Hello there, again!
Consumption, what a mighty and terrible word. Feared by many, and with a reason. I have seen it plenty. Read it plenty. Known it plenty from others. Never in my own flesh, fortunately.
There are many kinds of Consumption known to the Wizarding Kind. Accidents, most of them, committed by fools and buffons who overreached. Willing atrocities, few of them, invented by the most perverse minds to ever exist. I am obliged to mention that, under any circumstance, should they be mistook by the loss of magical capacities due to severe psychological trauma. This being said, I shall resume.
They are also a most varied kind in terms of grade of graveness.
There's total Consumption, when one loses their affinity toward magic. And it is gone, just like that, to never return. Once a solid and real bond, severed like a rope by a sharp knife. My eyes have been witness to plenty of proud wizards who became what they despised the most: squibs. Poor souls, those were. Death was a merciful thing for them.
There's too partial Consumption, when the bond is not fully severed. I have seen this way less. More often in children than adults. I have theorised this might be because their magical core was not fully grown, so to deplete a growing source of energy is not the same as to deplete a mature one. This usually lasts a few weeks, though I have seen quite a few cases in which they became months. And just once, I have seen a child lose their magic for years. That is a story for another day, however.
Lawrence the Third, in 'Magic, and all I dare to say about it', chapter 23.
Chapter 58 - The wheel spins and spins
Ron woke up to the beat of the hammer against his head. Or so it felt.
It took him a few seconds to sit up, and it took his eyes a while longer to get used to the blinding light from above. And a question arose in his mind—where the hell was he? The memories flooded his mind, then. He'd duelled Shawn in a most challenging fight. He'd been about to lose, and Gerd had come in his aid. And there had been a red flash before the world turned black.
"I see you are awake," a familiar voice said.
It was Gerd's, who had taken a seat at the end of the bed. It was then when Ron finally glanced around. It was a small room, delimited by thick, white curtains instead of solid walls. There was a little nightstand to his left, where a few flasks had been set; one contained a liquid of a deep red, the other had water.
"Where am I?" he managed to ask with a raspy voice. "What happened?"
"Well, you still are in Silverbay's colosseum," the Essentia replied. "In its medical wing, to be precise. They took you here right after the duel ended. It's been several hours since then, I believe. And in regards to the other question… Well, both Shawn and you took each other out at the same time. A tie, much to everyone's shock."
"A bloody tie? Really?" Ron laid back and closed his eyes—had he ever felt this bruised and exhausted?
He was about to voice out his complaints, but the sudden noise of an opening door made him still. And the curtains were finally slid open, just for more light to seep into the room. So much and so sudden he had to shield his eyes with his hands.
"How are you feeling, Ronald?"
The voice belonged to a short and plump Medi-Witch, dressed in all white. Her voice was kind and soft, almost soothing, and so were her brown eyes. One couldn't say the same about her hands, though. More so after they kind of obliged the redhead to drink the red potion when he kind of refused it.
"This will make you feel better," she pointed out. "Don't be so stubborn and drink it in one go. It has a bad taste, I know, but it shouldn't be a problem for a boy so young and strong. Oh, that's it. It wasn't so bad, right?"
It was so bad, indeed.
"I feel tired," Ron replied with a raspy voice. "As tired as I've ever been, honestly."
"Well, that is to be expected," she hummed. "But I'm happy to tell you that all your bruises have already been dealt with. All those bandages, especially those over your chest, belly and thighs will need to be kept for about a day. Oh, and this wound right in between your eyes, I'm afraid it will scar; it just refused to close."
"Oh, that's a cut from a few years ago. Courtesy of a dear friend, let's say."
She raised a brow, "One sure does not need enemies with the likes of your friend. Anyhow, it makes sense. A once scarred wound which is opened again will not heal so well. Oh, and before you get scared. You may find a lot of trouble with your magic in the near future."
Ron could but blink, "Say again?"
"Your usage of magic in the duel was very reckless and demanding, young man. Imagine your magical core as a fruit, one you squeezed dry and beyond. When one reaches such a point, there's always lasting damage; every action comes with its consequences. Nothing serious in your case, of course. Just a troublesome bother in the upcoming weeks, more so given the fact you are a student."
"But it will get back to normal, right?"
"That's what I said. Now, you are going to dress up and come to my office. I will give you some potions you'll have to drink this week. And then you'll be free to go. I believe there's a pair of boys waiting outside." That said, she left in a hurry; the white curtains of the room flapping to her leave.
Ron, however, was still thinking about her words. "Carpe Retractum!" He aimed his hand at one of the flasks over the table, expecting a light cord to be born out of his fingers. Yet nothing happened, and panic made an act of presence with a roar.
"Keep your calm," Gerd said soothingly. "I've seen this happen a thousand times. Foolish boys who tried to reach further than they were supposed to. Their magic came back to them in not so long a time, and it brought a new and precious lesson with it. It will happen the same to you."
"I feel naked," Ron admitted with a shiver. He also searched within him, delving into his magical core, where his aura had always awaited for his touch. There was nothing there, either. A sigh escaped from his lips, "It is what it is, I guess. No point trying to solve a problem which cannot be solved for the time being. I'll trust your word, just as that lady's."
It took Ron a while to get dressed, so tired he still felt. Unlike him, his uniform looked firm and regal; sewed back into its former glory. His wand was there, too, into its main pocket. He could but grab it, spurred by a strange kind of anxiousness. It felt warm to the touch, as per usual, and it brought a semblance of safety back to him.
He made it outside, at last; to a large room full of couches and chairs, its walls of a creamy-brown shade. And there he was welcomed to a most amusing sight. Jakob had taken a couch all for himself, and he laid there, sprawled like a doll and deep into slumber; there was a faint trail of droll seeping from the corners of his mouth. Benji, however, was sitting on a chair, his eyes also tightly closed yet with no trace of droll on his face, unfortunately.
An idea popped into Ron's mind.
He clapped his hands as loud as he could; so strong the palm of his hands itched for almost a minute. But he didn't achieve his desired ambition. He did wake up the two boys, indeed, but there was no surprise nor fear to them. Benji just opened his green eyes in a flash, looking as awake as an owl amidst the night. And Jakob, he just groaned in protest as he stretched like a cat.
"Nice try, you witless ginger," the pureblood boy said amidst a deep yawn. "Go ask my sister for advice, if you want to scare me out of sleep."
"And you?" Ron asked the French.
"I'm a light sleeper," Benji replied with a shrug. "Loud and sudden noises don't bother me much." He sprung to his feet and stretched, though not so flashily as Jakob. "How do you feel?"
"Like a pile of shit," Ron said. "I've never been so tired in my life, really. And the potions that lady gave me, they are horrible! To think I need to drink them twice a day for the upcoming week…" He would skip them, save for the fact she'd told him it would be unwise to do so if he wanted to restore his depleted magic as soon as possible.
"And your magic?" Jakob asked, also back on his feet. "Is it gone?" Ron titled his head in response, out of words. "Been there, done that! It was the year before I finally got my crown. No one can say I didn't try hard enough, that's for sure." His words managed to shoo away a bit of Ron's distress, even if that hadn't been his intention.
"I wish I could say the same," Benji huffed, "but I wasn't granted the chance."
Again did Ron tilt his head, though in the opposite direction, "What do you mean?"
"Little Benji means that he got his shit beat out of him," Jakob chuckled. "That boy, Ousmane Diop, well, he really ended their duel when he felt like it. He's one of a kind, honestly. If he was my age, I don't know if I would beat him."
"But it was a kind beating," Benji observed, a slight touch of annoyance in his voice. "Just a few scratches and punches, and then, bam, he put me to sleep. Diop wasn't so feral as he was in his duel against Bastian Gunther. Which I really appreciate." It was then when Ron noticed the little bands in his face.
It took Ron a moment to put two and two together, yet he found no answer to the mystery. "What the hell happened while I was gone?"
"The world did not stop for you," Jakob said. "The tournament went on, and Benji got to face Diop—and you already know how that ended. Now comes the funny part, though. Given the fact both you and Shawn had tied, the Federation was quite lost. They could, perhaps, wait for the two of you to wake up and duel each other again. But the Medi-Witch in charge said you would be in no condition to fight so soon."
