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Chapter 41 - A cursed Talent

Ron enjoyed the warmth of the fireplace on that cool night of late September, sitting on his favourite couch in the common room. There weren't many people around, just some first-years who had yet to get used to the incredible amount of homework they've been given and some older students who chatted in silence, minding their own business.

It allowed him to speak freely.

"That man you saw was Tom Riddle himself," Ron said with a sigh. "The Heir of Slytherin in flesh and bone. Well, not in flesh and bone, but you know what I mean."

Tracey nodded as she bit her lip. "That was my first guest, but I just didn't want to believe it. He looked so…, normal? Yes, that's the adequate word. He looked just like any regular student. Hard to believe such a person was able to do so much evil."

"Appearances mean nothing," Ron said with a shrug. "I learned that long ago. To be exact, when I became a snake. Honestly, I liked it better when it was all a matter of white and black. Didn't have to think so much—I could figure out who was a bad person just with one look. Yet here I am, dressed in silver and green, still as ignorant as I was back then."

Tracey ignored his remark and looked at him with worry in her eyes.

This was the reason why it had taken Ron an entire week to tell her about what really happened during his encounter with the Boggart. It would only add to her worry, and then he'd feel bad about it. Even so, he owed Tracey the truth. Nowadays it was just them alone in the pit of vipers. Besides, he'd promised Gerdnyaram that he would do better, that he would accept he had yet to overcome Tom—talking about him was as good as any other thing he could do, right?

A horror story became less and less scary the more one talked about it—Bill had told him many years ago, and Bill never lied.

"Don't worry so much about me," Ron said with a roll of his eyes. "He got me good this time, that's for sure, but one day I'll look him in the eyes and turn Tom into the most ridiculous thought my weird mind is able to come up with. Like a dancing bat, for example." She raised a brow, so Ron went on with his plan. "And now that I've done my part, let's talk about you. What you did back then was incredible, Trace. The way you faced that Boggart… Well, I wish I could have done the same."

"It's much easier when the one thing you've always feared above all is a matter of the past," she replied. "I cried a lot over it a few years ago, before Hogwarts. Once the first months here went by, I started to realise I had nothing to fear. Daphne and Blaise broke their ties to Malfoy and Parkinson, and you stormed into our lives out of nowhere. By the time I acknowledged it, our group meant home to me."

Ron just nodded in response.

He remembered the Tracey from those days. She'd been the one to approach him, the one to make sure he was okay when everyone else just looked the other side. Of course, he'd acted like an idiot back then. He'd thought all she wanted to do was to mock him in front of those pureblood bigots he'd felt surrounded by. Indeed, it wasn't a matter of black and white.

"How do you think Daphne is doing?"

The question caught him out of guard, and it took Ron a while to gather all his thoughts. They had really avoided talking about Blaise and Daphne in these past months, and not without a reason.

After all the problems they'd gone through to sort out all of their differences, how could those two fools trash all that effort and doom the group for good? He didn't even want to think about Blaise and his bloody self-disdain. And although Daphne had been sent to another country, she could have fought a bit more, she could have at least tried it.

Did their friendship really mean so little to them?

"Knowing her, she's probably butted heads with the entire promotion by now," Ron huffed, instead. "She did it with me when we first met, and it turned out rather well. I'm pretty sure she's okay."

"I hope so," Tracey said in a low voice. "I know you are angry with her, Ron, but trust me when I say you don't know her father at all. She could've done nothing to stop him—Thomas Greengrass just does as he pleases."

"Well, from what I remember, my parents also wanted to make me change Houses, yet I refused because I'd found a group of friends I liked so much," Ron argued back. "It was a lost battle since news of my sorting reached them, yet I fought with all I had and overcame the odds. Because of that, my mother spent months without talking to me. I suffered, I cried. Do you know why I went so far? Because I really cared about my friends." He took a calming breath. "That's all I'm gonna say about the matter."

Tracey sent him a sad look, but Ron stood his ground. He wasn't in the mood to tolerate Daphne's and Blaise's antics. If they refused to fight for their group, then so be it. All he hoped was for them to not act as if nothing had happened once things got back to normal. The mere thought of it made his blood boil.

A tense silence gave the conversation its ending, and then Ron regretted the harshness of his words, although not the meaning. Their group meant the world to Tracey, of course she would do all in her hands to have it back; hadn't her fears told him as much?

Much to his surprise, it was her the one to start the conversation anew. "I'm gonna take part in the trials for the Quidditch team," Tracey said. "There's no vacancy, but it is rumoured that Flint won't hesitate to send one of the starters to the bench if someone better appears. There is nothing to lose and much to win."

"That's great," Ron smiled. He'd known for a long time that Tracey loved flying. "Which position are you going for? Chaser, I suppose?"

"That's the idea," she smiled back, "although I wouldn't mind playing in any other position. Except for keeper, of course; that one is off the charts. Also, I don't think I'm getting the seeker spot any time in the near future. That's Malfoy spot, and his father has spent enough money in the team to grant him a lock."

"Who knows? Seeker is the most important position, and you are a much better flyer than him. I've seen you on a broom, Trace, and you left me stunned. The only one who stands a chance against you from our promotion is Harry."

Tracey blushed as she shook her head. "Merlin knows I dislike Malfoy more than anyone else, but that ain't true. He's very good. Yesterday, when we mounted those Hippogriffs, he outperformed both I and Harry. I was just lucky to start with a slight advantage."

She's too modest, Ron thought, amused. If I could fly like her, I would be imagining myself as a player of the Cannons. "If you say so," he ended up saying. "I'd be there to see you. They will be held this weekend, right?"

