Hello there! Happy Christmas to you all!
Chapter 50 - Nurgon
Ron stood in front of the door which led to the classroom of Defence. There was not an ounce of nervousness within him, just a lot of curiosity toward this new Professor. She'd saved him from being caught by Jacques Yaxley; a name he'd learnt very few hours ago.
And a question arose in his mind—where did she stand in this conflict?
She'd been recruited by Umbridge, and that alone made her a potential enemy. Not like Macnair, whose foul temper and malice were very well known, but an enemy still. And yet she had saved him. And mocked him while at it, too.
"Are you thinking about this Faith Gourcuff?" Tracey asked, pulling the boy out of his thoughts. "You have that look on your face. The one which says 'I'm thinking, don't you dare to bloody bother me!' It's quite funny, you know? Cute, too, I dare to say."
"And yet you bothered me," Ron replied with a smirk. "But, yes, I was thinking about her. Honestly, I don't know what to expect of this witch. The odds are not in her favour, that's for sure. Lupin was great, sure, but before him came Quirrell and Lockhart. Good news is that she cannot be worse than them. Or so I hope."
"Merlin hears you!"
Whether she would be better or worse than those two was something Ron had yet to figure out after her first class. Mostly because it was such a simple lecture there was nothing to assess. It was a talk-show from the start to the end, and no magic whatsoever was involved.
"Will we practise any magic in the near future?" Blaise had asked at some point of the lecture, voicing out the one doubt in everyone's mind.
"Perhaps," Professor Gourcuff had replied sourly. "It is not my call to decide. I have been tasked to follow a very specific program. And I will do so. And you all will be patient. And if magic is to be practised, you will practise it. And if magic is to be learned, you will learn it. And if a book is to be readed, you will read it."
Not so hopeful words those had been. Yet Ron saw that she did not like them either, which was a little point in her favour. Also, there was the fact she clearly knew what she was talking about.
"So, if I was to fight a werewolf in a close space, stunners and Severing Charms are my best weapons?" Malfoy had asked, then. "Because this book says so."
"Think, blondie, think. In a close space they have an advantage over you, thanks to their stronger build and frenzied nature. You run, try to lose track of them, and if that's not possible, then you run until you find a more favourable place to fight. Now, the spells to use are a far larger variety than those you've mentioned. Everyone has a plan for each fight, everyone knows their theory damn well. And then it begins, and you stand against a beast thirst of blood and flesh, and you all shit and wet your pants. In a real battle, you go for your best weapon, no matter which one it is."
Such was the way the class went. And when it finished, Ron had yet to draw any conclusion from it. Unlike Malfoy, who made his way back to the common room grumbling and grunting many foul words in whispers. Another point in her favour, the redhead reckoned.
Then came the next day, and Ron found himself walking toward the Forbidden Forest; warmly clothed up to his ears. A clear path through the frost had been made for them, though by whom remained a mystery. Soon enough they were joined by the Gryffindors just outside the Forest's boundaries. And the group of students became silent and more dispersed.
"I've heard horrible things Macnair did in the War and after it ended," Neville mused. "Granny says he's more of a beast than a man. So the work he took in after the War suits him very well."
"My parents don't talk about the War," Ron said with a shrug. "But I too have heard horrible things about him. Talk is cheap in Slytherin, after all. Besides, did you guys see the look he gave us when he was introduced to us in the Great Hall? That one's mental, I'm calling it."
And the horror they witnessed next was one none of them would ever forget.
The lions and the snakes strode into the clearing lectures were always given. It had been cleared from any frost, and the once snow-covered trees now showed the dark-green curtains their leaves were. Macnair stood amidst them, right at the end of the clearing. And he said nothing as the students came to him.
"This first lecture will be about justice and pride," he said suddenly, his cold voice icy enough to make the frost appear yet again. "Justice for a crime. Pride of the noble blood."
There was something in the way he had uttered those words which set all the alarms in Ron's head. And though Gerd was not there to confirm his supposition, all he had to do was to look around and observe the way doubt had taken over Hermione's face. Even people such as Malfoy and Parkinson looked unsure and wary.
With a twist of his wand, a creature materialised out of thin air in front of them. It was Buckbeak the Hippogriff, and he was tied and bound to the ground by shiny, glowing ropes. His neck was bent down, as if bowing, and the look of rage within his golden eyes screamed louder than any word could ever.
"This beast, rabid and foul like any other, dared to attack one of our own," Macnair began, spatting right into Buckbeak's eye. The Hippogriff rose over his hindquarters, but he was pulled down by a sudden force, his forehead stuck to the ground. There was silence within the clearing. "A murder attempt on a wizard of noble blood. For that, justice shall be done upon him. I will, in the name of Gregory Goyle, serve the Blood dutifully."
It all happened so fast no one could but stare.
A large, single-edged axe appeared in Macnair's hands. And it fell swiftly, as if it weighed nothing, with a whistle which seemed to cut the air between the weapon and its prey. But when it went through Buckbeack's neck, severing the head from the body with a cleanest cut, no sound came of it. Not one Ron could hear, at least.
Though he did stare in shock at the way blood poured out of the wound like a river out of control, and to the way the head rolled down the unfrosted blades of grass, painting them red and soaking them down. Only then, as whimpers and shouts and cries broke through the silence, as some run and vomited, as some others stood pale and rooted to their spots yet in shock, did Ron understand what had just happened.
And Harry was first to move, as Macnair cleaned the edge of his axe with a clean, white cloth.
"You bastard!" His wand was quick to be drawn, but even quicker was Ron to disarm him. He clutched at his friend's wrist with a grip of steel, pulling him away. Yet Harry paid no attention to him. "Why? Why? There was no need to do that! He'd hurt no one!"
It felt as if trying to catch the wind with one's hand. But Ron did not allow that to stop him. At last he managed to get Harry away. "Don't be a fool," the redhead hissed into his friend's ears. "He'll hurt you, too!"
Still Harry fought to break free from his embrace, and still no one but them moved a finger in the clearing. Not even Macnair, who cleaned his axe free of blood.
"Do any of you mind when you step over an ant?" Macnair then asked as the cloth went up and down across the axe's blade. "I do not think so. Then, what is the reason behind all those tears and shouts and whimpers?" At last his axe was clean, and its blade shone as it reflected the sunlight. Only then did he look at the students, his eyes black and devoid of any emotion. "Justice was done today, and our pride, wounded by an unpunished affront, was restored. And so ends today's lecture. You will take his lesson home, and think about it. About our pride as the Wizarding Kind."
However, he had one last remark to make, "And you, Potter, will serve detention with Headmistress Umbridge. To think a wizard of your name would lose his head for a filthy beast. Oh, I now see how much work I do have." Macnair then walked away, axe over his shoulder, and left them alone in the clearing.
Ron finally let go of Harry, as the boy felt no will to fight anymore. Instead his eyes were glued to Buckbeak's body, and so did Ron's. Slowly yet surely the rage started to fill every inch of his body, replacing the cold shock he had felt. He wanted to do a million things to Macnair, but he knew very well he could accomplish nothing as of that moment.