"Because of that," Benji cut in, "they came up with another solution. Diop was crowned victor of this Major, and I was given the silver medal. Whereas Shawn and you would keep your top-four finish, yet without a medal nor honours."
"There is a but coming next, right?" Ron ventured. "I can almost taste it."
"But," Jakob added, "Shawn refused to accept that. He woke up several hours ago, as lively and proud as always. Yet with a cold fury in his eyes never seen before. He stormed out of the colosseum before the official could finish his speech; though I don't think he even came to hear a single word of hers. Because of that, the Federation has disqualified him; official reason being his lack of respect toward the competition and organisation. So… Congratulations are in order, my friend! You've got the bronze medal all for yourself!"
Ron blinked, trying to process those words. Had he really finished on the podium? There seemed to not be any trace of mock in Jakob's face. His grin was a happy one. "So, a bronze medal," he hummed, at last.
"Quite the incredible feat to achieve in your first tournament," the pureblood heir nodded. "I'm so very proud of you two. In the name of Nurgon, yet also in mine, as your friend and mentor." He patted them both on the shoulder, beckoning them to follow him outside. "And these medals, they are way more than pretty metals. They grant you a pass to the season finals without the need to fight for the points."
Jakob took them through the ample and bright hallways of the colosseum. A picture Ron had seen countless times this weekend, yet one to feel different now. It took him little to discover what was amiss. The noise. The lack of it, to be precise. No shouts nor chants nor claps. The place was silent as a graveyard.
"My father will come to see us tonight," Jakob told them. "He's incredibly proud, too. Hell, I don't remember the last time I saw him so happy and proud. Perhaps since Edmund Gunther made his debut. Anyway, that's a matter of no importance to you. Now comes the best. Do enjoy it."
Ron crossed a great arc of stone, and he was welcomed once more into the arena. He glanced around, and was surprised to find out how large the colosseum really was. Now that there were no people to fill the stands, it felt enormous. More so under the moon's veil, so faint and pure.
Ousmane Diop stood not so far from its centre, and to his sides stood two officials from the Federation. One carried a wooden vault in his hands, whereas the woman carried a bunch of laurel wreaths. She was the one to beckon them closer.
"How do you feel, Ronald?" the tall man asked. "Recovered enough?"
"So thought the Medi-Witch," Ron replied with a shrug. "I feel exhausted, but not in pain. You could say I'm fine, I guess."
"That's good to hear! What a duel you and Shawn gave us! The best I've ever seen in this category, for sure! All the hearts seemed to beat as one, so into the duel all the spectators were. And when it ended and the two of you fell at the same time, not a word was uttered for a minute. And the ovation they gave you, it was the loudest ever."
Ron thanked his compliments with a nod of his head. It was all he could do, given how much his limbs seemed to weigh; and that included his tongue, which refused to move unless necessary.
The woman cleared her throat, then. "It was incredible, yes. But we aren't here to talk about it, right? Unfortunately, given the unexpected finale of the tournament, the closing ceremony could not be held as planned. In fact, these awards were meant to be handed over by the great Leon Krause himself. Though it seems he's not a man to enjoy waiting, as he left the city not even an hour after the final ended."
She signalled the man to open the vault. Insided lay three medals, of gold and silver and bronze, with a white cord tied at the top of their circular surface. If looked closely, one could see different shades to the metal. There was a brightest circle in the inside, with their names and the colosseum of Silverbay carved there, and it faded into a darker shade as it went out.
"Again," the woman went on, "we are so terribly sorry to make this ceremony such a poor one. I'm no Leon Krause, and my hands are not worthy to be put into song. Still I am so honoured to see the three of you blossom into stars. Here, gold for the champion; he who displayed a fiery determination never seen before." Diop accepted his medal with a curt nod of his head; and so the gold and the lauren wreath found a home in his neck and head.
"Here, silver for the relentless; he who stands so close to victory and whose perseverance will see him crowned victorious one day." Benji accepted his medal with a nod of his head, feeling its weight on his neck as his eyes took delight in its beautiful craft.
"Here, bronze for the warrior who did not coward in front of a mighty foe; he who proved there is no impossible feat as long as there is heart and effort to the task." Ron accepted the bronze, his neck almost failing to resist the weight of the disk of metal. Yet it rose tall and proud, having read his name carved into the metal.
Because he, for once, was able to take pride in something he had achieved with his work and effort. And when the flash of the camera broke the night to blind them and to immortalise the moment, he gave it a wide and tired smile.
There was a cold touch to the night, spurred by the sea's breeze, which made Ron tighten the cloak around his body. Still it made good to his pained muscles. He'd taken a seat on the very docks he'd met Diop last night, legs dangling past the edge once more. Though there was a change, for a heavy medal still hung from his neck.
It was funny how his eyes did not seem to know where to look upon—up to that sky full of stars, or down to that disk of coppery metal.
The night had begun with a huge feast, paid and set by Lord Covan himself. To say Ron had eaten good was to put it short, as he'd devoured each and every dish set in front of him; from succulent and gushing seafood to tender and delicious meat. And it had been a feast filled with laughs and smiles, shared even by the ever-stoic lord; a sight so rare even his own son had greatly enjoyed.
Once it had ended, Jakob had risen up from his seat so fiercely and euphoric it had scared Ron. One would think such merriment came from his own success, yet it came from that of his friends. He'd taken both Ron and Benji by the arms, ready to take them into the night of Silverbay and its many wonders. Ron, however, had argued that he was far too tired for that. And that he wanted a bit of time for himself under the moon's veil.
So here he was, with a most troubling thought firmly set in his mind.
"I'm bloody rich," he mused for the hundredth time.
Perhaps he wasn't so rich, more so when compared to those of pure birth he'd come to know since his sorting into Slytherin. But to someone who had grown into poverty, to a boy who once swore along with his brothers to never ask for anything which wasn't necessary, such an amount of gold felt like a fortune. Because that's what five-hundred galleons were. A small fortune.
Ron had no idea what to do with so much money.
He'd implored Lord Covan to keep it safe in Nurgon, for Ron had no vault in Gringotts to store it. Though his first thought had been of a different nature—to give it to their parents so they could use it as they thought best. Then he'd remembered they didn't even know he was here, for he'd joined Nurgon without their approval. And that was a long conversation he dreaded.
Though his dilemma came to an abrupt end.
It was Gerd's leave which surprised him; so silent a companion she'd been that night, as no words seemed to be necessary between them anymore. And then came some faint footsteps from behind; short and tentative. Ron turned around, just to find Daphne making her way through the docks.
"Finally I found you!" she exclaimed. "Oh, you have no idea how much I've walked tonight! I ran into your friends, the Redfield heir and the blond muggleborn, and they told me you weren't in the mood to celebrate. And he was rather tipsy, that Jakob. He's quite the lively boy for such a stern father he has. "
Ron blinked in response, at a loss for words at first. "I thought you were gone. Back to Ilvermorny."
Daphne came to stand to his left, then dropped herself on the wooden surface with a tired sigh. "I should've gone back to Ilvermorny, but I wanted to say goodbye to you." She wore that long and brown coat of hers, full buttoned and up to her chin. Then her blue eyes fell upon him, and a wide smirk was drawn in her face, "Seems to me that you are quite fond of that medal, aren't you?"
Her teasing didn't get a blush out of him, as it would've done last year. Instead Ron gave her a soft smile, raising up the medal with his hand so she could see it better. "My name's carved here, right above the colosseum. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Her smirk was replaced by a similar smile to Ron's, "It truly is."
And then came silence, full and heavy.
It seemed none of them knew what to talk about. She'd come here for a farewell, one neither of them knew how to begin. And the night seemed to grow tired of such nonsense, for the wind became colder and rougher. One took shelter in his cloak, another in her coat. And Daphne moved closer to him.
"Not the best spot to run the night," Daphne observed sarcastically, which got a snort out of Ron. "So in the open, with nothing to shelter one from the sea wind."
"Perhaps not," he replied, "but it has something to it. It isn't beauty, for the sea is as black as coal. But the noise of the waves, with this salty smell and this calm so unfamiliar to the city, I just find it so nice a place. So different to Hogwarts, yet similar in a way I cannot put into words."