"Yup," the girl replied. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Don't you wanna play in the team? You've always loved Quidditch, and you also are a good flyer. Remember that time we played this summer and you stopped seven straight of my shoots without breaking a sweat? You'd be nice as a keeper."

Ron snorted at that. "There's no way in hell I'm taking Bletchley's spot. He's better than me, plus probably one of the very few players who's got any brains in his head; on the field, that's it. Besides, I don't like playing Quidditch so much anymore. Sure, I'd kill for a first row seat of a Cannons's game, but that's as far as I'll go." He would always have a soft spot for the sport, but there were just too many things to do; things far more important than Quidditch.

"If you say so," Tracey sighed. "Well, let's get onto more important matters—we need to write that gigantic essay for tomorrow, and we haven't started it yet."

Professor Snape had walked into the classroom with a huge scowl in his face today; a far more prominent one than that he used to wear, that's it. The class had been hell itself even for the Slytherins, and although no points had been taken from them, he'd certainly given them enough homework to keep them busy for hours.

It was long ago when Ron came to respect the cold and harsh Professor, but the redhead often wondered what made him think becoming a teacher was a good idea. Sure, Snape had loads of knowledge to share with the students since he was an extraordinary wizard, but it was pretty clear to everyone that he didn't enjoy his work. That, and the fact he treated the students from other Houses—especially Gryffindor—in a horrible way. What he'd done to Neville since the very first class was beyond unjustifiable.

"We should get started on it," Ron sighed. "We are lucky the Shrinking Solution ain't a very complex potion, but that doesn't change the fact we need to write an absurd amount of words about it."

"I hate potions," Tracey groaned. "Always have and always will."

Ron just smiled and pulled his equipment out of his bag—some bloody big sheet of parchment, a jar of ink and a quill was all he needed. "Let's divide the work," he said. "I write about the potion itself and the effects it causes, and you write about the different ingredients and what to do with them. Oh, and be extra precise when talking about the rat's spleen and how to cut them. I swear that man has a trauma about perfection!"

"I know, I know. I might not be the best potion maker in the world, but I surely know which are my dear Professor's weak points. Come on then; the sooner we start, the sooner we'll finish."

It was, indeed, an extremely boring work, and it only took Ron a few minutes to notice it. For much he wrote, the parchment still looked empty, and soon enough he ran out of ideas to write about. I want nothing to do with that idiot until he mans up, the redhead thought sourly, but Merlin knows how much I miss Blaise in these situations. Say what you will about him, but he certainly knew about potions.

Minutes went by and they turned into hours. The intensity of the fireplace increased, its flames consuming the wood faster and faster. Most of the students had already left for their dorms, but a few curses could be heard from time to time by those who also were late to finish their homework.

Ron groaned and raised his eyes from the parchment, granting his stiff hand a moment of relief. In front of him, Tracey mumbled to herself as she kept writing. He looked at the clock above the fireplace; its hands had gone past noon. Around them, only two people had yet to leave the common room—Millicent Bulstrode, who must have been working on the very same essay, and Daniel Williams, who raised his head from his book the moment he noticed Ron's eyes were on him.

The Head-Boy raised his brow in an inquiring gesture, and Ron just shrugged his shoulders in response. Tired, he went back to work, though no word came to his mind.

"What's the matter?" a voice suddenly said. It made them both jump in surprise, and that greatly amused Daniel, who dropped himself on the closest couch to the fireplace. "That tired, eh? What's the essay about?"

"Shrinking Solution," Tracey answered. "The potion itself isn't the problem, it's the length of the essay. Snape really lost his head here."

"Careful there," Daniel smirked, "we don't want to hurt the feelings of our dear Professor. But I agree with you. Something happened to him, and we, students, are paying the price for it. Even us, his dear House."

"Now that I think about it," Ron piped in, "his scowl has been more prominent since the year started. Hell, yesterday he sent such a murderous glare to Umbridge that I myself almost wet my pants. Could she be the source of his even worse mood?"

"Maybe," Daniel said with a shrug, "but I don't think that's all. Although it's true that bloody First Counselor is sticking her nose in more and more matters as the year advances, she has yet to try a move on Snape. No, from what I know, Lupin, Babblings and Hagrid are those she inquired about the most. Bad business she is, indeed. We finally have a good Professor of Defence after many years and the poor lad is being targeted by a demon of flesh and bone."

"Even so, I don't really see Snape losing his temper about the problems of other Professors," the Head-Boy went on. "No, I think it's something deeper. I've caught the Headmaster staring at him from time to time. Perhaps they had some kind of dispute."

It was a good guess, but Ron just couldn't bring himself to lose his mind about the matter. From the corner of his eyes, he saw how Daniel tapped his fingers on the table, lost deep in thought. He lacked two of them, and there were black patches in the skin of his hand.

"I never came to thank you, did I?" Ron mused.

Daniel followed his eyes, and then he hid his fingers under the table with a tired sigh. "Don't think so, but it doesn't matter. That night, I did what I did because it was the best for me and my future; that's all. Of course, I also thought of you and those who had been petrified, but had Hogwarts been safe, I wouldn't have taken that choice. Nevertheless, people, fools all of them, still labelled me as a hero once I returned. I guess my wounds did the trick."

"That's nonsense," Tracey cut in. "To me, you are a hero, Daniel. You saved me and Neville. You stayed behind and fought all those Acromantulas so we could escape. Without you, I'd be dead. Without you, Hogwarts would be closed. Without you, the Heir of Slytherin would have won."

The emotion which she gave to those words made Daniel set his eyes on Tracey, who ended up lowering hers with a blushed face. Ron could barely hide his smirk—it would be quite bad on his behalf to tease her at this moment, right?