He was not sure when he did make it back to the castle by Tracey's side. Or what came to happen since then. All he knew is that he had calmed down as they made their way back, thus his rage was now a cold, controlled one.
And that night, when sleep found him after a long search, his dreams were filled with one face, that of Walden Macnair and his cold, black eyes.
News of what happened that week in the Forest was quick to run from one mouth to another. And truth to be told, Ron did not know whether it had been a good thing or not.
For starters, Macnair became a most hated man, and he was followed by cold glares everywhere he went. Not that he minded them, of course, for his head was held as proud and tall as ever, if not more. Even the Professors could not stand aside. It was said that McGonagall herself confronted the pureblood wizard once night took over the castle, and that Flitwick had paid him a visit in his very office.
Still, what really came out of all the gossip was fear. No student dared to stare at Macnair in the eyes, much less to raise their voices at him. So the man walked as if he owned the castle. And he had his fair share of support, too. The Disciplinary Party stood by him, and Gertrude Meads and her lackeys were quick to punish each and every foul word against their new idol. And many within Slytherin found no evil in his execution. To them, Buckbeak and his kin were no more than ants.
"But I'm powerless," Ron said sourly as drops of snow fell all over him. "As it always happens, I'm bloody powerless."
The boy sat under his favourite oak; that solitary tree atop of a hill with great views to the Lake. The snow fell all over him like a misty curtain; though softly, almost soothing. On his lap rested a flask of glass, which contained a bright fire whose fiery tongues kissed the translucent glass. It was enough to warm him. Or to allow him not to freeze to death, better said.
"What he did, it was awful," Gerd said, sickened. He still remembered how her features had darkened once he'd told her all about Buckbeak's execution. "Such hatred… It shall not go unpunished. And yet, as you said, you are yet powerless."
"For the time being," Ron added darkly. "His time will come, that I know. And I will be there to look at him eye to eye, and to spat right into them. Just as he did with Buckbeak."
Gerd sent him a sideways glance, "One thing is to say it, another to do it," she warned. "I have seen far more merciless men crumble when time was due. I have seldom seen such promises fulfilled once the chance arose."
For a moment, Ron was left shocked by her words. "I'm not talking about killing him, Gerd." To say that aloud made him shudder—had he really considered such an idea? Had his words really carried such venom? He hoped not. "But his time will come, one way or another. And so it will for Umbridge, one way or another. Dead, but not by my hands. Wounded gravely. Turned into a squib… It matters not. He deserves all of that."
"To be colder is to not be betrayed by your emotions and the fire within them. We have a path to follow, Ronald. All else is of no importance."
But no matter what she said, all Ron could think about that week was about a way to make Macnair pay. Though none came to his mind. Not one he could accomplish, at least. And that feeling of being powerless became worse and worse, like an ever-present companion. It was no more the sting of a bee, but the bit of a poisonous snake.
And a chance to change that came when January was about to end. During the morning of the last Saturday of the month, as he was about to exit the common room, he was intercepted by Astoria Greengrass herself. For a moment he stood rooted to his spot. In front of him was a girl he confused for Daphne. Though then he spotted the many differences between the sisters.
Astoria was shorter, thinner and paler, and her cheeks were not as round as Daphne's. Her eyes were different, too. Of a fairer shade of blue, just as her hair was of a fairer shade of blonde, more silvery than golden.
"What's the matter?" Ron finally found his words. He pulled his former friend out of his mind with no trouble at all.
"Headmistress Umbridge has summoned you to her chambers," Astoria said, her high-pitched voice ruining the pride and firmness she intended to give her words. "Immediately."
Ron stared at her, his face a nonchalant mask, "She's a dangerous person to be around with. You should stay as far from that demon as possible."
"I'm old enough to mind my own business, thank you." The challenge he saw in her eyes impressed him. But not as much as learning how foolish a girl she was. "I'm not my sister, you see. She never excelled in our society. But I do. It is my duty towards my House. A duty far too great for Daphne, as it was proved."
A mirthless snort flew out of Ron's mouth. "Sure it is, girl. But you are right on one thing. You are not Daphne. Despite her many flaws, she was intelligent."
That said, he left without sparing a single glance to the girl. Because of that, he did not see the way her features clenched in shame, smoke about to pour from her nostrils. Not that he would have cared had he seen it.
Ron made it to Umbridge's chambers in no time at all. He had tried very hard to not think about her on his way up the castle. He wanted to wear an emotionless mask before her, as he doubted his foul feelings toward her could be conceived if not so.
The door opened before he could knock on it, and her office was presented to him. True to Harry's depiction, it was bright and pink—so very pink. And filled with all kinds of condecorations to her name.
"Oh, Ronald, it is a pleasure to see you," she beamed at him from her seat at the end of the room, right before the fireplace. Pink were the robes she wore today, too. "Come inside and take a seat. I believe we have much to discuss."
He did as told, silent and dutifully.
"This is the first time we talk face to face, isn't it?" she began. "Well, let's get straight to the point. I know you don't like me, and it goes both ways, trust me. However, unlike Potter and the rest of your little gang of louts, I expect you to be far more intelligent. Or so I've been told by many."
Ron raised a brow at last, "You called for me, and here I am."
"Oh, and to think you could conceive your emotions so well! As I said, far better than Potter. Anyhow, let's bring the matter to the table. I have received a request to pull you out from the School for the weekend. By no other than Lord Covan Redfiled himself. He has even sent me a portkey already."
Now did Ron break his act, though by surprise rather than rage. "Say again?"
"Once is enough," she smirked. "Now, these requests are very rare, but not unheard of. He wants you to stay a few days with him in Nurgon, as his new apprentice. And I have given green light to this. Such a chance cannot be missed. Are you even aware of the honour it would bring Hogwarts to have one of its students succeed under such a renowned wizard? I believe not. But it does not matter. You will go with him and you will do your best, regardless of what you want."
Ron was about to stand up and leave, though he really wanted to go and visit Nurgon. It was a chance as good as none other to become a better wizard, which he really needed to make Macnair pay. But that smirk of hers was a mighty thing, and to have the chance to erase it from her face was a precious gift. Regardless of the repercussions.
Umbridge went on, "I know that look on your face very well. It will do you and your people no good. But I am a kind woman, and I will choose respect rather than fear today. Do me this favour and I will behave well toward your friends. If they behave correctly too, of course."
"Harry's got detention with you," Ron pointed out. "And rumour has it that, perhaps, Gryffindor was in search of a new seeker. And I do not think Harry is so ill he cannot play."
"He does, indeed. A very well deserved one, as well as the punishment, whichever it might be," she nodded. "And it is up to you to decide how bad it will be. Go out there and make Hogwarts's name great again, Weasley. Make this country proud of one of their own. You do that, and I will be kind and fair toward your people. That rude and insolent boy included."
