CHAPTER 57: CONFRONTED WITH THE INEVITABLE
Harry didn't know if he was definitely born under an unlucky star or if fate intended for him to find himself in amusing situations only he had the knack for, because at this moment, he was indeed in one of those situations, his body hanging in the void while he clung painfully to the floor of the room he was in. A few meters below him lay the academy's cellar with its impressive quantity of powder barrels, along with the remaining part of the floor that hadn't resisted the explosion caused by a spell a few minutes earlier. His arms were already starting to ache from bearing the weight of his body, and tingling sensations were creeping into his joints as time passed. Yet, for the moment, he was utterly incapable of thinking of a solution to extricate himself from this quagmire, and the swirling dust around him did nothing to improve his situation.
"Do we give up already, Bourbon?" his opponent of the day teased with a hint of amusement.
"Never," the other hissed while attempting to climb up.
A sharp pain in his left hand made him halt his movement, and as Harry raised his head, he was met with the smiling face of his director and private tutor, Lieutenant Colonel Pajol. Delighted with his student's predicament, Pajol had found it opportune to crush Harry's hand intentionally with his boot. Keeping his foot on it, he occasionally amused himself by putting more weight on poor Harry's fingers, eliciting almost painful moans.
"You can do better than that, Bourbon," he certified calmly. "I haven't trained you for so long to see you lose because of a mere hole..."
"A hole you deliberately made me fall into," his student bitterly reminded him.
"Utilizing one's environment is one of the things I instilled in you very early on, my dear student. You should have known that by now. Besides, it wasn't me who caused this hole but you, through one of your spells. Now, I wonder what will happen to you: Will you give up, will you fall, or will you find a way to climb back into this room so that our fight may continue?"
While speaking, Pajol again stomped on Harry's hand, causing a slight whimper to escape this time.
"Climb up, Bourbon," he ordered coldly. "Now!"
Harry didn't need to be told twice. With his other valid hand, he pointed his wand at the ground several meters below him, muttering a spell. He was literally catapulted into the air, bumping into his superior on the way, who struggled to maintain his balance. His student soon returned to the room, landing a few meters away near a partly destroyed chest of drawers, only half of which remained. Without hesitation, Harry concentrated his magic into one of his legs, which briefly shimmered with a bluish light before... striking directly at the furniture and sending it flying towards his director. Unfazed, Pajol pointed his wand at the projectile, and after a few arm movements, a reddish wave of magic emanated from his wand, cleanly cutting the chest in half. However, the blade didn't stop there and rushed towards Harry, who anticipated it by creating a magical shield around himself upon which it shattered. A shock occurred at this contact, and the wall behind him cracked even further as pieces of it fell once more to the ground, yet Harry emerged unscathed.
"Aguaferventi!" he exclaimed once his shield vanished.
A powerful stream of water, steaming hot, burst out of his wand toward Pajol. Unperturbed, Pajol skillfully dodged it with a side-step, wondering what his young student's plan was. Meanwhile, the student made sure to wet the entire available surface with his boiling water, then positioned himself to face his director.
"Procella Vehementis!"
A powerful gust of wind escaped from his wand and surged towards his director. As it moved, the whirlwind came into contact with the ambient and notably hot steam in the room, rapidly escalating into an extremely dangerous force within seconds. Surprised, Pajol had no choice but to try to counter it with another burst of wind. However, his response came too late to oppose the approaching threat, which grew stronger inch by inch. The collision was abrupt but brief, and Pajol's attack was simply swept away by that of his student, crashing into him violently. Pajol could feel the hot gust whirl around him, attempting to penetrate his clothes, burn his skin, or simply reach his face despite his attempts to shield his eyes with his arms for protection.
Without wasting time, as his attack now escaped through the already broken windows of the room, Harry swiftly approached Pajol's position. He noticed a reasonably sized piece of wood on his way, transfiguring it into a simple sword whose blade seemed sharp enough to serve as a weapon. However, he didn't have the luxury of admiring it for long, as Pajol was already mounting another assault, brandishing his own sword and displaying blisters on his face while his uniform still emitted smoke. Harry skillfully dodged his first attack by stepping aside, countering the second by clashing his saber against his opponent's blade. With his other hand, he attempted to cleave his director's body horizontally, but Pajol parried the strike by stepping back slightly. Off-balance, his teacher couldn't prevent Harry from pushing him back with all his strength using his sword, then, as a signal, his student took the lead, swiftly rushing toward him. Their weapons continued to clash for long seconds, gradually turning into minutes as one sword's metal met the other's blade, parrying each other's blows. Yet, despite this, Harry managed to gain ground on Pajol, pushing him further and further backward.
"Your swordsmanship skills will always impress me," Pajol calmly commented as he avoided a sword strike from his student.
"I could say the same about you," the other affirmed as he managed to trap his director's sword with both his blades.