"Maybe," Daniel said reluctantly, "but there's plenty of people who also deserve the praise I was given. First of all, you two and your group of nosey second-years were the ones to save the school. Three of you ended up petrified, and those other two who weren't ventured into the depths of the Forbidden Forest for a way more unselfish reason than I did. Hell, you broke your two legs that night, Tracey, whereas Longbottom had to watch us fall yet push on nonetheless. That takes a lot of courage."

All the mirth was drained from Ron's face. "Wait, you broke your legs?"

Tracey grimaed. "I did, but the Centaurs found me and healed them in the blink of an eye. I don't really remember much from it, just the pain and the anguish. However, that's a thing of the past. It happened, it went well, and here we are."

Ron felt the urge to hit his head against the table. He'd caused all those problems, and he'd been out cold to solve them. His friends had suffered the consequences, and it was a price his gratitude couldn't pay by itself. One day, I will be there to help them when they most need it. I'll be there no matter what.

The mood had shifted, and such a change was very noticeable.

"Enough of this crap," Daniel sighed after a few seconds of silence. "The Heir of Slytherin is gone for good, and there's no point in bringing him back. I didn't lose two bloody fingers so he could still torment us from the afterlife. I came here to help you with that essay, so you better give me those two parchments so I can see all the nonsense you wrote and curse your stupidity. Here, let me show you two dunderheads what a perfect work looks like."

Ron huffed yet handed him his essay with no hesitation. "You are insufferable, you know that, right?" Tracey also handed him hers, all traces of blush gone from her face. "But I've been told many times that you are a good student. Let's see if those tales do any justice to you."

"A good student?" he smirked. "I'm the best, Weasley—don't ever forget that."

Hermione refrained from a yawn as Professor Lupin talked.

She'd tried to go to bed as early as possible, but her busy schedule hadn't been so kind to her. It didn't matter that she could skip some classes from time to time, not when there was such an absurd amount of homework to do. Honestly, what was wrong with Snape? The essay about the Shrinking Solution made no sense!

By her side, Harry looked the exact opposite. The boy's eyes were wide open with an excited gleam in them, and his foot tapped again and again against the floor. "Stop it," Hermione mused. "It's hard to focus on the class with you making that noise."

"Sorry," Harry said as his tapping came to an end, "I just feel full of energy this morning."

"Why? You woke up quite early for the Quidditch practice, didn't you?"

"Well, yes. But this morning Wood gave us an incredible speech, and the practice was one of the best we've ever had. This year the Cup is ours, as it should have been the previous two. We wanna do it for him. This is Wood's last year, and he deserves to win the Cup more than anyone else. Hell, even the twins looked dead serious this morning."

Hermione was left surprised at that, but she still shushed him—the class had just resumed after one of Parvati's questions.

"Let's move on to today's topic," the Professor got their attention, "the Red Caps. You mustn't be fooled by these little fellas' size, for they are incredibly sadistic and treacherous. They live in holes on the ground wherever human blood has been spilled; more so on old battlefields. Unless taken off-guard, they really don't pose any threat to us, however, they really like to prey upon solitary muggles and feast off their blood and flesh."

Hermione winced at that, and so did many others, like Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown.

"Unfortunately, I don't have any specimens here, but it won't be necessary for this class," Lupin went on. "Now here comes the thousand galleons question: how do we fight them? We fight them just as we would do with any other creature, with spells, curses, hexes or whatever form of magic you are most familiar with. There isn't a specific way to fight them away as it happened with the Boggarts…"

His lecture came to an end as a certain witch cleared her throat. "That's a very good explanation, Remus, but I don't think it's necessary," Umbridge gave them a wide smile. The witch had stood at the end of the class for an entire hour. She'd said nothing, just limited herself to write and write on that pink notebook of hers.

Even so, that changed when she stepped into the spotlight. "There's no reason to fear the Red Capes and those other creatures you've read about, because you won't ever come to face them. It is the Ministry's duty, one we take very seriously, to fend off these vile creatures so no citizen will ever encounter them. Furthermore, it's been more than ten years since a Red Cap attack was last reported. These kinds of tragedies happen in other countries, but not here."

Her smile got wider, and Hermion felt a shiver down her spine. This is the second time she interrupts a Defense class. She shared a look with Harry, and the boy's eyes showed very well what he thought; rage towards the First Counselor. However, Hermione was worried about another thing—it was now clear that the Ministry was here to undermine Dumbledore and those close to him as they spread their political propaganda.

Lupin sent her a sour look, yet said nothing as he took a seat on his table.

On her behalf, Umbridge continued, ignoring the tense atmosphere of the classroom. "Instead, I think we could do something more useful today." To the beat of her wand came some documents from her bag, which flew towards the students. "Here you have all the data we've gathered in the last thirteen years about most of the creatures you are to study this year. From the number of attacks to the severity of them, you'll find all there is to know about them."

"This is bullshit," Harry growled in a faint whisper.

Unlike him, Hermione did read the documents. All in truth, she could believe most of the data they showed, even so, there were parts of it which struck her as quite odd. For starters, those creatures at the head of the list, Vampires and Werewolves. It made sense they'd be the ones to top it since they were who interacted the most with the wizarding society by a large margin. She focused on the data by year, and found that the current one had been the most violent so far.

Wait, didn't Umbridge herself pass a law which made it almost impossible for Werewolves to get a job? Around January, if I recall correctly. Hermione had heard very little about that law within the school, which wasn't strange; not many students liked to read the press, after all. It had always horrorized her how beings like Vampires and Werewolves, who once were just as human as she was and who could behave better than many in a society, were victims of such persecution.