"This world is truly incredible, isn't it?" Daphne mused dreamily, eyes up into the star-filled sky. "I've always dreamed of visiting each and every corner of the globe. I blame the fantasy books I've always loved to read since I was a child. To discover all the wonders it could offer. The ancient temples and castles of old; the new cities built by the wizards and witches of the present and past ages; up the mountains and into the sky, and down the caves and into deep and old caverns. And its fauna and flora. Trees as tall as towers and flowers as bright as jewels; animals of myths and songs, from flying birds and fishes from the depths to firecats and kneazles. Not predators nor scary places, though. I can live without them."
The wind took pity on them, for it blew softer until it became a cold caress. Still they remained under the shelter of their warm clothes.
"I didn't know you had such dreams," Ron said softly.
She gave him a faint laugh; was that a sad touch he felt in it?
"Because I've never told anyone. Not my parents, nor my sister. In fact, I don't know why I told you. It just felt right, I guess. You told me so much about yourself yesterday—about the Heir of Slytherin and the horrors he made you commit. And I guess… Well, it's also a way to make up for all the time we lost. Which I threw to the bin by leaving you. Am I not quite the selfish girl? Trying to fix up the unfixable…"
"Aren't we all selfish in one way or another?" Ron asked sourly. A question to which he expected no answer. "Like I said two days ago, what happened between us cannot be forgotten. For I am one to hold grudges like few in this world. Blame my Weasley blood, I suppose. Still, we can put it behind, into the past. You are a different Daphne Greengrass, and I am a very different Ronald Weasley. We'll work it up, you and me. With time, but we'll work it up."
Daphne's eyes raised once more; serious yet warm. "Oh, Ron! Since when did you become so wise? I cannot believe it."
"Well, life has this foul habit of slapping one's face again and again and again. I just happen to be a boy who has always had trouble learning his lessons. It takes me a while, but I do learn."
And the wind carried his words away to never return. And the night stilled under the moon and its gleaming veil. A silence which they now enjoyed. And when they stood up, about an hour later, they found it quite easy to bid farewell to one another. Without a single word. Just a nod of their heads and a subtle smile was all they needed.
Because a bunch of words was not the only thing the wind had carried away tonight. It did take away some ashes from the past too. So a new fire could be born anew.
Going back to routine was a strange thing.
Four days, that's all Ron had been away from Hogwarts and its monotonous life. Still it felt like ages. But there was something good to it, too. The carriage, pulled by those invisible beasts, moved forward; its wooden wheels rolling against the uneven road. The castle could already be seen over the dark trees of the Forest, going so high into the skies as if it wanted to touch the clouds. It was a sight Ron welcomed with open arms. A good change to Silverbay's uproar.
He finally hopped down, bag over his shoulder. It weighed almost the same as it did when he left for the tournament, but there was something different. His medal; though of bronze, to him it was precious as one of gold. Ron then looked up to the castle and drew in a deep breath.
"Ah, it feels so good to be back! I did not miss the weather, though. I much prefer Silverbay's warm days and cool nights."
Gerd appeared with a bright flash of blue, and she walked by his side, the air being her road. "I too have missed this old castle," she confessed. "Not because of my own emotions, I think, but because of yours. Our bond has truly grown strong. Enough for our emotions to run through it freely."
It was something Ron had also noticed. Well, he hadn't really noticed, more like felt it. For there was a calmness to his bearing and actions which wasn't a trait to the Weasley's hot blood. And he looked back to his duel against Shawn, when Gerd and he had shared one body and one mind. He could but shudder at such a memory. Not because of fear, but due to a thing so unnatural he could not understand.
His merriment would meet a quick end, however.
For it was Argus Filch who awaited at the feet of the stepped road which led into the castle of Hogwarts and its terrains. "You are one day late," he observed with a sick smile, showing glimpses of his yellowish teeth. "Today's Tuesday. Monday was yesterday." His cat, an old, skinny female who shared his foul temper, meowed to those words. "Yes, yes, Mrs Norris. The boy needs to be punished. But the right isn't ours, I'm afraid."
Ron frowned, "What do you mean? I sent a letter in which I explained that I would arrive one day later because I wasn't fit to travel. The letter had the stamp of the Federation, making it official. It was due to a medical condition."
"And you think I care about that? Rules are rules. No one is exempt from them, much less a little devil like you. A shame the Headmistress wants to deal with the problem herself. A shame!"
"Umbridge wants to see me? Like now?"
"Headmistress Umbridge!" Filch hissed. "Mind your words."
Ron said nothing this time. Instead he let his eyes fall upon the old man. And he gave him a hardened look. Not so mighty a gaze as Lord Covan's, but it was the best he managed. And it seemed to work, certainly, for the janitor could but gulp as he turned around, leading the way back to the castle.
And what a walk it was! Boring as silent as it could be. But it granted him a peaceful time, ideal to think about his upcoming meeting with Umbridge. For much he pondered about it, Ron couldn't find a reason for his summon. They had a pact—one he'd been tricked into, of course—that he had not only respected, but also fulfilled his end.
She'd wanted him to represent Hogwarts in the highest competition. So he'd done in front of countless eyes from just as many countries. And not even in his most optimistic day, he just couldn't imagine that woman-toad summoning him to her chambers just to congratulate him.
The castle was silent and empty once they made it inside; not a single soul to be seen in the hallways as the lectures took place. Ron was used to such a sight at night. Not before dusk, though, when the hallways were so colourful and lively. A few ghosts crossed their path, just as they were stared at by the many wizards and witches and creatures from the pictures.
At last they made it to the long hallway which led to Umbridge's chambers. Filch gave Ron a subtle push forward, "Come on, lad! Don't make such a noble woman wait!"
The redhead rolled his eyes and took his way into the hellhole. Because, as soon as the door opened by itself before he could knock, such a bright place almost blinded him; for the pink walls did a marvellous job at reflecting what little sunlight seeped through the oval window.
"Well, well, well! And here comes the man of the hour! With such hatred in his eyes, even if he tries to conceal it."
Umbridge stood at the end of the room, close to the dead warmth. There was a steaming cup of tea in her hands, which gave away a faint scent of honey. "Come closer and take a seat, Ronald. You must be tired, aren't you? After all, that letter spoke of your condition."
It wasn't so bad as yesterday, but still Ron felt no desire to reject a warm and comfy seat. Save the fact it wasn't, for the chair he was offered was tough and cold. "Thank you."
"Thank you, Professor."
"Why did you want to see me?"
"And that would be ten points from Slytherin, I believe," Umbridge smiled as she took a seat right across the table, in her orange chair of high back. Hadn't it been pink before? Well, he cared not about that. "Respect toward your elders is quite the important thing to learn, you see. Anyhow, let's dwell into the matter at hand. I don't like you either, and I would rather enjoy my morning in solitude."
She emptied what little was left of her drink in one long gulp; and the cup disappeared from sight once it was set on the table.
"I know for a fact that you, a bunch of misfits, hold secret meetings each weekend. To organise a rebellion, most likely. I too know that Professor Gourcuff is somewhat involved, even if I have yet to obtain solid proof of that. What an ugly world, indeed! I give that foul woman my kindness and trust, and she answers with betrayal and disrespect. And, unfortunately, I cannot fire her without solid evidence. For no matter how much power I now held, I've been advised to not get rid of another Professor so soon. Can you believe it?"
Ron gave her no answer, instead just set his eyes on the woman.
"Playing the tough boy, eh?" she gave him a dark grin. "Well, you are on your right, I guess. But heed my words, Weasley. I will not rest until I catch you all. And the price to pay will not be a kind one. For each and every one of you, regardless of age, House or name." She got something from under her table—a crimson quill. "But, for the time being, I will need to content myself with so little. You and Potter make quite the interesting toys to play with, you see."
Ron was then handed the crimson quill. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
"To write a few lines, of course!" A parchment appeared on the table; a long one. "I will enjoy my moment while it lasts—that's what you'll write. A hundred lines."
There was an evident trap to this, he could tell. Still he gave her an ample smile. Mainly because it would surely anger her, but also because of Gerd, who had come to stand atop of the table, in between Ron and Umbridge, and who was staring at the woman as if she was a most succulent prey to hunt down.
