threw it at the wall. He still had trouble dodging even slower spells like stupify; there was little chance he'd make more than two or three rounds before it hit him.
It didn't matter. The Lightspeed pinged as it hit the wall; Harry tensed, readying himself.
After all… We can work on it.
END OF HARRY POTTER IN:
GABRIEL AND THE DUELLING CLUB
Glossary:
*For some reason, Rowling alters the name of Saint Gregory to Grogory. I have no idea why she did this and, as it's a small and unimportant detail of canon, I'm altering it.
*Conveniently for this passage, the iconic Hubble telescope was launched in 1990. It was not a smooth launch. While it's mostly forgotten now, one of the mirrors was incorrectly designed which, to put it shortly, resulted in blurry images. Harry doesn't pay enough attention to the news to know this.
*The Arietids is a yearly meteor shower.
*Conveniently, One Canada Square (usually called 'Canary Wharf') opened on the 26th August 1991. I've no idea if people were allowed into the viewing section at the opening, to be honest.
*The Folvilles were a Late Mediaeval outlaw gang comprised of less fortunate members of the nobility. To support themselves and their lifestyles, they went around robbing and so on and so forth. Their real moral character, if it existed, is difficult to quantify as the ages have passed - because England has had an unusual relationship with outlaws, as exhibited by the following:
'Frenchmen are seldom hanged for robbery, for they have no heart to do such a terrible act. There are therefore more men hanged for robbery and manslaughter in England in a year than are hanged in France in seven years for such crimes… If [an Englishman] is poor and sees another man having riches which may be taken from him by might, he will not spare to do so, unless that poor man should be very law-abiding.'
These are not the words of a Frenchman, or even a moralising monk or abbot, but of Sir John Fortescue, chief justice of the King's Bench from 1442 to 1461. At the time he uttered this, he was educating Prince Edward, son of Henry VI, a boy who might've one day been King of England. That didn't happen, but is another story altogether. The phrase 'Folville's laws' is used in the famous poem Piers Ploughman with approval.
The point is the attitude the quote conveys; a former lawman was proud of the courage his countrymen had to rob, so long as they robbed boldly.
*Uroarbrunnr is the well of Uror, who is the Norse personification of Fate - Uror in Old Norse, Wyrd in Old English. The well sits at the bottom of the world-tree Ygdrassil, and its purpose is obscure.
A/N:
Here it is, Harry finally gets to duel! Which we'll see more of in the coming arc, the 'meat' - as it were - of the Philosopher's Stone. Broadly, Gabriel and the Duelling Club was mellow, which I thought was an appropriate tone for Harry's introduction to Hogwarts. I could've invented some breathless plot; and while that might've been entertaining, I think letting the story simmer at times is better for the long-term, rather than going for the boil.
Sorry this took so long. I try to release a chapter every two weeks, but I found this a difficult one.
Still looking into P-atreon. Honestly, I've been so busy with work that it mostly slipped my mind. I'll definitely start a Discord first though; the few I've seen are moderated to death, far from the Internet 1.0 I prefer.
Anyway, aren't we all happy that January's nearly over? Just think of the sun to (eventually) come… unless you're in Australia or such like, then feel my jealousy from across the screen!
Enjoy Yourselves,
JoustingAlchemy