In fact, the discussion she once had with Henry Fawley, a veteran, grumpy Auror, came back to her at this moment. According to him, Vampires and Werewolves were ostracised from society because of their new nature, which made them more prone to succumb to their worst instincts. She had come to understand his point, though that didn't mean she shared it.

They could be helped, yet the Ministry did nothing to aid those citizens who really needed their time and efforts. Werewolves could be helped with a potion; a very complex one from what little she knew, but just a potion nonetheless. And the same went for the Vampires, whose blood lust could be greatly decreased with the help of a not-so-complex potions or even with enchanted objects.

Still, they've been hunted down and pushed out of society like rabid beasts. Still, the Ministry kept passing laws to make their life worse and force them to commit evil deeds in light of survival.

Yes, the data these documents showed could be true and honest, however, they were just part of a bigger lie, of a problem which could be solved yet wasn't of much importance to those who held the power. Why would they invest so much money and resources to improve the life of the marginalised when it was much easier and faster to send them away like some rabid beasts? All they needed to do was to spread this information and let fear do its thing.

Spread hatred among the people, make them fight each other, and they will forget the corruption of those who rule over them, Hermione recited in her mind. It was a quote she'd read in 'Hogwarts: a Story', from a man named Dalingrar Khol, a wizard from the Ancient Times who Godric Gryffyndor held in high regard.

She put aside those documents with a growing feel of disgust in her stomach. "You do have a story with that woman, right, Harry?" she said.

The boy didn't look at her, but the sigh he exhaled was all proof she needed. "It's a long story," he finally said.

"Well, we have plenty of time to talk about it. Whatever it is, I want in."

Hermione firmly believed that change could be accomplished from the bottom, thanks to those little efforts of a few people here and there. To change the lives of those oppressed, like Vampires and Werewolves, and of those who were frowned upon by others, like muggle-borns as she herself was. If not, she would try it—damned be all if she wouldn't at least try it.

Tracey Davis walked towards the Quidditch field broom in hand—her reliable Nimbus 2000. It was a good day to fly. A soft wind made the House's banners flap, which hung from the grandstands. These weak streaks would be far more dangerous atop of a broom, of course, enough to maybe hinder some of her competition, those not so skilled. There were no clouds in the sky, thus the visibility would be perfect.

In short, Tracey felt at her best.

Near the north goalpost, Marcus Flint awaited for all the challengers to gather in front of him. Flint was in his last year, and had acted as captain since his fourth, which back then made him one of the youngest captains in a long time. He was tall and thick, with more muscle than fat and brains. Many said—not to his face, of course—that it was a wonder he'd reached so far, but even though academics weren't his strength, he had a good mind for Quidditch.

There were two other team members by his side. The first one was no other but Graham Montague, the newly appointed fifth-year Prefect, and an even larger boy of serious character who happened to be the team's best chaser. Draco Malfoy was also there, of course; not only was he the seeker, but also the team's benefactor.

Much to Tracey's surprise, not many players had decided to take on the trials. The line was a short one, with ten boys and six girls on it, all older than her. The gender disparity didn't surprise her either—Slytherin often went for size and strength rather than skill and speed.

That's one more obstacle in my way. I need to focus. Even so, Tracey allowed herself a moment to smirk. Who would have told his past self, that shy half-blood girl who came into Hogwarts thinking she'd need to lower her head at every given chance, that one day she would compete for one of the team's spots?

Not her, that's for sure.

Time passed, and the whispering was cut short when Montague spoke. "I don't think anyone else is coming, Marcus," he said. "We should start now, before those curious from other Houses come to see the goods."

Flint eyed them with a scowl. "Last year, no team lifted the trophy because the Cup was cancelled, and we were pretty damn lucky," he started. "We lost against Gryffindor in the first game of the year, and that alone makes the entire season a bloody failure. I don't give a damn about the hows or the whys, all I want is to win. To win and to crush those arrogant lions."

He spat on the ground. "We need better players, but I don't know if I will find them among you folks. My boys know that I'll do what I need and beyond to win in my last year. No spot is secured, and so, if anyone here shows a great deal of talent and guts, the team's doors are wide open. This being said, nothing here is granted. These trials are gonna be tough and demanding, so much that some of you will run back to the castle with your tail between your legs at the first chance given. And I don't give a damn about it. If this turns out to be a waste of time, then so be it."

By Merlin's beard, he sure has a way with words. His speech had left the field silent, and the first glimpses of doubts had appeared in the challengers' faces, who nervously moved their weight from one foot to another.

Montague cleared his throat. "As of today, we are in great need of two beaters, and possibly, of a chaser. Draco here has proven to be a good seeker, and we don't think he'll be beaten by anyone this year. Marcus and I both will lead the attack for another year, and so far we are very happy with Bletchley at the goalie. This means there is a chance for three of you to make the team. Be brave, fly fast and show us your best. That's all we gotta say."

Tracey gulped down a knot as her eyes went to the grandstands, many metres above their heads. He caught a flash of red there—Ron had been true to his word. "I got this," the girl mused, what made those she had to her left send her a weird look.

Montague came to them and said nothing as his eyes went from one challenger to the next. He finally stopped in front of two bulky boys. "Lucian Bole and Peregrine Derrick, right? Sixth year?"

"Yes," Bole replied. He was a bit taller than Derrick, and his hair was fiery red and curly whereas his friend's was raven black and straight.

"Took you two a while to try getting into the team, but I've heard you know your way on a broom," Montague said. "Well, you two go there, to the south goalpost. Marcus wants to see how good of a beater he can make of you." Then he turned to the rest as those two left the line. "Now, everyone mount!"

Tracey did as told, taking delight in her old Nimbus.