It didn't take him long to find the trick. And what a trick it was!
The first line went without trouble. But a faint itch appeared in the back of his hand after the second. Ron scratched, believing it a thing unrelated to the quill. After the fifth line he noticed it. Whatever he was to write with this quill, it would be written in his own flesh. With blood instead of ink.
He raised his eyes, then. "Really?" And to see such a smug look in her face, it amused him far more than it should have. To a point in which he could but share her merry mood.
To Ron, whose body had known true physical pain in his many trainings in Nurgon, whose brain had been almost fried by the countless Futures bequeathed upon him by the Great Sight, and whose soul had know torture by the Heir of Slytherin himself, this punishment was a child's play.
It did not mean he was immune to its pain, of course. For it became a very nasty thing after the thirtieth line. But to see her smirk put down after he showed no response, it more than made up for it. And when he was finished with the lines, he softly dropped the quill on the table.
"Can I go now? I believe there are lectures to attend."
"You may go, Weasley. But it would be wise to remember my words. You all better remain a sneaky bunch of misfits, for the moment I got my hands on you all… It won't be pretty."
"Have a good morning, Professor."
Ron stood up and left, his right hand so numb it seemed to be gone—through a line stood out in the dead-like flesh: I will enjoy my moment while it lasts. Perhaps Hogwarts would not be as monotonous as he'd thought.
At first sight, Hogwarts had not changed much. But if one were to put his ears and eyes into the task, they would discover subtle changes. There was an air of tension to the castle which wasn't there before. It wasn't the fiery tension which had ignited in between the Party and the Army long ago. More like a colder one, in which none of the sides had the spirits to go at one another 's throats anymore.
And still they did so.
From what little Ron had learned yesterday, such tension was borne out of Umbridge's ultimatum to the Party. She wanted the names and faces of each and every member of the Army, and also their place of reunion. And she'd threatened them with stripping off their privileges.
The Army, however, had answered in its own way. All the students were to move as shadows in their way toward the Room of Requirement. Fred and George, who knew the castle better than anyone else, had willingly taken upon the duty to take their pals up to the seventh floor without being seen. And if that wasn't possible, there was always the chance of knocking people out. In self defence, of course. Or so they reasoned.
But all this nonsense lacked importance as of this moment, as he took breakfast in the Great Hall. For all Ron had ears for was Tracey's tale.
"It was incredible," the girl said with a sigh, her toast long forgotten. "I've always thought of myself as a great flyer. More so after this season's games. Here, in this field, I felt invincible. And then I was put to fly among and against the best players of this continent. They are unbelievable, Ron. And there was a pair of arrogant twins, by the name of Enzo and Lia, who just seemed to be born solely to fly atop of a broom. It was as if the wind itself moulded to their calls and moves."
Ron took a bite of his sausage; it was cooked perfectly, as per usual. "I'm sorry you didn't make the cut, Tracey. I know how much this sport means to you."
"I mean," she mused, "I'm not gonna say it didn't hurt me, because it did, but it wasn't a blow which came out of nowhere. I saw it with my own eyes, all the things I yet lacked to be in the elite. And, at the same time, I realised no one save those twins were out of my reach. Because most of them have been playing the game for ages, you see. And I've just played two official games. I will make it one day, that I know. And Katie, too. And we'll join Harry and take the world by storm."
Harry had made the cut, it seemed. Partly because his talent atop of a broom knew no rivals, but also because in their generation the position of seeker wasn't so filled with talented players as that of chasers.
"My brother Charlie went to one of these camps a few years ago," Ron said. "He was the best I've ever seen. And he could've played Quidditch at a professional level, as there were plenty of teams who wanted him. Still he never had the intention to play past his school years. Dragons were his true passion, you see. You cannot imagine the amount of nights I wished to be in his place. To play for the Chudley Cannons; what a dream!"
Tracey smiled at him, "Well, it seems to me you found another dream to pursue." She pointed with her chin at the newspaper atop of the table.
Much to his surprise, Ron had been given a corner on its cover. The headline was quite sensationalistic, written in bold, large letters: 'Hogwarts' wonderkid surprises the world and achieves a remarkable podium in the greatest stage; he defeats the great favourite in the battle for the bronze medal'.
There was truth and lies alike to those words. The stage was the greatest, undoubtedly, but he wasn't a wonderkid. And he had not defeated Shawn for a medal. They had tied, and the pureblood heir had walked away, therefore the medal had fallen into Ron's hands without the need to do a thing.
It suited Fudge's campaign just fine, for sure.
And despite being a puppet for a bunch he despised with all his might, Ron hadn't been able to contain his grin when he'd read the page. Mainly because of a certain picture there. The one he'd taken with Diop and Benji; with the medals and the laurel wreaths.
"It ain't a dream of mine," Ron replied. "More like an ambition. But I do enjoy it greatly. Not so much the work which comes before the battle, though. It's tough and hard, and with little reward unless you are to consider the larger picture. Still I loved it, yes."
Such a spotlight would bring Ron plenty of headaches, as he discovered after the period of Transfiguration.
Fred and George came out of nowhere, faces flushed and slightly damped in sweat. "Oh, and here you are, my dear brother!" Fred began, jumping in between Tracey and he. "You are quite the hard man to find!" And George took his other side, left arm around Ron's shoulders. There was a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched on his right hand. "And quite the man to keep his secrets, too!"
Ron could but sigh, knowing there was no way out. "Sorry, I guess. It's been a long and tough year. I've been quite busy trying to prevent Umbridge from taking over the castle. So have you, I believe."
"Oh, and quite the elusive man, too!" Fred let out an impressed whistle. He then glanced at Tracey, a wide grin on his face. "Say, dear Trace, is this something you are taught in Slytherin?"
She raised a brow, looking at each of the brother's faces. "I don't think so. Else I've missed the lecture, I'm afraid."
"Ha! I like this girl, dear Freddie. Told ya she was a good influence on Ronnie here."
Fred gave a solemn nod, "That she is! And that's why it hurts so greatly to be so impolite. I'm afraid we must abduct our dear brother, my lady. An urgent Weasley meeting has been called."
"One of utmost importance!" George added.
Ron freed himself from their grip. "Oh, come on! Sod it off, you two. Let's go and talk, but don't give me a headache this early into the morning. Wait until launch, at least. You know that I work best with a full belly."
"And a full belly you shall have, my brother. Once we are finished, that's it."
"Follow us into the shadows. I'm afraid we need to mind our steps lately, for a reason I cannot understand. There's a bunch of students who have taken quite the dangerous liking to us. A bunch of fools with a shiny badge on their breast. I wonder why!"
And to the shadows they went. Ron thought of himself as someone who knew much of the castle. But the twins, they just acted as if they'd built the castle themselves. They turned left in the next hallway, and once they were sure no one was following them, Fred tapped a brick of the wall with his wand. A small hole opened to them, so small they crouched down to step inside. Fortunately, it wasn't so bad once inside.
Fred casted a light atop his wand, which brightened the narrow corridor.
"Is this necessary?" Ron groaned.
"Sure it is, brother!" George replied. "You cannot imagine the way the Party has pursued us in these past few days. Flint would love to get his hands on us, I'm sure."
"That he wishes, Georgie!"
At least they turned silent as they led Ron through the maze-like corridors. It felt like an endless walk, so dark the hallways were; they looked the same to him, and only the confidence of his guides helped to soothe his anxiousness. They wouldn't dare to get lost, right? Fortunately, his fear was proven to be unreasonable. For George suddenly halted.
"It was right beneath this scratch, right?"
"Yes, I think so. Tap it twice, with a pause in between them."
George did so, and another hole into the wall opened to them. A thin yet tall one, this time. And one which left them right behind a large set of armour which had belonged to some famous knight of past ages. A greatsword hung from its hip; as tall as Ron himself. He would have taken his time to examine it, but Fred gave him a firm push from behind.
"Wicked!" George grinned. "Come on, we shall not make dear Percy wait any longer. The classroom should be in the next hallway."
It was a short walk up to the room. Its door was dusty and cracked, almost eaten away by time and its unyielding punishment. But it slid open without trouble. The room itself wasn't much better. It was quite the small one, with a single window to brighten it, dusty and of foul smell; akin to mould, almost. There were rusted buckets and brushless brooms here and there. A cleaning storage it seemed.