Harry then let his raw magic imbue both swords, causing them to shimmer briefly with a dazzling blue light that no one could ignore. Pajol smiled at this sight, but he couldn't do anything when Harry, firmly trapping his director's sword with his own, disarmed him by propelling it into the air. Proud of his move, it was short-lived as Pajol immediately countered his attack by reaching for the dagger attached to his belt, attempting in turn to slash his student's exposed abdomen. Again, Harry escaped the trap by stepping back a few paces, but his teacher, regaining the upper hand, violently pushed him back with a hand against his chest before seizing his sword in mid-air.
The two men then remained momentarily distant from each other, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from their foreheads as they assessed each other, a smirk on their faces.
"We should end this," Harry proposed as he quickly wiped his face.
"I was about to suggest the same," the other replied as he prepared for the next confrontation by swirling his sword.
Determined to lead the duel, Harry resumed the hostilities by lunging towards him, his saber already aimed at its target. Pajol dodged the attack by striking his opponent's blade once again with his own, but he quickly had to avoid the other one directed at his leg by using his dagger to fend it off. Already, Harry launched another attack, and by chance, Pajol reflexively tilted his head backward to prevent the saber from deeply cutting his face... or slashing his throat. Briefly disoriented, he didn't see his student moving to disarm him, and less than a second later, Pajol was forced to release his dagger when Harry's sword plunged deeply into the flesh of his hand.
The blood had barely begun to flow profusely from his open wound when Harry pushed him back once more, and his teacher belatedly noticed the enormous hole behind him where his student had been just moments before. Satisfied, Harry attempted to plunge his blade into his teacher's body, expecting him to voluntarily surrender the fight rather than be stabbed by him. However, Pajol swiftly clashed his blade against Harry's to parry the blow before performing a skillful roll to the side to evade the danger.
Nevertheless, as soon as he stood up again and noticed Harry's presence nearby, he felt the cold metal of his student's weapon against his throat, his own blade having also found its place at the same spot on his opponent. The two looked at each other in silence, both breathing heavily after their efforts, yet neither willing to lower their guard and concede a shameful victory to the other. As Pajol often said, it was better to win as an honorable man than as a coward, and this principle applied to the manner of dying as well.
"A draw?" he proposed while looking directly into his student's eyes.
Harry didn't respond, but a fleeting smile appeared on his face when his eyes briefly landed on his other sword, its tip barely a few centimeters from his director's heart. Pajol followed suit, and realizing that he could be killed in a different way, he too began to smile.
"Am I done for?" he asked calmly.
"I believe I have one step ahead of you this time," Harry argued proudly.
"If I were to slit your throat now, you wouldn't have any," the other retorted in the same detached tone.
"I could say the same for myself!"
The two sized each other up, their gazes locked in a silent duel where each hoped to gain the upper hand. Then Pajol averted his eyes and sighed, though he didn't remove his sword from under his student's chin.
"Shall we continue this little game for much longer, or shall we conclude this duel without naming a winner?" he said flatly, yet keeping his sword under his student's chin. "Not that I'm bored, but I remind you that you have exams to take, young man..."
A flash of understanding crossed Harry's gaze, and the grip he maintained on his swords became slightly weaker than before. However, akin to his professor and mentor, he kept his focus steadily on him.
"A draw," he eventually decided after a few seconds of contemplation.
Both, in agreement, simultaneously lowered the weapons threatening the other—an opportunity for Harry to finally catch his breath and realize the state of exhaustion he was in. His swords had barely touched the ground when he slumped slightly, hands on his knees, to regain control of his breathing.
"We've made quite a mess here," commented his director, surveying the room.
Indeed, the room was in ruins, multiple holes in the walls, ceiling, and even the floor, evidence of the violence of their duel, with debris and wood scattered everywhere.
"I hoped to finally defeat you," Harry murmured, lifting his head to look at him. "I've never been so close, but it seems I must leave this school without ever managing to best you."
"I gained this experience after years of training and engagement in a hostile environment, constant work, and unparalleled efforts," stated Pajol. "Yet, in just seven years within these school walls, with one training session per week, you're capable of challenging me. You'll surpass me much sooner than you think, Bourbon, and our last little duel is living proof."
Harry nodded and stood up fully, also taking stock of the chaotic state in their training room. Lost in the heat of the action, he hadn't noticed this slight detail, but now that he did, he judged that indeed, the sessions with Pajol were particularly eventful.
"We should tidy up before you head to your exams," suggested his director, picking up his wand and pointing it toward a pile of debris. "Reparo!"
His student did the same, and in less than a minute, the destroyed room returned to a long, perfectly orderly, and immaculate space. Shelves returned to their places along the walls, weapons hung neatly, the floor regained its shine, and the ceiling beams were reattached to support the upper floors. Even Harry's transfigured sword reverted to a wooden plank, finding its original position on the floor near his feet.
"This looks much better," commented his director, satisfied. "This room has never seen as much activity as when we were both present."