To be blackmailed by Umbridge was something he had not expected for the day. Still he considered this new chance. He wanted nothing to do with her, that was a given, but he would be a fool not to take this precious opportunity to give Harry and the rest a short relief. If she held her word, that was it.
He came to a decision.
"I will do so," Ron said at last. "And you better live up to your word. If not, it would be very easy for me to trip in the middle of a duel, when countless eyes are set on me. Or to miss every bloody spell. Or to surrender in a crying mess. I don't care much about my fame and recognition, Headmistress. I have lived almost fourteen years with none, and I can keep it the same. Now, how will people talk about such failures? About a certain student from Hogwarts who was labelled as a very talented one, perhaps one of their best, yet could not one a single duel? Not so good, I believe."
She paused for a moment, her eyes narrowing as her lips became a thin, white line. "Are you trying to blackmail me, Weasley?"
"Two can play such a game, Headmistress. You got your cards and played them well. I've got mine and played them well, too."
"I now see why you got sorted into Slytherin and became a traitor to your kin," she hissed, but still gave him a curt nod. "We've got ourselves a deal, Weasley."
She agreed far too quickly. I don't like this. But there was nothing more he could obtain from this deal, so Ron stood up with no further ado, "If so, am I free to go, Headmistress? I need to prepare my things for the weekend."
"Off you go."
He then left.
It did not take him long to prepare his things. His bag was filled with clothes, a bit of food and his book of Transfiguration; because he had one essay to write. No one batted an eye in his direction, nor asked any question, as Tracey was busy in a meeting with the Quidditch team. He would need to tell her once the weekend came to an end. If she felt kind enough to not kill him first for disappearing without notice, that's it.
This time it took him a bit longer to reach Umbridge's chambers, for it was not the same to walk carrying a few pounds of weight. Still he made it quick enough. And this time the door did not open for him. He had to push it open with his shoulder, to find no one inside. The warmth was off, though recently for embers still danced among the charred firewood.
Atop of the desk lay a large coin, one half golden and the other silvery. He grabbed it and rolled it in between his fingers.
"It is enchanted," Gerd let him know. "Feel it yourself."
Ron tried hard enough, and he did feel it. A subtle trace it was, but one nonetheless. "Well, this is the portkey. I hate these bloody things. Makes me want to puke whenever I use one of them. And so does Apparition. Whatever; the sooner, the better."
And he poured a bit of his magic into the coin. And the world spiralled around him, the many colours fusing and becoming one of strange nature. The warmth of the room also disappeared, replaced by a wave of cold which made the boy gasp in surprise. He opened his eyes and gasped yet again, but awed instead.
Ron stood in front of a very beautiful picture, that of Nurgon and its fields.
A huge castle of white stone stood amidst a green island surrounded by three frozen lakes. All joined to one another and to the great piece of land by natural bridges of earth. His eyes darted toward the five towers which compounded the castle, crowned by conical roofs of dark stone. A central one, which rose higher into the skies, was connected to the four adjacent towers by galleries of stone, a line of crenels above as if teeth in a mouth. Atop, two flags waved by the wind's tune—a white unicorn over a brown background, and three black towers over a red background.
The doors of light wood, large enough to welcome a full garrison of giants, stood open for him. It took him a while to make his way downhill, for it was not a short distance to travel. But at last he went through the doors, and he was welcomed into a large hallway, well-illuminated and its floor covered by a crimson carpet.
It was austere as the word was meant to be, for there was no piece of decoration there. Not a picture, nor a tapestry, nor a blazon. But the torches led him inside, until the noise caught his ears. It started as a faint rumble, and then he distinguished voices and shouts in it. The hallway ended in a smaller yet still large door, ajar, with a bit of light seeping through it.
Ron pushed it open with his hand, and then he was welcomed to the arena.
Countless pits could be found here; of every kind and nature. And around the huge stance grandstands and posts, wooden towers which rose high into the ceiling, had been built, which now were empty. A few duels were being held as of that moment, of people around his age if not a bit older. A blond girl took on a tall boy in a sandpit, whereas two boys of darker complexion fought in a smaller pit delimited by a pool of water.
But he was pulled out of his stupor by a very amused voice, "Welcome to Nurgon!" Ron turned around to face no other than Jakob Redfield. He had grown a bit since he last saw the pureblood heir, both in height and width. But his eyes sparkled the same way, with that touch of amusement.
"This place is…"
"Hard to describe, huh?" Redfield laughed, patting him on the shoulder. "I could not believe it when my father told me of your arrival. But it gladdens me to know that we would finally welcome a good lad instead of another arrogant bastard. We have plenty of those around here, trust me. Anyhow, follow me. My father wants to speak to you."
It took them a few minutes to reach the post where Lord Covan Redfield oversaw the duels and his students. And his eyes were quick to leave them and receive the newcomer as they went up the wooden staircase. There was no mirth in them, unlike in Jakob's. In fact, there was nothing Ron could see there. But his voice sounded soft when he spoke.
"I formally welcome you into Nurgon, Ronald Weasley. This is an unprecedented event for the academy, for we have never hosted one of your House before. Yet I am so very proud to change that. I hope you find in us a second family. Just like I did with many of my apprentices."
The lord sent his hand forward, and Ron sent his to meet the handshake. He found it cold and calloused. And so very firm, too, but also kind. "The pleasure is all mine," the redhead said.
The lord's eyes went back to the duels. Just then did one of them end. And the blond girl stood victorious as her opponent was sent flying into the sand. "Today is quite the peaceful day in Nurgon," Lord Covan said. "Few of my apprentices are here, and all belong to the younger category. Which is yours. See that girl who just won? She's a Teeval, from Estonia. Proud as none, yet as talented as many. And the boy she knocked down is a Lampert, from France. And the same can be said about him."
His eyes suddenly rose to the dome-like ceiling of the chamber, and so did Ron's. There, he found many banners which he had ignored before. In golden over black a few names were written. Others were in silver over black. And many in crimson over black
"You will find my name written up there, twice, both in gold. Others, like Edmund Gunther, are written both in silver and crimson, but one day they will be in gold. And Jakob's is up there, too, though just in crimson."
"Gold is for those who were crowned World Champions," Jakob explained, his eyes also drawn to the banners, yet brightened by an anxious glint. "Silver is for those who conquered the Juvenile Series. And crimson is for those who did in the Junior Series. Which is yours."
"So, a World Champion, eh?" Ron hummed, now looking at the older boy.
"Two years ago," Jakob smirked. "When I was fourteen. A fourth-grader from Drumstang. It was my last chance, and I took it. I defeated my biggest rival in the final, a pureblood lad from America. Luke Grace, his name is. Yet, so far, none of us has had any success in the Juvenile Series. A top eight was all I could accomplish in my first year. Though I'm sure this second will be very different."