Percy was sitting on the one chair in the room; quill in hand and parchment on the table. He didn't even raise his eyes to stare at the newcomers, so lost he was into his work. He looked somewhat different, Ron reckoned. Was he more tanned, perhaps? But that was impossible. Percy became allergic to the sun once the exams were close enough.
Fred cleared his throat, "Really? I told you to wait ten minutes, Percy! And you summoned a table and chair just to study? Merlin, you are hopeless."
Percy raised his eyes at last, just to glance at his watch, "You were gone for almost forty minutes, Fred."
"Minute up, minute down!" George shrugged the matter away. "Must say that I like your idea." He drew out his wand and made a strange twist. The iron buckets were transfigured into three pillowy stools of beautiful craft. "Am I not amazing?"
Percy stored his quill and parchment into his bag, "Honestly, it pains me to see such talent wasted. You two could be the best of your year. Still you think a trifle of your education."
"Yes, yes!" Fred cut in, taking a seat on the stool. "We've already had this conversation a hundred bloody times. Let's spare our little brother of such a tedious talk, shall we?" He waited for the rest to sit down, "Good. Care to make the honours, George."
"Of course!" His eyes fell upon Ron, and his smile was gone. "Duelling, really? Since when? And why? Ain't it too much of a pureblood thing?"
"Since I found out that I really enjoyed it, when I took part in the Minor of Hogsmeade," Ron replied sourly. "And because I fancied so."
And there was silence. It seemed the twins had not expected such a curt answer; and the stunned look they shared spoke louder than any word.
"Is that all?" Fred asked next.
"Do Mum and Dad know about it?" George asked. "Well, they must know already, since they gave you a bloody spot on the cover. I mean if you told them beforehand."
"That is all, indeed. And, no, I didn't tell them. Not because I wanted to keep this a secret, but because I haven't got time for that. Like I told you, it's been a tough and draining year. I just blinked and the moment was already here."
And silence again.
Percy was the one to break it this time, "They do know about it, Ron." The younger Weasley startled, not expecting to hear that. "A man came to The Burrow after Christmas. His name was Covan, I believe. And he was to be your master at some renowned academy. Dad and Mum knew him from the past. He too fought in the Great War. A pureblood lord who was first to join the Allies. They have quite the opinion on this man, you see. And they had no trouble accepting his petition, albeit they were quite surprised. Since you are a minor, he needed your parents' permission. So this man, knowing you had yet to tell them, handled business personally. I'm surprised you didn't know of this, though."
Those words had been meant to Ron, yes, but Percy's eyes had been set upon the twins throughout the entire speech. As if daring them to raise their voices in protest. And he wasn't finished, it seemed.
"Honestly, it just pisses me off. You two can do as you please; pranking the members of the Party, thus adding wood to the fire; playing Quidditch and flying late into the night; not caring about your studies, giving Mum plenty of headaches. And poor fool he who tells you otherwise! Your little brother, however, cannot go to duelling events. Even if he takes care of his grades. Even if he despises his fellow bigots from Slytherin as fiercely as you do. Is it because you still fear for him turning into a cruel snake? Or is it because he isn't allowed to do a thing you cannot? I do wonder!"
Ron too wanted to hide under a nonexistent table, even if Percy's finger hadn't raised accusingly toward him.
Fred and George, however, could but open and close their mouths as if a fish out of water. Then they stared at one another, and one of those silent conversations of theirs took place. It was a long one; longer than any other Ron had ever been witness to. But at last they stood up. Just to talk at the same time.
"We need time to think." Then they turned toward Ron, "And we are sorry in advance, brother. Perhaps Percy is right, so bloody clever he is. Perhaps not. Still we need to think about this."
And they left, just like that.
Ron stared at the door where they'd just disappeared through, "The hell was that?"
"That, I believe, was our dear twin brothers being a pair of pricks and, hopefully, also them being aware of it," Percy said with a huff. "They know very well that you will never become the Slytherin they hate so much. That thought died two years ago. But still makes up for quite the excuse."
"Excuse? For what?"
"Because they don't like you doing something they are unable to. Or so I believe." Ron tilted his head, confused. "You have always looked up to them, Ron. You've always tried to keep them pleased. And that attention, it filled them with joy. Because that's how they felt toward Charlie and Bill themselves. But now you've taken a different path, one they cannot follow, and much less one over which to impose their path upon yours. They don't mean any ill toward you, of course. But to lose something they've always taken for granted, it shocked them."
It was a way of looking at the matter he'd never considered. But now that Percy had laid it all so kindly for him, it kind of made sense. Did it make Fred and George worse? All Ron knew is that he was no one to judge them. He'd also had foul thoughts toward his brothers despite how much he loved each one of them, after all.
Was there anything worse than waking up on a Wednesday, before dawn, to an Umbridge's summoning? Ron tried to list the many tortures he knew of. There weren't many he would put above this punishment.
It all had begun deep into the darkness of the dormitory. He'd laid so comfy in his bed, tucked up to the chin beneath the sheets, when a soft nudging began at his shoulder. He'd just rolled to the other side, giving his back to it. Then it got worse. And worse. Until it truly became a nuisance.
Ron had woken up startled, turning around in the blink of an eye with his wand already at hand; which had laid hidden under the pillow, as it did every other night. Two gasps had broken through the night's stillness, then. Ron's and that of the elf who had come to awake him. She was a sorry thing, unfortunately. Thin and tall for an elf, wearing old and dirty rags, with quite a few scars around her dark and mistrustful eyes.
"The hell are you doing here?" Somehow Ron had managed to keep at bay his fear and surprise, so his voice came out as a controlled whisper. Now, if someone were to put their ear on his chest, the drumming of his heartbeat would be all they heard. "And who the fuck are you?"
"Laray was sent to awake the young Weasleay!" she squealed. "Lady Umbridge ordered Laray to do so! You are to meet lady Umbridge in her chambers in twenty minutes!"
A storm of questions—and also of curses, of curse—had swarmed his mind, then. But before he could voice them out, Laray just disappeared in that peculiar Apparition elves were able to cast. He'd been left with only one option, it seemed. To answer the summon. And since he could not refuse it, Ron could but add a touch of rebellion to it.
So here he was, entering the long hallway which led to Umbridge's chambers. Wide awake and ice calm. And more than twenty minutes later than he should have. It served her well, he reckoned. Sleep was a precious thing to him.
He knocked on the door after it didn't open for him by itself, as it always did. Nothing happened. He knocked once more, and some footsteps could be heard from inside. The woman who opened the door was a stranger to him. Short and quite plump, of round face and even rounder glasses which fell over the bridge of her nose. Her hair was of a bright yellow—dyed, undoubtedly—and the robes she wore were of a bright purple.
It almost hurt his eyes.
"Oh, here you are!" she said. "Not one to be on time, I see. Come inside, Ronald! We have much to do and discuss! And we've already lost plenty of time."
"And who are you?" Ron asked as he stepped inside. Once more he was welcomed to the pink and ample office. If hell was really a place, it couldn't look much different to this, he reckoned.
"I'm just a humble servant to this country! Spreading the truth and making the powerful ones uncomfortable wherever I go!" she chirped. "The name's Rita Skeeter. You've probably heard of me before."
Oh, fuck me. Ron had indeed heard of her many times. The groan he let out told her so. And the woman had the nerve to smirk down at him!
She took him to another room. Through a pink door almost hidden to the eye in the pink walls. This new room wasn't an office, but an empty room stripped of any piece of furniture. Umbridge stood beside a window, hands clasped before her and a grim smile on her face. Harry was also here, much to Ron's surprise. He'd taken a seat on the floor, as far from Umbridge as possible. There was a storming look in his eyes.
"And here you are, finally!" Umbridge clapped her hands. "Did you get lost, Ronald? I thought you knew the way to my chambers quite well by now."
"I do," Ron replied with a shrug. "But there was this moving staircase which did not seem to be fond of me today."
They held a duel with their eyes. A brief one, as she was quick to break it.
She turned toward Skeeter, "How are we going to proceed?"