"We'll start with a few exercises of basic flying," Montague explained. "These are only meant to take out as many challengers as we can in one go. If you folks fall prey to nerves in such a silly exercise, then you ain't cut to play a game in front of hundreds, and much less in front of hundreds who will criticise you until their lungs give up. Now, up!"

The sound of boots stomping the ground filled the field, and Tracey found herself in the air in no time at all. Montague joined them shortly after, wand ready at hand. Eyes squinted and mouth shut in a thin line, his wand moved from one side to another. Far above, some circles of light appeared; they were big enough for one person to fly through it, but not two. Also, a hundred metres ahead, some thin lines of the same light started to move up and down and left to right.

"There you have," Montague said, his face a bit pale and sweaty, "the first trial. One at once, and it will be timed. There is no mark, so don't relax no matter how good you did it. This one will be judged by my sensations. You can all succeed and go for the next trial or you can all go home here. Just do your best."

They all looked to one another, but Montague didn't grant them such freedom. "You are first to go, Warrington."

The tall boy, of short, blond hair, nodded to his year-mate's words. He kicked the air and launched himself forward. He had the same broom as Tracey, and he certainly knew how to use it. When he reached the rings, he sped up, yet had to break down quite abruptly at the last second.

The ring had closed.

Warrington didn't let that stop him. He just flew down the ball of light, and went for the next ring, which tried to shrink a bit as he rocketed through it. The other rings tried to move out of his way, and he had to slalom through them, swiftly and cleanly. He's very good! Suddenly, the last ring turned into a ball and moved away like a snitch would. He hunted it down and grabbed it next to the grandstands.

Right away, Warrington flew up, towards the light bars.

They certainly didn't move away. No, quite the contrary, they went for the boy. He was allowed a moment to blink between the first and second, though that didn't last long. In a rapid succession came the rest, and Warrington made turns so sharp that he almost fell down the broom twice. However, just when he looked about to lose control, when the last light bar came at him, he turned upside down and dodged it.

A choir of whispers put sound to that move, and Tracey herself could do nothing but to nod in awe. That had been one of the best moves she'd ever seen.

Warrington came back, face red and sweaty. "Well, how did I do it?" The words were rushed out of his mouth, just like his breath. He looked anxious, and Tracey understood him quite well. If there was no clear mark to surpass, one wouldn't know what to expect until verbal confirmation.

"You're in," Montague snorted. "That was a neat fly, brother. You've set the bar quite high, and we appreciate that." Warrington finally smiled and nodded before going down. "Well, who's next? We don't have the entire day!"

A seventh-year student by the name of Miranda Zerbin went next. She was a slim, short girl of dark, long hair, and much to Tracey's surprise she also passed to the second stage; her performance had been worse than Warrington's, but that was nothing to be ashamed of. One by one, the line of challengers got shorter and shorter, yet only three more made the cut.

And just like that, it was Tracey's turn.

"I'm gonna be blunt honest here, Davis," Montague started. "I didn't expect you today by any means. And much less did I expect to see you still here after seeing the first trial. You have courage, I'll give you that, but it takes way more than it to be chosen for the team. Players of your shape and size don't do well in Slytherin. Not with Marcus Flint as captain."

"I'm not weak," Tracey said, blushing. "Give me a chance and I will prove it."

"All yours," he said with a shrug.

Tracey just took a calming breath—this was easy, she could do it. Had she not ventured into the Forbidden Forest and faced a swarm of Acromantulas? Had she not made it back to the castle and delivered the information that caused the fall of the Heir of Slytherin? In comparison, proving Flint wrong was a piece of cake.

She just launched forward and listened to the winds.

This time, the first ring didn't change, thus she just went through it as it fainly moved to the right. First step, done. The second and third rings weren't much of a challenge either, and Tracey just squeezed through them as they shrunk. So far, so good. She shifted to the left and to the right, her Nimbus an extension of her body. Soon enough, the rings were left at her back.

Out of nowhere came a very powerful streak of air, one that dismounted her. Tracey found herself hanging from one hand, yet she barely acknowledged it. Calmly, she swung again and again, and although pain travelled through her arm, she pushed on. Then used the inertia and hoped back onto the broom.

She had not slowed down at any moment.

The light bars came, and she just dodged them one by one. This was easy, very alike to those times in which she'd ploughed through the forest near their house when she learnt how to fly—only that here light bars had replaced those branches. Tracey crossed the finish line, then she snapped out of her trance.

Graham Montague stood in front of her, brows raised into his forehead. At his back, Warrington and Zerbin had their mouths wide open, and so did the other three students who had gotten past the first trial.

"That was brilliant, Davis," Montague said. "Plainly and simply brilliant. I was wrong about you—you shut me up very damn well."

"Thank you," Tracey said, also blushing this time but for a whole different reason. At least, Montague knew he'd misjudged her.

"Well, let's not waste any more time here," the Prefect told them. "Seven who at least can fly. Better than I expected. Now, the second trial will be way more technical; after all, it's a chaser what we really need. You'll be given ten shots, and you'll have to make the most of them. Of course, there will be restrictions. Maybe I will order you to shoot at a certain spot, or perhaps you'll need to make a specific kind of shot, like a lob or a hip-shot."

Tracey nodded, though she wasn't so sure of her skills anymore. She was good at flying, but this was a whole different thing. The girl raised her eyes and looked to the grandstands. There, Ron raised his first into the air and smiled at her. He always tries his best no matter what. I can't let him down.

"Davis, you go first this time," Montague said. "Take a breath and do your best. I'm pretty sure you'll ace this. A girl who flies the way you did has nothing to fear from this stupid ass trial."

Tracey did so, and once again she found her peace. At the other end of the field awaited Blecthley. He only covered one ring, the one in the middle, but Tracey had seen enough of him to know he was quick enough to reach the others just in time.