"As you can see, there's little gold in the banners," Lord Covan resumed. "And a lot of crimson. At such a young age, winners are most varied. For there is talent, undoubtedly, but seldom guided by experience and mentorship. As a duellist grows older, those who really were blessed by talent, and who nurtured it with discipline and work, they start to show how above the commoners they are. Thus, they tend to win several editions in a row, and the silver dwindles in number. Therefore, gold is reserved for the chosen, and them alone."
"And you think I can achieve that?" Ron asked in a whisper. "That I can join all those names above?"
"I saw something in you. Time will tell." Lord Redfield then clapped his hands, and two elves appeared in the pits. They cleaned them, taking the defeated apprentices with them to the grandstands so they could rest. "We will start right away, for time is scarce. Then you will eat, and you will train yet again. I will have dinner with you, and there we will talk about this year's competition. Tomorrow will be the same, and you will return to Hogwarts before noon."
Ron nodded as he dropped his bag on the floor. Then he drew out his wand and made his way down to the pits.
Never ever had he felt so exhausted. And never ever had he felt so rewarded.
It had been a tough day, full of work and lessons. Full of sweat and even blood. Full of shouts and disappointments. Yet also full of smiles and results. It had taken Ron more than thirty minutes to finish his shower. He was sure he had dozed off against the wall quite a few times. But now he felt like a new person. More or less.
"This ain't my style at all." Ron felt very strange wearing those robes he had been given. All in truth, they were much more comfortable than he had expected, and not so tight on the sleeves. Black trousers and boots, and a white shirt to go buttoned underneath a blue jacket, full of white buttons. Of the best silk, of course.
But the reflection which stared back at him from the mirror was not his, he was sure of that. These clothes were far too regal for a Weasley. And now that he had combed his hair he had realised about another thing. "I need a bloody haircut! Haven't had one since summer."
"You are gonna be late for dinner," Gerd reminded him, an amused smile on her face. "Those clothes do suit you well. Wear them proud. Now, go out there and enjoy the feast. I will await you here, and my ears will be ready to hear all you have to tell me."
If you say so. But he did as bid, and finally left his room, a tad later than he should have. At least it was a short walk, the one he walked toward the castle's halls, where a private dinner would be served. A short walk through the austere hallways of Nurgon, perhaps, but one which took way longer, for his limbs felt as heavy as made of iron.
But he made it on time, for the door was still closed when he arrived. Now, what he did not expect was to find another boy about his age. And one he did know, on top of that. "Your name was Benjamin Lepenant, right?"
The French boy raised his head in surprise, but he was quick to greet him back. "Yes, that's me. And your name was Ronald Weasley, right?"
"The very same." Ron came to stand by his side as they waited for Lord Covan to open the door for them. A few minutes went by in silence, and he found the need to break them. "So, why is it that I didn't get to see you today?"
"I arrived late," the French said with a shrug. "Had some late notice trouble at home, and so, I was delayed."
He wore his head down once more, and Ron took his chance to observe him. As opposed to him, Lepenant fitted in his clothes as if they were meant to be worn by him. His short hair fell over his forehead in a messy fringe, as if golden threads. And his eyes were of a bright green. But he was quick to raise his eyes, and Ron was even quicker to bring a topic to chat about.
"I don't like these clothes much," the redhead said, pulling from his sleeves as if to prove his point. "And I didn't see any other apprentice wearing them today, in the pits. They all wore their own colours."
"Never try to make a pureblood heir wear your colours." Ron could but snort at those words. "Besides, these clothes are not meant to be worn by them. Those you saw today, the Teeval girl and the Lampert boy, paid their way into Nurgon. We did not. Lord Covan saw something in us, and he took us under his wing. In fact, I believe it will be us two alone who were invited to this feast."
No sooner than those words left his mouth, the door clicked behind. Ron turned around and pulled it open. What awaited them was a large table right by the warmth's embrace. A white cloth had been set upon it, and over it laid countless dishes of different nature. One of them alone would be far from satisfying his hunger, as the rations were extremely small; no more than a bite or two. He figured this was the pureblood way—as exuberant as possible.
Lord Covan bid them await in front of the warmth, a cup of wine in his hands. "Be welcome into my chambers, my apprentices. Take a seat, and we may begin the feast."
Ron did as told, and found himself by the lord's left. The table felt incredibly large for just the three of them. It took him a mighty effort to suppress his instinct, which told him to flatten the many dishes right under his eyes. Still he remembered some of Daphne's words from the past, and tried to eat as fine as them pureblood did.
"How was your first day here, Ronald?" Lord Covan asked.
"Incredible, that's all I can say," the boy grinned. Then he remembered where he was, to whom he was talking, and his smile died, replaced by more serious features. This seemed to amuse the lord, who gave him the hint of a smile. "All these years I have trained in solitude. And, deep inside, I thought of myself as a very decent duellist. But then came the tournament of Hogsmeade, and it was proven to me how wrong I was. Today, I was corrected more times than I could count. Some of them irked me, for I couldn't understand them. But then I tried as you'd said, and I understood why you won so many titles."
"It happened the same to me," Lepenant added from his seat, right in front of Ron.
"I know of Benjamin's reasons to become a duellist, but I do ignore yours," Lord Covan went on. "Would you speak of them to me?"
"Of course. To be honest, they are not a big thing. Nor a story of personal drive. All in truth, they are very selfish reasons. You see, my Lord, that I have grown into a family of six boys and one girl, me being the youngest male. And my brothers are all incredible, in their own field. Bill, the eldest, graduated with full honours, and set off to Egypt to become a curse-breaker. Charlie could have become England's seeker, but he decided to give his life to dragons, and set off to Romania to study them. Now, Percy is as intelligent as Bill was, if not more, whereas the twins are the most infamous pranksters Hogwarts has ever seen. I have always felt shadowed by them. And I did the first thing I could think of to escape their shadow. Which was to join Slytherin, and to try becoming a better wizard."
His tale ended with a sigh, which he hid with a bite from his steak. But the lord wanted to know more.
"And what about your sister? You did not mention her."
"Ginny, well, she's everyone's favourite. Mine included." And Lord Covan gave him an understanding nod, with no need for any further word.
For quite a while the room stilled, and they all poured themselves into the task of eating. Though not for long.
"Well, let's move on to more serious matters," Lord Covan said then. "It is time to talk about this year's competition. Firstly, I have decided that both of you will compete in the Major of San Francisco without attending any prior tournament. This is, of course, so you do not show your cards to your competition until the time comes. I will take that privilege over experience, in this case."
"But, weren't we supposed to have a certain amount of points to classify the bigger tournaments?" Ron asked, confused. "Or so I had been told."
"You are now part of Nurgon. There are certain privileges within that status. No, as long as you are to represent Nurgon, you will only need points to classify for the World Finals, as does everyone else."
Ah, I see. The famous pureblood privilege. Well, I'm so fed up of swimming against the current. I'm not gonna complain. Indeed he wasn't.