Skeeter walked around the room, eyeing the place and those in it alike. "Simplicity will be best here, I believe. We'll leave the window in the middle, and it will be a great idea to hang a banner of each House to its sides; two per side, I say. Symmetry is quite important to catch the reader's eyes, after all. And you… You will stand below the window, and the seeping light of dawn will create a bright veil upon you. These two misfits will stand by your side, of course. A few inches before you, as we need to make them the main characters of this story. And your hands will set upon their shoulders. It should reinforce the message that it was you who allowed these two students to shine and reach far into their sports."
It all hit Ron suddenly. He shared a glance with Harry, whose eyes had hardened with sheer hatred.
The redhead moved closer to his friend, taking a seat by his side as Umbridge called for an elf to arrange the scenery. "Don't do any stupidity," he warned Harry in a whisper. "I can see it in your eyes."
"So, we are supposed to bow our heads and do as she says?"
"For the time being, yes, that's what we should do."
"And when will this submission end, Ron? I'm far too tired of this shit. Of dancing to her tune. Of hiding from her. Of clapping to her words. Because it feels like ages since we last stood to confront her."
"We do that every bloody day, mate. All of us, together. But she's a powerful witch, and she has her bloody heels in our necks. If we retaliate for the sake of it, she'll stomp harder and harder. We need to wait for our chance. Just one second of doubt, and we'll break free from her grasp and strike down at her. Be patient, my friend."
His speech had done little to soothe his fury, he knew. All Ron could hope for was for Harry to not ack so recklessly and thoughtlessly as his eyes gave away.
It did not take much for the play to be set. Small, silky banners stood behind them. Ron came to stand in parallel with the green and silver of Slytherin; his wand at hand, and up to his breast so everyone could see it. Harry did so with the red and gold of Gryffindor; a Nimbus clutched in his left hand, close to his trunk. And Umbridge did so in between them, with the sunlight seeping through the window as her veil of light.
And when Skeeter's camera flashed, all he could do was to give the picture a faint smile. One which did not reach his eyes.
Harry stuck his head out of the corner. The hallway was deserted.
"We are good to go," he told the rest.
And what a bunch they were! Three Hufflepuffs, another Gryffindor and two Ravenclaws. And he was familiar with only two of them—Susan and Colin Creevey. Who, of course, could not contain his curiosity. Nor his unreasoned admiration toward Harry.
"How do you do it?" he asked, in awe, as Harry led them into the next hallway.
"Luck, I guess," Harry replied. "Pure and sheer luck."
His fortune happened to have a name, though. The Marauders' Map. But that was a piece of information he couldn't share, unfortunately. And so, Colin's admiration did grow a fair share, much to his dismay.
"As long as they don't see us near the seventh floor, all should be well," Harry added, wishing for the matter to die. "Fred and George should be finished taking their groups into the Room of Requirement. And the three small squads should already be there, too. If Ron's distraction went well, of course." And given the fact Ron's distraction consisted in fooling Crabbe and Goyle, who had been left to guard the Ravenclaw Tower, success was served.
There was a blazing fury to each of Harry's actions. He could not forget the shame he'd felt three days ago, when he'd been obliged to pose by Umbridge's side. A picture which had taken Friday's edition of the Daily Prophet for itself. A cover which had labelled Umbridge as the main maker of Ron's and Harry's success in their respective disciplines.
To make Hogwarts great again, such had been the headline.
Susan seized him by the arm then, pulling from it forcefully into the safety of a corner. "Look there!" she whispered.
Two of Gertrude Meads's favourite lackeys—a tall and tanned fourth-year from Hufflepuff and some plump auburn-haired fifth-year from Slytherin—waited at the end of the corridor. They stood with their backs to the wall, with the bearing of those who'd waited for hours without any result. Harry had known they were there, of course. He'd seen their names and shapes in the Map. Yet his thoughtless anger had almost made him commit a fatal mistake.
If they hadn't seen him, it was because of sheer fortune.
"They are in our way," Colin mused.
Beatrice Haywood, an adventurous sixth-year girl, of fair skin and eyes and hair, which fell down to her shoulders, stepped up. "We can trick them with a Buzzer. I remember the blueprints of this level which Professor Gourcuff made us learn. There should be an air vent into their hallway in the classroom we just passed by. Should I?"
Harry gave it a thought, "Go for it. I reckon it is our best option."
Haywood gave him a wide grin, then set off for the classroom. Quite an addition to the Army, she was. Not many older students had joined them, as they were capable enough to deal with the Party themselves. But she had not hesitated when the chance arose. And she'd been a very valuable piece. Very adept at magic, with a great sense of justice and fairness, Beatrice had taken many of the younger students under her wing.
"Which voice will it be?" Colin wondered, a touch of trepidation in his voice despite the tense situation.
"Fred's or George's, most likely?" Susan replied with a shrug. "It does not matter. Just be ready to move as soon as they bite the bait."
Buzzers were a very useful tool the twins had somehow come up with. One of those inventions to which they spend countless hours to develop. A little ball, akin to a marble yet a tad larger, which could replicate one's voice almost to perfection. The Army had used them plenty of times in the past few weeks. And the results had been outstanding.
"Shit, we gotta run!" Harry's voice reached them from afar. It was one of the lines he'd recorded for the twins.
"Here!" Hermione's voice followed.
The two members of the Party sprung into action; grim smiles and gleaming eyes in their faces. They drew out their wands and sprinted down the hallway.
"Now!" Susan commanded.
A choir of whispers and a twirling of wands followed. They all became invisible under the Disillusionment Charm's veil. Harry was quick to hand out his Cloak to Colin, who had yet to master the complex spell. They ran without looking back, trying to make as little noise as possible. Soon enough footsteps were heard behind. Beatrice had joined them successfully.
It was a leisure stroll from that point onward. Two minutes later, they stormed into the Room of Requirement.
It was packed to the brim, which told him everyone had made it. Well, almost everyone.
"Where are Goldstein and his squad?" Beatrice asked, her eyes having already scanned all the faces in the room.
"They couldn't make it," Alaine Baldwin answered. "I saw it from afar. A group of the Party, led by Marcus Belby, spotted them about to enter the third floor. I think they managed to escape unscattered. Or so I hope." She'd been in Ron's group, as far as Harry could remember.
The Army had set many rules for all its members. Rules they thought and set themselves. And perhaps the most important one was this: if a squad could put the Army or the Room in danger, they would run away and go into hiding. The Room of Requirement needed to be protected at all costs.
"Professor Gourcuff isn't here either," Betrice pointed out again.
She had a habit of arriving late, to which they all had grown used to. Besides, the thought that such an able woman could get caught by the likes of Party just did not have any room in their minds.
Hermione raised her hand to catch their attention, "I think we should proceed as per usual. Those who have yet to master the Disillusionment Charm should go at it, as it is the most useful spell given the current situation. I can be their provisional teacher, if necessary."
"That is a good idea, Hermione," Beatrice smiled. "I think you are perfect for the role. And the rest…" Her eyes were quick to fall upon Harry and Ron. "I think it should be you two who take charge of today's class."
"What? Why?" the two of them protested at the same time.
"Well, there's a reason why your name is known worldwide, Harry Potter," Beatrice reasoned. "And you, Ronald, are the only one here who actually has practical experience in duelling. We all read the newspaper, so don't look at me like that."
"Fred and George are way better wizards than I," Harry argued back.
"That we are!" Fred grinned.
"Thing is, we aren't cut out to be a Professor!" George added. "We are incredibly clever and talented, you see. All we do is because we have a certain hunch of something working in a certain way. You try to educate others this way. I'll have a laugh from the sideway, if you don't mind."
Harry searched for an ally in Ron. Who just shook his head in defeat.
"I'll try my best," he sighed. "But there's this one thing that may be a bit problematic. I have no magic as of today." All those who had yet to fall into a work group could but blink at those words, dumbfounded. "It seems I made quite a reckless use of it in the tournament. The Medi-Witch explained it to me as if I had squeezed a fruit dry, if that helps."
Susan tilted her head, "But you'll recover, right?"
Ron shrugged his shoulders, "In a matter of weeks, yes."