If I can't beat him, there's no way I'll be useful against Oliver Wood. As she speeded up, the wind roared louder and louder. A hundred metres. Seventy-five metres. And just about fifty metres from the goal, Montague threw the quaffle at her. Tracey grabbed it with two hands, just as her father taught her years ago, and rocketed towards Bletchley.

No command came from Montague, and so she feigned a shot for the left ring. The keeper bought it, though just barely. In any case, it was all she needed to then aim her shot at the right ring. The quaffle went through it, but it didn't put a smile on her face. Despite his initial mistake, Bletchley had been about to stop it.

I need to do better! Tracey went back to her initial spot, where Montague awaited with another quaffle in his hands.

"Good job," he said. "You caught the quaffle with both hands, and I liked that. Far too many times people think they are good enough to catch it with one hand in every situation, and that often ends up in a grave mistake. Always go for the most effective play rather than the stylish one."

Tracey nodded, ready for the second try. It was no different from the first, and so the girl grabbed the quaffle at half-court without any problem. This time, however, Bletchley went for a different approach. Just as Tracey feigned a shot to the left, he flew forward with arms and legs wide open. Oh, shit! Just in time, Tracey managed to change her shoot with a touch of her wrist. It went over his head and through the middle ring. His fingers had grazed that sorry excuse of a lob.

Again and again, she tried, and she scored. It was in the sixth try when Montague ordered her to go for a different shot. "Right hip-shot!"

This time the quaffle didn't leave her hand with enough speed, and so Bletchley was able to grab it easily. "Oh, come on," Tracey mused, "this is my worst shot!" There was a reason why hip-shots were considered one of the last resources a chaser could pull out. Just as she'd just proven.

She returned a bit out of it, but Montague's expression wasn't one of disappointment. "Good one," he said. "Not many players in Hogwarts can say they have a proper hip-shot. And much less when the keeper knows where it will be directed to."

Tracey nodded and snapped out of her stupor—she wasn't lost yet! For the seventh try she was requested a penalty, which she made, and for the eighth came a play in which she needed to score in a two versus one situation, which also went in. A bit out of breath and sweat falling all over her eyes, Tracey went for her tenth and last attempt.

Here no quaffle came at her. Puzzled, she looked around, and saw Montague rocketing towards the goal ball in hand. Tracey just followed her gut and flew after him. Bit by bit, she closed the distance, and just when the Prefect was about to shoot, Tracey put herself in the middle, hands up in the air.

However, it was just a feign. Montague sent her a smirk, and that ignited Tracey even more. With a violent kick, her Nimbus turned around just when the quaffle left his hand. Her fingers managed to graze it, barely yet enough to deviate it.

With a loud laugh, Bletchley stopped it with one hand. "Ha! Look at that! It seems the rookie isn't one to be easily outplayed. Who would have thought, eh, Graham? Not me, that I know!"

Montague sent him a sour look. "Shut up, man. Don't make me talk about the lob you ate a few plays ago. This was a good play, period. Good job, Davis. You are in for the last exercise. Now take your time and rest while the others finish. You deserve it."

"Thanks." Still out of breath, Tracey made her way towards the grandstands. There she landed rather unceremoniously and took seat by Ron's side.

"That was incredible," the redhead said. "A display worthy of my brother Charlie."

"The one who could've played for the national team, yet refused and became a dragon tamer?"

"The very same."

"That was a good joke," Tracey huffed. "Now, gimme a bit of that juice, and some of those cookies too."

"Easy!" Ron laughed. "I brought them for you. There is no need to be so harsh."

"I swear I've never been this hungry!" Tracey complained. The juice was very good, but the cookies were even better—had she ever tasted something so delicious? Not that she remembered. "Did you see the lob, the one I almost sent to the clouds? Damn, I didn't know my wrist was so flexible."

"A bit of luck there, maybe? Still, it was incredible. You should have seen Montague's face when that one went in. He almost fell from his broom!"

Meanwhile, it was Warrington's turn in the field. He made the first three shots with no trouble; although a bit less precise, his throws were far stronger than hers. The fourth try came, and he also missed the hip-shot; in his case, it went out of the field.

"He's very, very good," Ron pointed out.

"Yeah," Tracey grimaced as she took a bite of the last cookie. "I think I'm a better flyer, but he's a better chaser overall. And thanks to his build, he'll probably be the one Flint will choose. Montague warned me about it, you know? This team greatly values the physical condition."

"I mean, that's a fair point," Ron said with a nod, his eyes set on the field. "Even so, I think a bit of variety is always welcomed, especially in this team. Why on earth would you want more physicality? There's already plenty of it with Flint, Montague, Pucey and those two new beaters."

"Well, you go there and tell that to Flint. I'm sure he'll appreciate the criticism."

Just at that moment, Warrington finished the exercise. Just like Tracey, he'd failed once; the very same shot she'd failed.

Ron and Tracey enjoyed the warm day as the other challengers went through the exercise. Montague only needed six shots to discard Sheldon Dougherty, sending him away without even finishing his try. In Hammad's case, a seventh-year boy who was said to have one of the best academic records of his promotion, eight were the shots he made. Lastly, Miranda Zerbin, the Italian witch, became the third challenger to move onto the last trial.

"Well, time to go," Tracey said as she stood up.

"Go get them," Ron smiled.

"That's a given," Tracey returned the smile. "If I make it, the first butterbeers of the year are on me." This being said, she just jumped down the grandstands as she hopped onto her Nimbus. The air roared into her face once again, and just like that Tracey knew she was ready for whichever trial Montague had prepared.

However, her determination lasted until she made it to Montague. There it was replaced by euphory.