"And that brings us to what I wanted to discuss today," the lord went on. "Your competition. Fortunately, you already know about most of them, as you faced them at Hogsmeade. But there are some you did not see. Of them, the biggest threat is, with no hint of doubt, a boy named Ousmane Diop. Born in Ivory Coast, he studies at Ouagadougou. His wandless magic is outstanding for a boy of fourteen. More so, he is a duellist with no flaws, as he does not rely on a single technique or way."
"And then comes Alexander Shawn, I suppose," Lepenant ventured.
"Indeed," Lord Covan gave a curt nod. "He's the most talented of you all, by far. A wonderkid, I dare to say. However, even if his magic has no flaws, his psyche does. I have known that boy since he sucked on his mother's breast, and I have seen him grow into the wizard he is as of today. Push him against the ropes, break that aura of invincibility he believes himself to have, and he will start making mistakes out of rage and frustration. Then will come a chance, but just one. You must seize then, or else you will lose."
"Honestly, I have thought a freak of him since I saw the way he toyed with Theodore Nott," Ron sighed.
"Theodore Nott proved to us all how much of a fool he was," Lord Covan said firmly. "He is not a talented wizard, and so it happens to his father, Lord James. However, the latter has an outstanding mental fortitude, which along with his incredible work ethic, has allowed the man to grace glory with the tip of his fingers. I do not see the same mind within his son. He will not be a problem."
"And what about Ume Sang-hyeok?" Lepenant wondered. "She defeated both Ronald and I. And put up a decent fight against Alexander."
Ron remembered very well his duel against the Korean girl. Especially how alive he had felt back then. He'd felt one with his magic, euphoric and delighted. But still he'd been defeated. She was a problem, indeed.
"That girl is a very interesting challenger," the lord sighed. "I tried to recruit her myself, but she refused my approach. It struck me as odd, as I do believe she is an apprentice to no one. Anyhow, although strong, she has evident flaws in her game. For starters, she is extremely bad at improvising. She has a very well-structured plan for each fight, but if you manage to shatter it, the duel should be yours. But be warned—do not try to chain spells against her, for her technique is far better than yours. Play it simple and smart. Out of the books, if possible. I believe that is one of your strengths, Ronald."
Ron gave the lord a thankful nod, "Is there anyone else we should know about?"
"I have one more inquiry," Lepenant cut it, then his eyes darted toward Ron. "Will Harry Potter participate this season? For a first timer, his performance was outstanding. If he polishes his technique, and develops a smarter mind for the game, he could become a problem."
"Honestly, I have no idea." They had barely talked about anything other than Umbridge since their first visit to Hogsmeade. "He really enjoyed the competition, that I know, but I don't think his heart is truly on it. Harry loves and enjoys Quidditch far more than duelling."
"A shame, truly," Lord Covan shook his head. "Potter could have thrived under the right , let us not waste our time talking about things we have already discussed. Now it is time to enjoy the feast, for tomorrow will be a tougher day. I would love to hear about your everyday lives while at it."
And so they did. They talked about mundane matters, and they stuffed their stomachs with as much food as possible. It was not very late when the feast ended, or so Ron reckoned as he made his way back to the dormitory he had been given, just a few hallways away from the lord's chambers. When he stormed inside, he just threw himself onto the bed; not bothering to change his clothes. All he did was to pull the covers over himself.
And he closed his eyes, and a dreamless sleep was there to meet him.
Next morning he woke up full of energy. And with a great desire to learn as much as he could for another day. After a quick yet nutritious breakfast, he set his way toward the pits.
Both he and Lepenant arrived at the same time, but Lord Covan was not there to meet them. Instead, it was Jakob who welcomed them. "Okay, you start with physical conditioning. Once you are finished, my father will come to you."
To exercise was all they did for almost an hour. They ran at a regular pace for a bit, then they halted, and their jogging became a sprint through the sand pit. They jumped on one leg for a minute, then with the other. And to sprint again they went back. Then came the push-ups, which Ron did well enough, and then pull-ups on a bar, which he found a most arduous task.
By the time he was finished, his clothes stuck to his body, damped with sweat. He pushed his hair off his eyes. I really need a bloody haircut. Ron then found himself sitting against the grandstands, breathing as if he was a fish out of water. For much he tried, not enough air seemed to pour into his lungs.
"I hate this," Lepenant cursed by his side. Long gone was his regal look from yesterday. Now his blue jacket lay forgotten to his side, and his face, red as a cherry, showed that was in need of air just as much as Ron was. "Thank God it's over. I swear one more sprint is all I needed to fall dead."
Ron could but nod to his words, as he found the task of speaking quite the mighty one.
They were allowed about five minutes of rest, in which Jakob brought them enough water to fill their thirst and some more. Ron wished he could stand up to erase that smirk from the boy's face.
"Come on, don't look at me like that," Jakob laughed. "I've been there, too, you know? Quite a few years ago, but still I know what you feel. If it's any consolation, it becomes more bearable with time."
"Of course," Ron bit back in a whisper. Then he closed his eyes and waited for Lord Covan to appear.
It did not take the lord much to make an act of presence. He stormed into the pits with a firm stride, and the clothes he wore were very similar to theirs, but of white and gold rather than blue and black. "On your feet, now," he barked.
Ron obeyed with a sigh, his legs trembling all the way up. He then halted and took a breath. At least his lungs seemed to work now.
"Good job," Lord Covan said sternly. "Physical condition is a most important aspect of duelling. Along with many others, of course. It should never become the focus of one's program, but it shall never go overlooked either. From now on, you will do this circuit thrice a week in your School. And you will count how much time you need to finish it. Progress cannot be considered unless measured. I expect utmost honesty from you two, for I will notice if you lie to me." Then his features softened a bit, "Well, it is time to jump into the pits. Benjamin, with me. Ronald, you go with Jakob."
Ron was patted on the shoulder by the amused boy, who led him into a regular pit, whose floor was of simple stone. "I won't be too harsh on you, I promise," he said with a smirk. "We are gonna work on the basics as a warm-up. Then, we will move onto spell chains and more complex aspects. Just as we did yesterday."
To chain spells was a strange thing. One could not give too much thought to it, as they would miss the timing and break it. But one could not be too thoughtless either, as a single mistake in the order or technique would also break it. In his case, Ron could chain as many spells as he wanted if they were of a simple nature, as those which he had come to master were. It was an aspect of his game he had spent hours at yesterday.
"Don't try the Blasting Curse in the middle of the chain!" Jakob barked. "Use it to finish it, not before! And don't mix the Severing Charm and the Disarming Spell so much! Your damn chain is far too predictable!" But his complaints did not end there, "Two stunners in a row? What are you, a damn copy machine! Yes, that was better! No, don't do that again! Watch your feet, you damn moron! Coordinate your movements—feet, hand and eye!"
There came a moment in which Ron did not know what he was doing. His wand felt natural in his hand, almost an extension of it. It felt warm, too much, almost hot to the touch. But he took delight in that feeling. At some point of the drill he came to link seven different spells in a row, then he did it again, and again, and finished the chain with a Blasting Curse, which flew like an orange arrow toward a target at the end of the pit.