And all the eyes were set on Harry, again. This time he knew there was no escaping this, though. "Okay, let's get this done," he groaned. "Fred and George, you take the older students with you and do whatever you think best. Hermione will help the newbies and the younger ones. The rest… Ron will take half of us and practise combat spells. Susan and Lavender, you will help him. The other half, you are to come with me. We'll practise elusion spells and the likes."
Neville raised his hand. "We could rotate halfway through the lesson, perhaps."
"Good idea, Neville! Come on, then! Let's make use of what little time we have!"
The lecture went much smoother than Harry thought. All the members of the Army, despite their differences and feuds of the past, worked as one. As if well-assembled gears of a machine. Wherever he glanced at, Harry saw many colours—green and silver, red and gold, blue and grey, yellow and brown. To think Umbridge had succeeded to join the four Houses. It filled him with a grim mirth.
"Don't raise your knees so high!" Harry shouted at Ernest Macmillan. "It's making you slower!"
It was a simple yet useful drill. He'd put them to run in one of the sand pits. First they needed to cast a thick smokescreen, then to run away. The problem was many of them had never done any kind of physical exercise. Purebloods in particular.
"Good slalom, Tracey!"
"That's it, Alaine! Go for it, girl!"
Echoes from other parts of the Room reached his ears from time to time, too.
"The wand motion needs to be sharper here!" Ron exclaimed for the tenth time in an hour. "Not in that one, Justin!" Red and purple and blue flashes followed. "Much better, you all! Now, about the Aguamenti. Let me show it to you… Oh, bloody hell! I cannot cast a spell to save my damn life."
"I can do it!" Lavender cut in. "This spell seems to be quite fond of me."
"Hey, that was wicked!" Beatrice Haywoon exclaimed with a touch of craziness in her voice. "How did you do that!"
"With unparalleled talent and wit, my dear Bea!" Fred replied.
"Eh, don't turn berserk on me, Angelina!" George shouted in fear. "I've done nothing to you, you wicked woman!"
Harry did not let his eyes wander about, for much interest he had. Instead he focused on his group. Tracey was clearly the best of them all; at least in terms of physical conditions. Padme's smokescreen was the best, however; so thick one would not catch sight of a fire through it.
Halfway through the morning, Harry discovered his voice was paying the toll of so much shouting and barking. Still he paid no mind to his aching throat. For there was a sprout of euphoria within him that shadowed all else. Here, they were free of Umbridge's grasp. Here, they could prepare themselves to withstand the yoke she'd put Hogwarts under. Here would begin the path toward vengeance he was building bit by bit. For Hagrid and Remus. For Buckbeak. For Dumbledore. And for himself.
It was also halfway through the morning when he noted something amiss. Faith Gourcuff had yet to come.
Hermione came to him amidst the rest in between rotations. "She isn't here. Do you think something bad happened to her? Whenever she was to miss one of the reunions, she always told us beforehand."
Harry took a long gulp of water before emptying what little was there of the bottle over his head. It felt cold and fresh; just what he needed to cool down a bit. Then he replied, "I think something happened to her, for sure. But I'm sure she's fine. She's strong, Hermione. Do you really think any of the Party could raise a finger at her?"
"There's Macnair," she pointed out. "He's a former Death Eater."
Harry was taken aback. Though just for a few seconds. "Even that man has nothing to do against her. You've heard as well as I did the way she spoke of him. Like an insect to crush beneath her heel was he to trouble her at all."
Hermione did not seem to fully buy his words, as the worried shade in her eyes let him know. Though whatever she would reason next was a thing he'd never know. "Time to resume the lecture!" Harry shouted, throwing his empty bottle aside.
The duelling drills he held were worse than those of Ron, he knew. The redhead had practical and theoretical experience, after all. So Harry went for the way of learning he liked best. To simply practise something until completion.
"Terry!" he called. "You were decent at duelling, from what I remember of past lectures. Let's do a practice duel. You and me." Harry glanced around to discover a bunch of surprised yet excited faces. "You will all have your turn, of course. If not against me, against anyone else. Come on, take a stance."
Terry Boot did as told. He crouched down a bit, putting weight into his legs as they'd been taught. And his wand stood before his body, ready to guard it.
Tracey gave them a countdown. "One. Two. Three!"
"Stupefy!" Terry chanted.
It was a very good stunner; fast and precise, as they should. But Harry had expected so of him. He just stepped aside, then granted Terry the offence. The Ravenclaw tried again and again and again, but he was just a tad too slow for Harry. The fact his repertory was a short one did not help him either.
"Incendio! Inmobilus! Diffindo!"
Terry was getting tired, Harry noted. And there was also his usual flaw. He was too fearful of violence. He excelled at stunners and the likes, spells which couldn't cause much damage to his rivals. But as soon as a spell or curse or hex could entail real harm, even a shallow cut or a weak burn, he hesitated too much.
And such weakness was one to easily exploit.
Harry just stepped forward, and took the last Severing Charm to the chest. Shocked gasps put noise to his manoeuvre, Terry included. What he ignored was the fact his spell hurt less than the impact of a quaffle. Harry's wand then moved like a whip.
"Expelliarmus!"
Swift and clean, the red flash hit Terry right in his wrist. His wand rocketed toward Harry, who caught it with his free hand.
"And that," he pointed out, throwing the wand back at its owner, "is why you will always lose. Even if you were to face a bloody first-year. You lack malice, Terry. Put a bit of power into your damn spells! That last Diffindo of yours, it felt like a scratch. This is not a kind world, mate. Quit the nonsense and wake up. If not for yourself, for those friends of yours who have cried this year."
Terry turned pale as a ghost. In his defence, however, he gave Harry a firm nod as he stepped back so Alaine could take his place.
She and many more followed Terry. All to be defeated by Harry without much trouble. That day, Harry duelled with a sense of purpose which made him all the more lethal. If he could beat them all so easily, what chance would they stand against Flint and the likes? And against Umbridge and Macnair? No, they needed to improve way more.
And so he told each one of them after being defeated. And for how aggressive his character seemed to be today, they took in his words as if told by Professor Gourcuff herself. With a nod of their heads and a gleam of resolution in their eyes. By the time the lecture finished, Harry felt as realised as he felt tired.
And that was to say something, because he'd needed to take a seat so weak his legs felt. A cool breeze seeped through the open window beneath which he was sitting. It ruffled his hair softly, like a caress he welcomed with open arms. Harry drank a bottle of water in one gulp as his friends gathered around him. They too looked rather exhausted.
"I cannot believe I ever thought to be a Professor," Hermione sighed, a raspy touch in her voice. "Those kids are beyond me. I could barely keep them in check!"
"Those kids are a year or two younger than you," Ron observed as he emptied a bottle of water over his head. His robes had been left aside as soon as the lecture began, and his white shirt was damped with sweat. "But I agree with you. Teaching ain't my thing. It was fun, though. And it certainly felt good to see them progress. But to correct and guide them? I ain't for me, that I know!"
"Well, I think you three did a pretty good job," Tracey pointed out. Her eyes were set on the Room's entrance, where a pile of students gathered in a line as they waited for their turn to leave. "Hey, Susan! Why don't you take the third exit? Fred and Angelina just used it, and they sent no signal of danger."
There was also a plan of exit, of course. At first, they all had used the main entrance, with the risks it entailed. But it had been weeks ago, when Susan voiced out her concerns, that four new doors appeared within the Room. One was to take them down to the third floor, through a sledge-like corridor. Another was to drop them near the Gryffindor Tower. The third, into a forgotten classroom on the fifth floor. And the last one, a trapdoor beneath a set of armour which could be slid aside, it took them right into the kitchens; this last was the one they used less, as it was a maze-like set of hallways which took almost an hour to travel through.
Susan gave them a nod and took a bunch of Hufflepuffs with her.
"Anyhow," Tracey went on, "like I said, I think you all did excellent. Professor Gourcuff would've been proud."
"And talking about her," Neville cut in. "What do you think happened to her?"
"Macnair happened, I guess," Ron said with a shrug. "Umbridge knows Faith is working with us, but she has no solid proof of that; much less to fire her because of disruption of the school's order, or whatever reason she may use. And she knows as well as we do that her Disciplinary Party does not stand a chance against her. So she probably made use of her most precious lackey, that rabid dog of Macnair."