"There is no need for a third trial," the Prefect said. "I've discussed it with Flint, and he gave me full authority on the matter. Miranda, I'm sorry, but we don't think you are good enough. Even so, we'd welcome you in the reserve." The Italian let out a disappointed sigh, but nodded in agreement nonetheless. "Cassius, you are incredibly skilled, one of the best flyers I've seen in recent years, but I'm afraid fortune wasn't on your side today. You were incredible, but not the best. Davis, the starter spot is yours."

Tracey let those words sink in. She waited, she assimilated them, then she let out a loud gasp. "What!? Are you serious!?"

"You bet," Montague huffed, though he gave her the hint of a smile. "You left me in awe, Davis—you were the best in each of the trials. What's more, let's just say that I tampered the first trial. Do you remember the strong streak of wind which almost took you out? Well, that was me." Tracey stared at him, puzzled, but he just waved the matter away. "Of course, I was ready to catch you had you fallen down. Anyhow, that little trick helped me to understand you were the one we needed."

"I myself, Davis and Marcus as chasers," Montague listed, almost to himself. "Malfoy as our seeker and Bletchley in the goal. Lastly, Adrian and Bole on the bats. Well, that's a good damn team if I've seen one." Then he turned to look at Warrington. "I want you in the reserve, Cassius. The season is long and many things can happen. I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Cassius Warrington flew towards her, and he extended his hand forward. "You are the worthy winner, Davis," he said. "I didn't know you could fly so well. Even so, you better not take anything for granted. As Graham said, the season is long and many things can happen. You might have beaten me today, but I will be there to take your spot if you don't play well enough."

Tracey just nodded as she shook his hand. There was no trace of threat in his voice, just as there was no extra force in his grip. He truly respected her. "I will do my best," Tracey said firmly. "So don't expect any play time anytime soon."

Ron sighed as he sat down on the floor of that cold classroom.

"Will we be safe here?" Gerdnyaram asked as she glided around the room. "I find this location a bit too close to the common room."

"You asked for a peaceful room in which no one would disturb us, yet one close enough of other people to test your experiment. This one is as good as any other."

In all truth, Ron hadn't lost so much time in his search as he first believed. He still had trouble believing the huge amount of abandoned classrooms there were in the dungeons. Legends said that Hogwarts used to have way more students in the past, like twice or thrice, and it wouldn't be him the one to deny that.

"By the way, I still don't know what the hell are we gonna do," the redhead said as he looked around the classroom. It wasn't a large one, but the lack of furniture almost fooled him. It was also cold, like every other room in the dungeons, and of simple stone with no decoration of any kind.

"We are here to become stronger," the Essentia replied as she came to a halt in front of him. "We are here to take the next step. A few months ago, I mentioned that there might be a chance for me to lend you some of my powers. I also told you that you weren't prepared back then. I still don't think you are, but our situation is grave and it won't change soon enough. Time runs and waits for no one."

She glided towards him until their foreheads were about to meet. "However, you recently managed to control the most basic aspects of the Sense, and that will have to be enough. Today, the Talent of Anticipation will be born anew after many generations."

Ron just gulped down a knot. Gerd's powers were related to the Future and her bloody Great Sight, and he feared those two things with all his might. Even so, there were things which needed to be done regardless of what one thought. This was just another one of them.

"Before we get to it, there's something here that doesn't fit the mould," the redhead cut in. "Unless I made it up, you did tell me that the Great Sight had abandoned you. If so, how are you gonna share with me a power which comes from it?"

"Certainly, the Great Sight abandoned me long ago," Gerdnyaram confirmed, "for it does not bestow more visions upon me. However, this Talent is a remnant from it. I cannot make use of it by myself because this current form of mine is nothing but a small fraction of what I am—its only purpose is to anchor my soul to this world, after all. Despite that, I know that I can share it with you thanks to our Link. So will you walk this new path by my side, Ronald?"

He did not need to answer that. He just stood up, and Gerd followed him. "I'm ready," Ron said.

"Before we proceed, a few warnings must be made," Gerd cut in. "This power, although extremely useful and unique, is very, very dangerous to wield. Back then, in the Ancient Times, more than a Talent it was considered a Curse. I believe I am one of the very few who survived it, and mostly it was due to how late I manifested it. I'm not talking about death here, but of something much worse. I'm talking about madness, about losing one's mind and becoming an empty shell."

"You do have a way with words," Ron mused sourly. He understood it was her duty to warn him, but she could've kept those words to herself. Honestly, what was that about becoming an empty shell? "Still it changes nothing. All by myself, I will get nowhere. I need all the help I can get, and if your cursed Talent is what I'm offered, then so be it. I will not lose my mind. Not until Voldemort is gone for good."

Gerd just stared at him, eye to eye, then she finally nodded. "So be it."

And just like that, Gerd went through him. For a few seconds, nothing happened, and when it did, it was very different from what Ron had expected. To be fair, he hadn't know what to expect, but this wasn't it. He felt…, warmer? At least, that was the first word which came to his head.

"Ehm, what now?" he asked.

"Now we search for someone else," Gerdnyaram replied in his mind. Her voice, which echoed all around his head, greatly surprised Ron.

Yes, he felt warmer, and he could also feel Gerd within him; like a second voice, like a second pair of eyes, like a second skin. When Ron looked down, he saw particles of blue light dusting out of his body, but they soon came to an end.

He walked out of the classroom, the idea Gerd had shared with him firmly set in their mind. No, this was his mind, not hers. It took him less than a minute to find someone else; a pair of students from fourth grade who made their way upstairs. Ron followed them, unsure about what to do next.

However, as he was about to ask, Gerd spoke again. "Look at the world with your new eyes, Ronald. Behold the power of the Anticipation."

