The Forbidden Forest impressed with its night darkness, fog, atmosphere. An unprepared person here would feel extremely uncomfortable, and various sounds, by no means typical of an ordinary forest, would finish off the poor fellow, drive him to hiccups. Strange magic was felt here, tracks of different animals, dangerous, intelligent, were seen here. And about the Acromantula web—it's impossible not to recognize it—it's not even worth talking about! There is clearly a colony somewhere here! But all this was only a joy to me.
The particle of an elf inside me allowed me to move in this forest without problems, like a shadow. An invisible, quiet shadow, deadly as a stiletto in skilled hands. What was I doing here in the middle of the night, having just dealt with the curse on the lands of, now, Delacour? Oh, everything is extremely simple! I was looking for a good place for a phoenix egg.
The thought of stuffing the Lotus into it, replacing the essence of fire, came immediately after the desire to create a Death Eater. And no, there is no such creature—I came up with the name myself. And I have no idea how to create them, if approaching the issue scientifically, from the point of view of the magic of calculations, formulas and spatial schemes. But knowledge of some principles of sorcery, "correct", volitional, and some other aspects, allowed my violent mind to draw up a cunning plan.
A phoenix is a strange and contradictory creature, a product of the energy of fire and life. Its contradiction lies in the fact that having a connection with the dimensions of these energies, it mostly does not receive energy from there, but collects it from outside for its existence. That is why they live in forests. There is something to burn there, and the cycle of life and death proceeds extremely quickly. Yes-yes, death, but not the one that is painful, associated with pain, torture, horrors and madness. Death as the reverse side of life. It was with its participation that I created the Lotus, in addition to the distorted neutral, close to Dark.
Living in the forest, by the way, a phoenix has an extremely long life cycle. I wouldn't be surprised if Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, very often burns down, reborn—killing himself, shortening his cycle, he compensates for the lack of death around—be that as it may, it is quite far to the Forbidden Forest, and the phoenix needs freedom, flight over possessions to collect energy. But I digress.
A dead phoenix egg, deprived of parent nourishment—there is. Which means there is also a physical basis, which only needs to be somehow "started" again.
A powerful magical structure based on distorted, dark energy and life energy—there is. Lotus. I collected it and introduced it into the egg.
The phoenix uses fire not only as a manifestation of its energy and connection with the dimension, but also as a natural tool for shortening the life cycle of everything around to obtain the energies of life and death. But I need another tool, and I have it—I remember Dementors perfectly well. Oh, that's some energy for torture. So now I am scurrying around the Forbidden Forest in search of the remains of Dementors or traces of their activity. I will never believe that during their billeting here they didn't kill anyone.
Why do I need at least crumbs of Dementor energy? I'll just take my miracle kit for forging, create a contour for the procedure of establishing affinity with energy dimensions, and tightly hammer both Dementor energy and the Lotus into the egg. Even if the latter is in the egg, but now it is a vessel, and should be a material basis.
The last element I will apply is binding the future Eater to myself at the blood level. Generally, a phoenix is a wild and brainless creature. Completely brainless—even a chicken compared to it is a genius. Such is its essence. But if you make it a familiar, it seems to become an extension of the owner's consciousness. So if someone sees a wizard talking to his phoenix, then this "someone" should draw the correct conclusion—before him is a real psycho.
Why do I know so much about phoenixes at all? Well, they are quite a pain in the ass for elves. How does a forest dweller relate to fire? Extremely negatively, I tell you. That's the same opinion elves have about phoenixes—an element with which something constantly needs to be done, for it beckons them to where there is forest and life, and the place is already taken.
With such thoughts, I continued to scurry around the forest for the umpteenth hour. And with every minute my enthusiasm faded more and more, until I stumbled upon a gnawed skeleton partially gone under the tree roots, looking like a foal. With the naked eye it was possible to understand that the foal was born with pathology of the pelvic bones and hind legs—disabled. A horn on the skull—unicorn, means.
Approaching closer and listening to the energies around, felt a thin faded trace of Dementor energy. There were small hairs next to the foal. Thick, almost like needles, chitinous. Hmm... Well, the picture is clear. Dementors ate the foal, like wolves, forest orderlies, catching the sick and weak. And Acromantulas finished eating the flesh—there is no one else here to scatter chitinous hair-needles.
Someone might say, like: "Dementors do not drink the souls of animals!". And will be right. But a unicorn is a smart animal. And a mind in a living body without a soul—doesn't happen. In general, a unicorn is intellectually developed enough to be afraid in a human-like way, which attracted Dementors.
