Chapter 50. The Annoying Peacock.
By using the Time-Turner, time began to move three times slower for us: we lived through three days in the span of one. At first, thanks to our strict adherence to the schedule, it wasn't difficult. We simply and calmly went through an ordinary school day: attended classes, talked with others, and did our own things, including spending time in the Room of Requirement. Then, after sleeping in the common room, we had lessons with Dumbledore, who also allowed Hermione to be present. Though at first she was surprised by the subject of the lessons, she soon just started trying to absorb as much knowledge as possible.
But as soon as the first month of study passed, it became a little uncomfortable emotionally. Despite all our introversion, and how much time we devoted to studying even during the holidays, it was a bit hard to accept that, although for us three months had already passed—almost a third of the school year—for everyone else only a single month had gone by. And the school year itself was, essentially, only just beginning. If we didn't have perfect memory, there would likely have been far more problems. But gradually we got used to it, especially since, for the most part, we were more interested in our future ritual.
Because of how dangerous the ritual was, Dumbledore began to work through it with us. And soon he found factors that essentially made it necessary to rework the ritual, and without the headmaster's help, that would have been a serious problem.
The main issue with this ritual was that it affected the wizard's very soul, and through it, the body. Only, we had two bodies. And if we left everything as it was, the chances were high that we would indeed get a result, but instead of, in addition to the enhancements we needed, receiving only a slight change in appearance, we could just as easily be turned into something incomprehensible—or the ritual might even try to merge both bodies into one, with, to put it mildly, catastrophic consequences. Ending up as conjoined twins would have been one of the better outcomes.
So the headmaster and we had to delve into soul magic which, in any case, we needed to study; we just had to take it up a bit earlier than planned.
This branch of magic was mostly aimed at studying the structure of the soul and how it is connected to the physical body, the mind, and magic. And also, oddly enough, the famous Killing Curse is precisely a spell of soul magic. In essence, that spell quite literally knocks the soul out of the body and severs its connection, which is why the effect is instant death. There were a few approaches to casting this spell. One, the most widespread, is through emotions and a sincere desire for the enemy's death, which is what made the spell into so-called dark magic. Because if you deliberately immerse yourself in such emotions, it really does start to gradually affect your psyche. There is also a second method, based on complete understanding of the spell's workings—in that case, the spell becomes more like a program directed toward a specific end result.
If you think about it, most magic is, in fact, a science; it's just that Muggle scientists have not yet achieved sufficient results to detect magical energy and then study it.
Wizards, in this sense, are like moderators of reality who have been granted access to magic. In the future, it is quite possible that Muggles will be able to artificially create wizards. And instead of the forms of energy that are known today, the world will begin to switch to magical energy. The main question, however, is: how will that future be reached? Unfortunately, we are inclined to believe it will be through a war of wizards against Muggles, during which the foundations of the magical world will be destroyed. And although that position might be wrong, by that time we would prefer to have long since left this world and, with all our accumulated abilities, move on to the next.
Anyway, we were wandering far into unnecessary speculation against the backdrop of yet another day of lessons with the headmaster. He has one particular flaw: his words often make you think about this world's future. That also affected Hermione who, unlike us, seemed to be increasingly fired up by the idea of being the one to smooth that very future out. And by now she, unlike us, was much more focused on our original goal of becoming a Metamorphmagus.
We hadn't abandoned that idea completely; we had simply rearranged our priorities. You never know how things might change or when sudden death might strike, so it was preferable for us to prepare for the future, simultaneously increasing our power on a much larger scale than Metamorphmagus abilities could offer, and only then, if it was at all possible, we could try to become Metamorphmagi ourselves.
However, even with all our experiments, we had no intention of neglecting either fencing or our physical training and duels. We did all that on the third "day" within a single day—the third set of twenty-four hours—which we spent at home, and to be honest, that third day was the most pleasant and peaceful.
The part we hated the most, though, was ordinary school time. No, there were no sudden attacks or incidents, but there was him.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
His very presence was unbelievably infuriating. Every breakfast, lunch, and dinner turned into a circus because of his rabid fangirls. You'd think it would all get old rather quickly. But, alas, that peacock enjoyed the attention, and each time he only added fuel to the fire, which, besides us, earned him the hatred of many others. We especially loathed his lessons.
The first class was basically calm: he showed off, we filled out questionnaires about him, and that was that. The second lesson was decent too. He brought in pixies, and they were dealt with fairly quickly. But after that… that bastard decided to turn the lessons into a theater. And who do you think was constantly cast in the role of villains over whom he would heroically triumph? Of course, representatives of the darkest and most ancient House of Black. And that role, most of the time, went to Regulus.
At first, we would, so to speak, snap back from time to time—it wasn't exactly hard to beat such a weakling—but soon, realizing that this would only hurt his reputation rather than bring us any respite, he simply stopped pairing up with us for his little scenes and instead began to put, who would've thought, the great and shining Harry Potter in his place. And there was no point in Harry tormenting us; besides, the boy liked it all no more than we did.
Time went on like that until one fine day our patience snapped.
Like frozen statues, we sat gloomily at the second desk in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom while Gilderoy flashed his pearly-white smile at the class.
"Now then!" Lockhart exclaimed, sweeping his robes in a dramatic flourish. "Today we will recreate my glorious victory over the Bandon Banshee! Harry, my boy, come up here. You'll be me."
Harry got up with an air of doom, catching the sympathetic looks of the Gryffindors. He had long since resigned himself to his fate.
"And for the role of the evil spirit…" Lockhart's gaze swept across the class and his finger landed on Andromeda. "You, Miss Black! You have just the right… dramatic look. Come stand here!"
At that moment only one thought came to mind: "Had enough of this."
Andromeda rose without a word, and Neville, watching her back, seemed to sense trouble; he swallowed so loudly that it was clearly heard. She walked to the center of the classroom, taking her place opposite Harry who, seeing the expression on our female half's face, grew nervous.
"Excellent, Miss Black!" Lockhart waved his hands excitedly. "Now, you must let out a soul-chilling banshee wail! And then I—that is, Harry—will cast the imaginary 'Petrificus Totalus' on you. Come now, begin!"
Harry raised his wand uncertainly. Andromeda did not move. Her cold eyes bored into the professor's face.
"Professor Lockhart," Andromeda said in a low, even voice, "are you sure you're ready to hear a scream comparable to a banshee's?"
"Oh, my dear, I've heard hundreds!" he laughed, not noticing that Regulus, at his desk, had already cast spells on Harry and the nearest students. "Don't be shy!"
Andromeda tilted her head just slightly to the side, and a faintly sinister smile flickered across her face.
"I warned you."
With a few swift motions, Andromeda cast a protective spell on herself and then, pressing the tip of her wand to her throat under Lockhart's puzzled gaze, she added a short incantation:
"Sonorus."
And then, taking a deep breath, she screamed.
"A-A-A-A-A-A!"
The sound of shattering glass filled the room—every window in the classroom exploded inward in a sparkling rain that was stopped by the shield prepared in advance. The portraits of Lockhart on the walls trembled, and the "hero" himself collapsed to his knees, clutching his hands to his ears. A thin trickle of blood quickly seeped out from between his fingers. He was the only one who hadn't been protected.
In the silence that followed, the only sound was the groans of the wounded professor.
Andromeda straightened the collar of her robes; her face remained completely calm.
"It seems," we remarked coldly, looking at the writhing professor who, in any case, couldn't hear us, "you overestimated your readiness."