Suddenly, those two students seemed to blur and blend together, yet it all happened so quickly Ron thought he'd made it up. Then he saw it. Ahead of those two boys walked some golden after-images of them; each step they took, those silhouettes also did it.

"What's that?" Ron mused with a shaking voice.

"The Future—what might happen, what might not happen, and what will finally happen."

From the taller boy came three more silhouettes. The first kneeled down as it seemed to stop just to tie its shoelaces. The second went on two more steps before also mirroring the previous one. And the third just took a few more steps before slipping down the stairs. Then, in the blink of an eye, all disappeared and merged into the first as the real boy stopped to tie his shoelaces.

"The hell?"

Ron stood rooted midway through the stairs as his mind tried to understand what he'd just seen. Soon enough, the two boys reached the end of it and disappeared, just as their golden silhouettes had done before them.

"At first, there was only one thought within that boy's mind," Gerd explained, "which was to reach the end of the staircase—that future possibility was the first silhouette. However, he then realised his shoelaces were untied, and new scenarios came to his mind. He could take the safest route and tie them right away; the second silhouette. Or perhaps he could wait a few more steps before going at it; the third silhouette. Or maybe he could just ignore it and walk carefully, therefore falling and tripping; the fourth silhouette."

She took a moment and allowed Ron to let those words sink in. "All four silhouettes represent the choices he could have taken in that given instant, however, one can only take one decision, and he went for the second outcome, so they all merged into the said one. And so, the Future became the present."

"I-I don't get it."

"The Talent of Anticipation allows one to foresee the near Future, even so, since that Future is yet to happen, many paths can be taken to get to it. The Future is a combination of possibilities in which only one will prevail, Ronald. This Talent allows you to see all of them with no filter."

"That's… That's madness, Gerd…"

"Indeed it is," she said in a low voice. "It is up to the bearers of this Talent to analyse the many outcomes of the Future to reach the one which will finally happen. Then and only then will one conquer the Future."

That was unfathomable, and it scared Ron.

"Can you imagine walking through the Great Hall as you catch glimpses of every person's Future?" she went on. "One might consider just one possibility, but what about those who consider tenths of them? Not only would you see what they are doing in that moment and what they will do by the next second, no, you would also see what didn't come to happen, those Futures which died before even being born. Thousands and thousands of possibilities. Such madness is what made dozens of bearers lose their minds. They just were unable to assimilate all that information, torn apart by its vastness."

To become mad just because you couldn't differentiate the Future and the present—Ron reckoned there were few finals as bad as this one. "Was this how you saw the world?"

"Not at first, but once the Great Sight fully awakened within me, then it did. I had to change my lifestyle to withstand it. I became a hermit, unaware of society and its change, therefore I lost sight of Herpo and his decadence, of how our world started to crumble. However, those times feel remote as of today. When I try to reminisce about them, there is no trace of this curse in my memories."

"How many possibilities did you glimpse at once?"

"Tenths of thousands. It happened as I duelled Herpo the Foul, and only thanks to this Talent I managed to withstand his assaults and hurt him. In a battle, this Talent can save your life once you learn to analyse the possibilities and the many patterns they depict in a wizard's fighting style. However, if you aren't skilled enough, the lack of focus will end your life."

Ron blinked, trying to shoo away the upcoming headache. When he opened his eyes Gerd stood in front of him, though he could still feel her warm touch within him. "How can I see through the many possibilities and find the right one?"

"You just do it," Gerd said, "there is no other option. A good way to start is thinking about what you would do in those situations. Taking what happened as an example: had your shoelaces been untied, what would you have done?"

Ron thought about it. "If I wasn't in a rush, I'd have tied them right away. That boy didn't look to be in a rush, so… Yes, I can see the pattern. I could have predicted his next move out of those four silhouettes. But still… This is too much, Gerd. Too much."

"It worked here since it was a very simple situation, but it's a good first step," the Essentia nodded. "There's more to it, of course. Knowing the person whose Future you are trying to decipher also helps; one's experiences and psyche speak loud. We could keep discussing the many factors involved here for hours and hours, and yet we would get nowhere. Words are not enough to make you grasp the vastness of this Talent. No, experience and practice is of the essence here. Only through them will you come to fully understand the Anticipation."

It wasn't strong enough to call it pain, not even a dull one, but Ron surely felt a lot of pressure around his temples. He didn't know what had been worse, if the vast amount of information he'd been given or the fact he'd been able to see the Future.

"This power could mean the difference," he whispered. "It could mean the difference…"

It scared Ron almost as bad as Tom himself did, even so, he tried to not show it.

Obviously, Gerd saw through his facade with ease. "Like I said, most of the bearers ended up mad or taking their own lives. However, there is a huge difference between you and those poor souls. Unlike them, you were not cursed by Great Sight. No, that is my curse to bear, my curse to share. Surely you can use it, you can suffer from it, yet you can also unlink yourself from it as you please. I am the bridge between the Great Sight and you, Ronald, and that's the best blessing you could have been given."

Those words took a lot of weight from his shoulders. "From now on, we will train this on a daily basis," Ron said firmly. "Just like we did with the Sense. I don't care how long it takes for me, but one day I will master both. We have a rocky path ahead of us, Gerd, but we will get to the end of it through blood and tears if necessary. You managed to survive this Talent all by yourself. It would be such an insult if I couldn't withstand just a fraction of it."

Gerd just nodded, though her eyes sparkled for an instant. "You will, Ronald. I know you will."

Well, that shit was tough to explain, that's for sure. Like Gerd herself said, it's something that it's better understood with practice rather than theory and words.

Anyway, see you all in next chapter!