Throwing the backpack off my shoulder, pulled out all supplies and began preparation.
Conjuring one "empty" nozzle for the hammer with a wand using transfiguration, prepared it for introducing the necessary contour, dripping a little of my blood—to bind what will turn out to myself beloved. Pulled out the blackened egg, put it on the anvil. Focused on the energy around and, using control skills, separated crumbs of Dementor energy. Created the necessary contour for the affinity procedure, poured Dementor energy there and immersed the contour in the nozzle. Maintaining control, screwed the nozzle onto the hammer and carefully, as if working with a jewelry product, knocked on the egg.
There was no ringing or sparks. It seemed as if the air around the egg exploded with black smoke, scattering for tens of meters, but immediately was sucked back. On the anvil with wheels lay a black egg with a gray pattern. Putting the nozzle in the backpack, created a new one. With another volitional message created a contour for affinity and, creating the necessary proportion of life energies and distorted neutral, knocked on the egg again—another soundless black wave dispersed to the sides and immediately was sucked back.
Do I feel something from the egg now? Exactly—I feel something. But what? There is definitely a binding—it's like with that bush. Energies inside the egg are seething, there are also connections with energy dimensions—something will turn out. The egg does not emit background radiation to the district at all—everything goes into business. Should I take it with me to Hog? No—what if some detection charms work? I don't need that. But burying it somewhere near Hagrid's hut—that's possible. If anything, everyone will think of the big guy, because he is a fan of all sorts of such things, cute and good. In Hagrid's understanding, of course.
Gathering things, hurried away from here.
Half an hour of running through the forest, and I came out to the hut, near which the Beauxbatons carriage still stands. creeping up close to the hut, dug a hole with magic and put the egg there, sprinkling with earth. No need to think that the earth will somehow prevent the creature from being born. The egg is just a form. It has no shell or other egg elements like birds or lizards. It itself will become a creature.
Pating the earth paternally, under which the egg is buried, I went to Hogwarts. After all, Monday is a hard day. And haven't done homework yet.
. . . . . .
What don't people compare time to? Sometimes it's water, sometimes sand, sometimes some other unknown substance that is so easy to miss. But in all this there is one simple truth—you really can get carried away with something and not even notice how time flies. The same thing happens to me—study and life at Hogwarts, communication with comrades and practice in sorcery, measured storming of the library, studying recommended books in the Restricted Section and additional literature in the ordinary one, additional classes with Professor Snape and Daphne. All this contributes to the rapid onset of a new day and the flow of it saturated with ordinary events, and the next day is just around the corner. If we consider these issues separately and in more detail... Well...
If studies and other similar areas of my activity calmly went according to plan, then some nuances of communication with peers required attention and comprehension. For example, Nott quieted down capitally, beginning to bypass me in a wide arc. It was visible from his face that it was not about fear or anything like that, rather—about apprehension. And what exactly he feared—is an open question. Spiders heard a couple of conversations, the general meaning of which is that Nott either complained to his parents, or simply wrote to them, and in response instead of advice received a magic kick, which the Head of House, Professor Snape, conveyed to him with all diligence as the person responsible for the life of charges during school hours and within the castle.
Malfoys of all sorts and other individuals with whom I do not have the best relationships, including Potter with the sixth Weasley—all of them delved into their own affairs. Malfoy began to behave more restrained. This does not mean that he changed much, but it seems he gives less free rein to emotions, and began to look at everything happening with increasing indifference. Well, unless Potter and Weasley pissed him off in a dozen seconds—here, it seems, medicine is powerless.
Potter and Weasley continued the investigation of Karkaroff's insidious plans—they constantly whispered, exchanged glances, disappeared somewhere and clearly did something. So far the only thing they managed to find out—Karkaroff now wears a wig. Naturally, this news immediately became public knowledge, capitally spoiling the already bad mood of the Durmstrang Headmaster. And what did he count on?