It exploded in a thousand fragments.
"Bravo!" Jakob clapped. "That was neat! Much better than before!"
Ron stood breathless for a moment, red-faced and sweaty. He glanced down at his wand, and saw it as still as ever. Not as it felt, as if fire against his skin.
"You feel it, eh?" Jakob smiled. "That rush of adrenaline. The goosebumps as magic flows through your body, as warm as the embrace of a mother. It happens to us all. In fact, such a thing is what hooked me to this sport." He then closed the distance between them, "Now, I'm sorry to pop your bubble, but we need to move onto the next drill. And to a different pit, too. This one won't be as fulfilling as the previous, I'm afraid. Still, be assured that I will speak wonders of your progress to my father."
True to his word, Ron found the next drill a much harder one.
His wand was left forgotten into the pockets of his jacket. Then he became a target himself, and Jakob's wand was a mighty force to face. "Don't hesitate so much!" the pureblood heir barked. "Trust your left leg more! Are you invalid or what? Don't roll unless necessary, it will put you at a great disadvantage! Mind your jumps! Nice sidestep!"
The speed and accuracy in which all those spells rocketed from his wand was one to be in awe of. Obviously, Ron was hit many times. And not by harmless spells, but by Stinging Charms. One after another they hit, and every part of his body they touched went numb for a bit. Until, finally, he slipped and fell face down to the sand.
"Halt!" Jakob shouted.
"About bloody time," Ron grunted from the ground, his mouth full of sand. He was offered a hand to stand up, and he took it, mouthing to himself the many foul words he had in the tip of his tongue. "Is this the way you train everyone here? If so, it's a bloody miracle you have a bloody apprentice."
"These drills are only for those we consider good enough. So, you better consider yourself lucky."
"Oh, what a bloody luck, then!" But still he prepared himself for the next try. "Any advice?"
"Well, not one I haven't shouted to you already," Jakob said with a shrug. "You really need to use your left leg more. I get that you are a close rightie, as I was like you many years ago. But it's a serious flaw, and anyone with a brain would pick up on it instantly. Your sidestep is on point, though. And for a rookie, you don't panic and roll or jump at first sight of danger. That's something I rarely see."
"That was a lesson I learned long ago," Ron sighed. "Thanks to Theodore bloody Nott."
"Well, then, he did not do such a good job." That said, the hellish drill began yet again.
This time Ron did try to correct his mistake. It only took him a minute to see how right Jakob's advice had been. He was still hit by many spells, but not so many when compared to the first time. In the end, he fell down yet again, even more exhausted than before. But when he stood up with Jakob's help once more, there was a glint of satisfaction within the older boy's eyes.
"We'll do it one more time. And this one, it will be a real thing."
After ten minutes of rest, in which he drank a ton of water and ate a delicious snack he was offered, Ron felt ready to take on the challenge yet again. Only then did he understand what Jakob had meant by those words.
The many spells which came at him did it with the same speed and accuracy as before, like shooting stars, but they no longer were of a single kind. Wand and hand alike worked by Jakob's command. First it was a stunner, which he barely dodged. Then came a streak of wind which sent him rolling backwards. But Ron was quick to stand up, and then he made a decision.
"Use the Sense," he could hear Gerd's voice from the distance. "Do not rely on the Anticipation nor on me solely. Exploit all your strengths." And so he did.
It took him a while to identify the feeling each spell had, almost like a signature. Those by his hand were easier to feel, as the power within them was far more uncontrolled, and those by wand were so subtle, thanks to his polished technique, that he could barely feel them.
Stunner, now. Fire jet, now. Stinging Charm, now. Stunner yet again, and now comes a Depulso, but directed at the sand. Many bits of sand were blown away by the spell. Oh, shit! He's gonna transfigure them into… They fused into sandstone jail, whose open bars were quick to close upon him. In a desperate attempt Ron tried to blow them away with a wandless Depulso, but his spell simply lacked the strength to push them away.
He fell to his knees as the sandstone bars closed around his ankles and wrists with surprising flexibility. He felt stupid, as he could have seen through Jakob's trick, yet he had lacked brains and skill.
However, his disappointment was blown away by a sudden clapping. "That was really impressive," Jakob said. There was no smile on his face for the first time since they'd known each other. "Really. It has been long since I last felt the need to try harder against an apprentice in this drill." The sandstone bars disappeared as if carried away by the wind. The specs of sand stuck to his damped clothes.
"For real?"
"I'm not one to lie, Ronald." His hand pulled the redhead up on his feet for a third time. "My father will be most pleased to hear this. We still have a long way to go if we wanna make a good duellist out of you, of course. Many things to polish, and many stupid fixations in your game to get rid off. Also, your spell repertory is a rather poor one, from what little of it I saw yesterday. Mainly because you barely use Transfiguration and the likes. And although you have great decision making, you are far too slow to come up with a change of plans. Not to talk about the fact you need to take a few hits to learn from them."
"Thank you," Ron said sourly. "I feel much better now. Full of hopes."
"Take it as you will," Jakob said with a shrug, "but I myself am not one for sweet words. Those are for the pureblood children, to satisfy their ego and mediocrity. As of today you have much to improve, which is logical."
And to improve on those many fields is all he did, though by a different hand this time.
"Your wand's core is of Thunderbird's feathers, right?" Lord Covan asked. "Or so I recall from yesterday's feast."
"That it is, my Lord."
"If so, I wonder why you use so little Transfiguration each time you duel. It should come naturally to you, from your wand. Almost like a demand."
"Well, honestly, I wouldn't know how to answer," Ron replied as his legs swung from his seat atop the post's edge. "As I told you yesterday, most of my experience was obtained when duelling Theodore Nott. With him, it was all a matter of spell after spell. And I adapted best as I could to his style, as I considered him to be the better wizard. Very few times he did use Transfiguration in our duels, though successfully when he did. However, I must say that I have always been good at it, at least in class."
"But those were of a simpler nature, and not oriented to combat," Lord Covan pointed out. "That would be another lecture to carry home. The first of many, though one at a time."
Which is all they did for the day—one lecture at a time.
Harry strode into the field as the wind blew all those shouts to them.
Ahead of the line walked Wood, his stride firm as his red cape waved behind. Then came George and Fred, bats on their shoulders and waving at the crowd, and the chasers, Angelina, Alicia and Katie, way more serious and focused.
And at last came Harry, trying to force his mind into the game. But how could he, when he still felt shocked to the core? For the past weeks, since his incident with Macnair, the boy had believed the Quidditch season to be over for him. Because so had been Umbridge's words, adorned by a most cruel smirk. But then came this weekend, in which Gryffindor would face Hufflepuff, and he had been summoned to her office yet again.
And she had allowed him to play once more.
"Harry, focus on the bloody game!" Wood barked then.