Harry briefly felt that a hint of regret might be perceptible in the tone of his voice, but knowing his director, he chalked it up to an effect of his imagination. The cold and distant man he was couldn't express anything other than those sentiments, could he?
"What exams do you have today?" Pajol asked, changing the subject.
"The theoretical transfiguration test and then the mathematics exam," he informed, suppressing the urge to sigh. The alternation between magical and non-magical subjects was a specificity of the academy, but the idea of spending four hours on complicated calculations already gave him a strong headache. Or perhaps it was simply due to their duel, for which he saw no remedy other than a quick visit to the infirmary. He just hoped the calming potion he would take wouldn't be considered a prohibited stimulant for his exams.
"If you succeed in this second test, I don't see what could hinder you in your Arithmancy exam," commented Pajol, tending to the wound that continued to bleed on his hand.
His smile then disappeared again, and his tone became much harsher as he addressed his student: "We haven't had a student as brilliant as you within our establishment for decades, so I expect—no, I demand—from you results that match everything you've done so far within these school walls. It would be quite upsetting if I couldn't boast to the other heads of magical academies in our country about one of their students ranking at the top of the most deserving. My colleagues have been seething for six years every time I present your results to them; I intend to make it a seventh!"
"I'll do my best," Harry assured, though a smile crept onto his lips in the face of such boasting.
"I don't expect the best from you; I expect perfection!" insisted his director. "Don't disappoint me. No, don't disappoint us. This concerns the prestige of our academy, and you are its greatest standard-bearer."
Harry didn't respond, but internally, he was deeply touched by his director's words. So many compliments, even indirectly... It didn't seem like Pajol at all, yet in this moment, the man was showing him all the confidence he had in him. His director, his teacher... No, his mentor—the man who had trained him for so long, scolded him when necessary, advised him when he doubted, reassured him in his moments of emptiness and doubts... For anything in the world, he didn't want to disappoint him, and if achieving the best academic results possible was a way for him to be satisfied, then yes, he would strive to achieve that goal.
"Have you eaten?" Pajol asked as he put on his coat.
"Not yet, sir," replied Harry before realizing from the look his director gave him that it was certainly not the right answer.
"What are you waiting for? Hurry to the refectory!" he ordered as his student hastily sheathed his sword and grabbed his own uniform.
Feverishly, Harry quickly buttoned his jacket, donned his cloak in record time, adjusted his boots, and cleaned himself with a swift flick of his wand before standing at attention and bowing towards Pajol to take his leave. The latter responded to his salute, standing in the middle of the room as he watched his student head towards the exit, grabbing his shako as he passed.
"Gabriel, wait!" he suddenly called out.
Intrigued to be called by his first name, Harry immediately stopped in his tracks. Turning towards Pajol, he saw his director slowly approaching, his gaze never leaving him as he pensively stroked his sideburns. Once face to face, he made a gesture that surprised Harry immensely: he extended his hand.
"As your superior and in charge of the 4th Hussar Regiment, I know we will meet again very soon, but then you won't be my student anymore, but rather one of my subordinates," he said flatly as Harry shook his hand. "Whether it's parading, maintaining order, or battling across Europe, you will always remain under my authority, no matter what. Don't forget that."
"I won't forget, sir," reassured his student as their hands parted.
At that contact, Harry felt his director also wanted to give him something. In his palm now lay what seemed to be a brand-new letter opener engraved with his director's initials. Intrigued, he focused his attention back on him, realizing he owed him some explanations. Pajol then spoke:
"If you find yourself in a difficult situation, grip this object in your hand and clearly say, 'I need your help.' The object I'll keep on me, connected to this one, will then start to heat up, and I'll only need to seize it to be directly transported to you."
"But why a letter opener?" asked his student, troubled.
"Your mother expects you to take over her affairs and those of your father when she feels you're ready," he reminded him. "I think this object will be very useful considering the mountain of mail you'll receive to fulfill your tasks. I imagine you poorly behind a desk, but perhaps it's because I've rarely seen you with anything on your back other than a uniform. Maybe you'll be as good at administrative tasks as handling a weapon? Only time will tell."
Touched, Harry briefly wanted to break with the usual formalities and give his director a hug, but he refrained and settled for a nod of thanks as he carefully tucked the object into one of his pockets. Then, without lingering any longer on their goodbyes, Harry definitively headed for the exit without looking back. Yes, they would meet again, and deep down, he already eagerly anticipated being in the company of the man who was still his director for another month. More than just a teacher, a mentor, or a role model, Harry felt at that moment that Pajol had a truly special place in his heart, perhaps on par with Rémus, whom he had known since childhood but in a completely different context—a place that others could have occupied under different circumstances. A paternal figure? Perhaps, but he didn't even know if Pajol had his own family, his own children, and the troubles that came with the role of a father. And anyway, he couldn't see himself going to ask him to be the surrogate father he had never had, or so he thought until now. If he was the man he was today, Pajol was undoubtedly one of the major reasons, and for that alone, he had all of Harry's respect.
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