It made sense, Harry reckoned.
"That woman, I hate her with all my might," Harry hissed suddenly, surprising them all. Not because of his words by themselves, but because of the sheer hatred which tainted them. "She's like a bloody wheel spinning and crushing all there is beneath. Again and again, no matter who or what stands in her way. But there will come a stone so large she won't be able to crush. And the wheel will shatter." He set his eyes on the back of his left hand, where a faint scar could be seen. Once it had been a bloody bunch of words, now it was but a memory upon his flesh. "And that stone, it will be us, the Army she destest so much. I will make sure of that."
There was worry in their friends' eyes. But not in Ron's. In his eyes, all Harry could see was a collected calm so characteristic of him lately. Didn't he hate Umbridge as fiercely as Harry himself did? Didn't he want to avenge Hagrid, Remus, Bucbeak and everyone else?
Was Harry perhaps alone in this venture?
Faith Gourcuff prided herself in many things, one of them being his ample knowledge about this world and its many wondrous places. She'd visited plenty of them, after all.
And just when she thought nothing would ever surprise her, Hogwarts had come into her life. The castle stood tall and proud despite its many centuries of age. It had outlived its Founders. And its many Headteachers; some of which had been wizards and witches of great renown, some of which had fallen into oblivion. It had even outlived quite a few wars and dark lords.
And still, what had truly taken her breath away, was the students and the people to whom Hogwarts owed allegiance. What a way to fight! What a way to live on their own terms! That fool of Umbridge, despite having seized power in a most surprising yet efficient way, had yet to subjugate all those brave students who refused to bow to her. And to think they had succeeded where Albus Dumbledor himself had failed!
It kind of filled Faith with pride. Even if they had been her students for just a few months.
And thinking about them, it brought another thought to her mind. That of a certain shadow; a rather dangerous one. Walden Macnair still followed her through the shade and tower-like trees of the Forbidden Forest. Quite the difficult man to stand up, that one. More a beast than a man, many said about him. All in truth, Faith found his infamous reputation nothing short of a lie.
For Walden Macnair was many things. And amongst them all reigned one, the fact he could do nothing but obeying others. Like a witless puppet, he would hunt, kill, maim or torture whoever he was asked to. A perfect tool for the wicked.
What a pitiful life!
She would have killed him long ago, as she'd done plenty of times before. And they were men and women of far mightier skills than this empty shell of a man. And creatures worthy of tales and songs, too. Still she refrained from that. She was now a Professor, after all. It wasn't good to spill blood in front of so many children.
That is why she had come to the Forbidden Forest. Because accidents could happen in such a dangerous place, where man-eating creatures and the likes may roam about. Would fortune be on her side today?
Faith then got rid of all those thoughts as she climbed a tree with her hands and legs. Without any kind of magic, as she'd concealed her aura long ago. Her long skirts proved to be quite a useless companion this time. And once up in the tree, its long and thick branches a new road for her to walk through, she set off for the Forest's heart.
Macnair would follow her, of course. That man was too good following the faintest of the traces. Storms took him away! Didn't he have another beast to execute?
Tree after tree after tree—that was all Faith saw around her. The Forbidden Forest was also a wonder by its own right. She would have loved to venture into its depths, to see if all those tales about it, about the many creatures who had nested here, were actually true or not. Who knew, perhaps she would stumble upon one of them by accident.
She then jumped down; a fall of several metres being no danger to the soft wave of magic she used to soften the landing. She'd screamed her position to Macnair, undoubtedly, but that was also part of the plan. Faith concealed her aura once more and sprinted into a darker part of the Forest.
Seconds felt like minutes here. And minutes felt like hours. It was all the same around her. Walls of tall and dark trees; rich and fertile soil over which her feet stomped; a curtain of thick leaves which barely allowed the sun and its light to reach out to the Forest. She never came to halt her sprint. Neither did Macnair, whose endurance she was delighted to discover.
This would be no fun if he just ran out of breath, after all.
Faith did not know how it came to happen. All she could say is that she felt a change within the persecution; barely a hunch, but it was long ago when she learnt to trust her instinct blindly. She halted in a little valley, through which a narrow and shallow creek travelled down. The thicket was thinner here, also.
And the footsteps finally echoed nearby. Loud and heavy, so unlike those of a man.
She drew her wand out, and pointed it at a tall, round tree which had been cut in half a decades ago. The footsteps became louder, closer, unhesitant. They belonged to a centaur.
A tall creature, this one was. Of dark skin and likewise hair, which fell upon his back in a thick tress. His animal half was full of muscle and of fairer shade, his human part was far more delicate and soft. His eyes were of a bright green, gleaming with vast and unspoken wisdom. He also was fairly attractive, she happened to note.
"Alas, we finally meet," he said ominously. "The Stars have guided me, their humble servant, to you. It was an encounter fated to occur. My name is Astrem, baptised as Astrem Starblessed by those who follow me. And you are the Faceless One."
The way he'd called her, it made her shudder and sweat for a reason she could not understand. A splitting pain was born within her head, as if needles upon it. Faith just thought of her Nighteye training, shaping a cold and analytical calm out of her Occlumency.
"Fear not of me, Faceless One," the Centaur went on. "I mean no harm to you, nor to any other human. And that includes the man who has followed you since you came into the Forest. A lost soul, that one. A wizard who worshipped the Sunbringer. Firenze must already have set him off to another path. I believe he will come out unscattered, yet shaken."
"Do not speak to me in riddles, Centaur," Faith hissed coldly. "Tell me, why did one of your kin, always so elusive of my people, sought me out? And why did you call me the Faceless One? I do have a face, in case you missed it. Quite a pretty one, on top of it."
"A lie will not become a truth for much you repeat it, Faceless One," he mused, almost amused. "You should know that, better than anyone else."
He looked up, to the clear and bright sky; what little could be seen of it through the green curtain of the Forest. His green eyes seemed to see something in it which Faith could not grasp.
"Like I said, the Stars guided me here, to you. They spoke to me, about you and your part in the Written Fate. For you have not succeeded in the venture you started years ago, in which you went against your own. For much you fought, you yet failed. And now the Stars weep, for the Eternal Sun shall come. But there are blind spots to fill, which not even the Stars can decipher. They do wonder who will bring the doom. The Sunbringer, mayhaps? Or will it be the Soulless One? Oh, and there is the Dragonlord too, mighty as none! And the Flower and the Voidborn and the Paladin and the Dawn Prince!"
Faith took a step back, far too shocked to utter a word. This made no sense at all! Not to her, at least, for the Centaur seemed to believe and trust each one of his words. Why else would he weep, even if it was a silent cry?
"Can I do something?" she managed to say. "To stop this doom, I mean." Why did she even believe his words? She'd never been one to take seriously the art of reading the future, much less if it was based on some words whispered by the stars.
"No," Astrem Starblessed gave her a single shake of his head. "You had your chance, and you failed. What was written centuries ago must now happen. We can fight the Written Fate, just as we can also try to stop the ocean with our bare hands. An arduous fight, all in vain. All we can do is to wait. To wait and see how those blind spots fill out. There are individuals who can shape the Future, who can change it into a hopeful one. We must stand by their side and help them. The past and the present, I believe, through them run the Rivers of Time."
Astrem walked away, to disappear into the Forest and its dark embrace. But his words still reached her, like a faint echo carried by the wind.
"Farewell now, Faceless One. We will meet again, as it was written."
All she could do next was to walk back to the castle. Lost and confused, yet also way more conscious now. There had been a part of her which she'd suppressed fervently, an objective she had avoided. Not because of cowardice nor regret, as it had happened in the past. She could not find a reason, in fact. Perhaps because she was too weak, and she had not been able to stand aside as a bunch of children were put into tears and despair each day.
But such weakness, masked beneath a semblance of kindness in which Faith had tried to fool herself, had made her lose sight of the real reason why she came to Hogwarts. And now her time had run out, and their defeat had been laid out for her to see by that Centaur. So her reason to come here became of utmost importance once more.
Because when one door closed, another opened. If there was a way to make up for what they had been too weak to accomplish, it was here, in Hogwarts. It needed to be so, else the world was lost.