Only then did Harry take notice of his teammates. They all stood in a close circle, heads all gathered around Wood's, eyes glancing at him and brows raised to the skies.
"Oh, sorry," the boy apologised, running toward them. Focus, you bloody idiot. The season is on the line, and we all promised Wood we would win the Cup in his last year.
Not even the strong gale nor the hundreds of voices above could silence their captain, "Here it is, lads and lasses," he started. "Our season, the one and only. My last. In these past two years, we lost the Cup when all we had to do was to lift it, thanks to some unfortunate events. Slytherin was crowned victorious then, and they sure take it a task to let us know about that. However, this ends today. We are a far better team. Far better players. And we deserve the Cup far more than them. I want to see passion in your game, but also wits and mind. I want no stupid quaffle losses, nor missed bludgers, nor a single one-man-army. Diggory is their one and only threat today. Keep an eye on him, and the game will be ours. That's all. Go out there and have fun."
Harry mounted his broom with a nod, and soared into the winds. It took him little to raise above the castle itself, and from up there he took a look down. They all seemed like ants, no matter which colour they wore. He flew so high that he did not hear the whistle, and only knew the game had just begun when a bludger was sent his way.
Look for the snitch, but also keep an eye on Diggory. The bludger followed him up close, because he allowed it. He's gone for a not-so-high scanning of the field. Should I mirror his strategy? Fred then came to his aid and sent the bludger away. A loud clamour came from the lion's area, red and orange confetti filling the grandstands with even more colour. No, I should stick to what my instinct says. It's the way I play.
But it seemed the snitch would take its time today.
Katie went on to score the next three goals for the lions, and Wood's spectacular defence kept their spirits up. Fred and George seemed to be everywhere, and the bludgers could only hope to grace a Gryffindor player before being sent away. Soon enough they led by a hundred points. Such a score had silenced the field, as now it only was one area of the grandstand which was lit. But still they remained glued to their seats, as the snitch had yet the power to crown a team victorious.
And the feast continued as Harry and Diggory looked for the snitch.
The older boy tried a feint yet again, but Harry did not buy it. And then again. Wait a moment. With a kick to the air Harry soared past the chasers. There was a faint gleam of gold at the end of the field, near the Gryffindor's posts. The crowd's shouts filled the field yet again as the two seekers flew for the snitch. But Diggory was way ahead of him, as luck had it for the snitch to appear close to him.
Yet Harry did not surrender, and leaned into his broom as much as his body allowed him; so much he almost became one with the stick. The wind flew past him, like a caress. It made him smile, regardless of how against him the odds were. His Nimbus seemed to shout too, euphoric, as they caught up with Diggory. Now they flew down, and ground got closer, and closer, and closer…
Harry reached forward with his arm, fingers wide open… And his fist closed around the snitch as he abruptly swerved upwards. Fist raised into the skies he shouted victory; so loud his eardrums rumbled. His team was quick to gather around him, and they ran over him in such a way a bludger would have been jealous.
"I love you!" Wood shouted, patting him so hard on the back he was almost dismounted.
"Harry, Harry, Harry!" the twins sang. "What a lad you are! Thin like a fiddle, quick like an eagle! The field is yours, and to acclaim you is what we ought! To you flies the snitch, and yours is the pitch!"
Katie, Angelina and Alicia remained a tad calmer, but her shouts and claps were also of outstanding intensity. What followed next happened in a blurry. All Harry did remember was the fact he flew down, then he walked to the locker room to have a shower as the songs continued, and that he finally stood alone in the cold afterwards.
His damp hair fell all over his forehead, but he felt far too spent to worry about it. His broom rested by his side, laid over the wooden grandstand. And up there, all alone, a thought carved its way into his mind. Why did Umbridge allow me to play today? She hates me with all her soul. He feared this was a plan of hers to punish him even more. Perhaps to allow him to taste the sweet honey to then strip it all from him when it most mattered? That could be it, he reckoned.
A sudden voice startled the boy so much he almost jumped out of his seat. "Quite the stellar performance you and your team showed today." When he turned around, he found a tall woman of short, brown hair. She wore some black trousers, with a thick robe of green above it all. There was a strange blazon sewed into her robes, one he could not identify. "I was told there was a lot of talent in Hogwarts. But I did not expect so much of it."
"Who are you?" Harry asked, confused.
"The name's Irene Ross," she replied, taking a seat by the boy's side, "and I do belong to the European Federation of Quidditch." Those words managed to take a breath out of Harry, whose eyes searched hers. Yet her gaze remained set on the field, though a faint smile could be seen. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions now. But you shall wait a bit. I am a woman of few words, and I do not fancy explaining myself thrice."
All the questions he had about Umbridge fell to the back of his mind then. And he did not have to wait much, for those other two persons she had mentioned arrived shortly after. First came Tracey, wearing so thick a robe only her eyes could be seen under the hood. She too looked surprised to see him there, but did not have time to utter a word as the last guest arrived. And it was Katie Bell who walked toward them, dressed in Gryffindor's colours.
Ross then spoke up, "At last I can proceed. Well, let's start with the main inquiry. As I told Harry, my name is Irene Ross, and I belong to the European Federation of Quidditch. It was me who sent you those letters, Tracey and Katie. Oh, by the way, do take a seat. That's better. Now, about my sudden appearance here. It was a few months ago when I was contacted by Headmistress Umbridge, and she almost begged me to come here, to see the School's teams play. I did not pay much attention to her words at first, but then, out of curiosity, I spoke to a friend of mine. Her name is Minerva McGonagall. I'm sure you do know her. Anyway, she told me that there was huge talent here. More so, she spoke wonders about her little lions. Of course she did!"
"May I…, ask something?" Katie cut in, as lost as the other two. "Not to sound rude, of course, but is there a reason why you gathered us three here? In the cold?"
"I like it cold," Ross smirked. "But I will do you a favour and be blunt about my coming here. I'm the Federation's scout, and so, it is my duty to recruit young talents for the European Team. As it happens, you three have caught my eye. So, it's a pleasure to announce that you have been called to the next technification conference, which will take place in March. Though the week is yet to be decided."
No one could utter a word.
"And well?" Ross asked, brow raised into the skies. "Did the Kneazel eat your tongues?"
"Is this for real?" Tracey spluttered.
"Seriously?" Katie echoed.
And Harry was most eloquent, as per usual. "What does this mean?"
"Yes, it is for real," Ross sighed. "And it means that you will have a chance to get selected into the European Team for this summer's championship. And I said a chance, for nothing is yet decided. For a week you will compete with the best players, under fifteen, the continent has to offer. If you manage to convince the team's officials that you are among the best, then you are in. But be assured that, whatever might happen then, just being preselected is a great honour not many can boast about."
She finally stood up, then smoothed her long robes, "Now, before I go, allow me to congratulate you three. You two, Harry Potter and Katie Bell, really impressed me today. It was total dominance since the whistle was blown. And you, Tracey Davis, well, your performance against Ravenclaw was one of the best I have ever seen for a player about your age. And trust me when I say that I've seen countless games."
The three of them could but nod to her words. She gave them the hint of a smirk before walking away. Soon enough only the cold wind was there to make them company.
"What has just happened?" Katie mused.
"You tell me," Tracey said. She then untightened the scarf around her neck, and pinched her cheek so hard it left a red mark there. "Ouch! It ain't a dream, definitely."
But Harry was in no dreamy mood. Instead his mind brought another thought up to the surface. "Umbridge allowed me to play today. And Umbridge contacted this woman."
It wasn't until Katie spoke that he realised he'd said that aloud. "Well, she has repeated many times that she wanted to make Hogwarts famous again," the Gryffindor said with a shrug. Two pairs of eyes fell instantly upon her. "Hmh? Did I say any nonsense?"
Tracey and Harry looked at each other.
"Actually," the Slytherin began, "what you said made a lot of sense. To have three students selected for such an elite event? I doubt there is a higher honour for a School than this. More so if we manage to make the cut."
"So," Harry mused, "if I make it into the team, I will be handling that bitch her so-desired win…"
Katie slapped him on the arm. Strongly. "Do not dare to even think that, Harry! You earned this with your talent and effort. Just like Davis and I did. I know very well how much you love Quidditch. No matter how much you hate that woman, don't you dare to refuse this chance just to spite her."
"She's right," Tracey sighed. "I do hate that woman, too, just as I hate dancing to her tune. But I love Quidditch far more. I have always dreamt of playing for my House, but this… This is far too much better. Far more wonderful. And the chance came because I never gave up, even when all the odds were against me. I will go to this camp regardless of how it might benefit her. I will not allow Umbridge to strip me of my real passion."
"Very well said," Katie nodded. "And you will come too, Harry. Even if I need to drag you with me. The two of us will represent Gryffindor." The boy was about to argue back, but she was quick to silence him, "Do not make me tell this to Oliver. He will hammer all this nonsense out of your head in a most unpleasant way. You know that as well as I do."
In the end, Harry could do nothing but to promise them he would not allow his hatred to strip him of such opportunity. And that night, as he had trouble sleeping, as he rolled in his bed for a thousandth time, he did wonder whether he had made the best decision.
Ron stepped through the warmth with a limp.
Simply to still be able to walk was a wonder, he reckoned. All he wanted to do right now was to throw himself into his bed and pull the warm covers over his body. Yet the walk down to the dungeons was a long one. And it seemed that it would need to wait.
"I hope your stance at Nurgon was a most prosperous one," Umbridge said. "For the sake of your friends, I do hope our partnership truly ends up well."
The woman stood in front of her chamber's door, dressed in bright red. There was no mocking smirk on her face, nor trace of a frown. But her words contained a touch of warning which did not go unnoticed by the redhead.
"You make sure to treat my friends well," Ron replied, "and I make sure to represent Hogwarts well. I gave you my word. And the word of a Weasley is a sacred thing."
"I hope so," the woman gave a firm nod. "Did Lord Redfield mention my name? Or Hogwarts, at least."
"No, he did not. Nurgon is all he cares about. To him, I'm not a student from Hogwarts. I'm his apprentice."
"I see. Off you go, then."
Ron did that gladly. His way down through those cold, silent hallways felt endless. He'd thought for the night to be much younger than it was. Somewhere in the second floor he crossed paths with a Hufflepuff Prefect—a fifth-year girl whose name he didn't know.
"If you doubt my word, go and ask the Headmistress about it," Ron grunted, far too tired to deal with his prying girl. "I'm sure she will be delighted to explain it all. More so in such late hours." The mention of Umbridge's name was enough to drain the colour of her face. She finally allowed Ron to continue his walk.
He sighed in relief as the common room's door slid open for him; its warmth embracing him like an old friend. There was no one inside, and embers danced in the barely-lit fireplaces. It smelled of lavender.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?" a voice startled him. He knew very well to whom it belonged.
"I'm so very sorry, Tracey," Ron sighed, scratching the back of his neck as he put on his most apologetic features. "I should have told you that I was to leave the School for the weekend, I know. But it all came so suddenly I barely had time to prepare my things. Again, I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
The girl's frown remained a mighty one. "So, you disappear for two days without saying a word, having in mind how awful the situation is here, and you come back with such words of excuse alone? You boys are incredible, hmpf."
"I was invited for the weekend to a duelling academy," Ron explained with a sigh. "Nurgon's the name. Don't know if you've heard of it." The way her eyes open in surprise told him she had, indeed, heard of it. "I was introduced to Lord Redfield back during the Minor of Hogsmeade, and, well, he kind of invited me there. Also, I kind of became his apprentice."
"For real?" Ron just replied with a nod. "Well, that's something, certainly," she said eloquently. "It isn't all that happened this weekend, though. I have a long story to tell you." And tell a story she did. And Ron's eyes opened in surprise, just as hers had done minutes ago. "So, you could say it was also quite an eventful weekend for me."
Among all her words, there were a few which had carved their way into his mind. "And this Irene Ross said that it was Umbridge who invited her here? That she almost begged her to attend yesterday's game? Bloody bitch from hell!"
Tracey blinked at his reaction, "What's the matter?"
"She tricked me!" Ron growled. "Yesterday, Umbridge made a pact with me. I would give my best out there and represent Hogwarts, and, in exchange, she would leave you all alone and allow Harry to play Quidditch once more. But she was gonna do that regardless of what I said, as she wanted the scout to recruit him. And now I have given her my word. And to Lord Covan, too."
A sombre idea stormed its way through his mind. But Tracey was quick to put an end to it. "Don't you bloody dare to think about wasting this opportunity just to spite her," the girl warned, to which Ron asked a wordless question with a blink of his eyes. "I've already had this conversation today. Harry thought the same, yet Katie Bell slapped that nonsense out of his mind. I will do the same with you, if necessary. Trust me that I'm in the mood for a good slapping."
"Consider me as warned," Ron said sourly. Then he took a seat on the closest couch. It was cold, yet soft and comfortable. Tracey followed him, taking a seat in front of him, frown still on her face. "I hate to admit this, but that bloody woman is far more intelligent than I first thought. Not only did she outplay Dumbledore and all of us individually. She even gets me and Harry to dance to her tune. And now we both are set to follow our dreams. Which will make her fulfil all those promises she swore to the people of this country. We have become his best agents, the four of us."
"It is what it is," Tracey sighed. Those words managed to get a mirthless smile out of him—the very same words he and Gerd had repeated countless times. "I hate that woman with all my might, but I love Quidditch far more. This is my dream, one I've fought really hard for. She will not strip me of it. I will play at the highest level, and then, someday, I will stop her. No. We will stop her. All of us, together."
Ron could but close his eyes to those words. Though he finally gave them a nod. How could he not, when Tracey sounded so sure of them? Almost like a seer.
A confidence Ron truly lacked as of today.