With Daphne it was somewhat more complicated. No, nothing strange or anything else, and we see each other every day—joint lessons, walks between classes, training with Snape. Only Parkinson goes everywhere with us. I certainly have nothing against her—even last year I noticed that she is on her own mind, and she has some kind of her own "code". But for the sake of propriety, Daphne and I behave appropriately for young and well-bred people, not allowing ourselves anything extra in the presence of strangers. Need I explain that Pansy, like some duenna, simply does not let us do stupid things? I find it amusing that neither I nor Daphne find this really inconvenient. On the contrary—so far unsuccessful, but not particularly diligent attempts to retire caused an exciting feeling of something... Forbidden, or what? Some intrigue. And a considerable role in obtaining such unusual pleasure from such a style of communication is played by observing Pansy and her attempts: "Do not allow! Do not leave alone! What obscenity!". And once or twice a week, but Daphne and I manage to seize five minutes for all sorts of stupidities, after which we returned to the social roles of fellow wizards.
Hermione abandoned her developments to help house-elves. Well or pretended to abandon. Perhaps she brought them to mind, but decided not to advertise such a thing. But she took up studies, spending all free time on the library. I even approached her for a conversation once.
"Mione, hi," I sat down at her table.
My sister looked up from the book, looked at me, smiled tiredly.
"Hi, Hector. Did something happen?"
"Mmm, no. I'm just wondering," I leaned forward, peering at her. "Are you resting, or only studying?"
"Of course studying. Exams soon, two months left..."
Yes, it was late April.
"...the volume of material is serious. Need to repeat everything properly. Make sure nothing is missed."
"Mhm, understood," I nodded. "And do you practice sorcery?"
"A little. Why?" she looked at me bewilderedly. "I remember everything, know everything. I do spells and charms for the course a couple of times to make sure and check everything. What if they ask on the exam, and I haven't tried once?"
"Don't understand," I tilted my head slightly to the side, examining Hermione. "Perhaps this is your path of a witch?"
"But you also spend a lot of time in the library," now my sister looked at me with misunderstanding.
"Well, exactly as much as my regime, schedule requires. Note, a very successful schedule. Who is the best student in the entire stream?" I smiled, causing a slight disdainful smile from Hermione.
"Grades—are not the main thing," she answered importantly, but there was not a drop of faith in her own words in her look.
"This is said by a person tearing veins for grades," I continued to smile.
"Even the fact that you are the best student in the stream does not make you a powerful wizard."
It seems she is not aware of my achievements at all, and this is a positive recommendation to our Dueling Club, and generally, to my comrades from the year—information from the club itself will not reach the ears of the disinterested and ignorant, which means there are no rumors, and comrades are good—do not tell right and left about both their successes and mine.
"Also true. But I'm not here for this. I'm just wondering why you, finding yourself in the magical world, are engaged, often, not at all in improving yourself as a witch? Well, that is, in my understanding, it is extremely important to have extensive practice, and not just theory—without practice theory is dead. And fussing with various injustices—is not our level, so far."
"How is it, 'not ours'? Very much 'ours'," my sister was indignant. "Injustice cannot be left uncorrected."
"Hmm... Agree. And did you ask those towards whom you want to correct injustice, as it is in your vision?"
"Injustice is injustice," Hermione nodded. "And the same elves just don't know that the attitude towards them is unfair, that this needs to be changed. True, I have put this topic aside for now. If I fail exams badly, I can be expelled from school—then there will be no time for injustice."
"Amusing," I smiled sincerely and broadly. "You know, I have an amusing association. Is it possible that the Dark Lord also saw injustice and decided to change it, regardless of the opinion of those suffering, as he saw, from injustice?"
"Well you know," Hermione was indignant, but seeing only a joke in my gaze, smiled back. "Dark Lady Hermione, who rules house-elves and does her dark deeds with their help?"
"Why not," I shrugged.
"Yeah... And I'll name my task force... Death Eaters of Oven Doors?"
"Oven doors? What do oven doors have to do with it?"
"Ah, just so," Hermione waved it off. "One familiar free elf very often mentioned hot oven doors as a severe punishment if ears are pinched by them. Some filth."
"Indeed. Okay, what are you learning there? Maybe I haven't passed this yet."
"Yes, History of Magic. Another goblin rebellions. You know, poor Professor Binns. No wonder he died at work reading these dull materials..."
That's how, actually, days went at Hogwarts. One after another, one after another.
Sometimes we, I mean all students in general, found strength, desire and a little time to walk to the Black Lake, sit on the shore, and so on. Many regretted that after the Yule Ball the ballroom was closed—it was an excellent place for dancing, and even some guys nodded understandingly—liked being in close contact with girls legally and so excitingly. Seniors, of course, smiled condescendingly at such conversations, but nevertheless.
In the last days of May, teachers began to increase the study load in bulk. Perhaps they wanted to occupy the last crumbs of free time in this way? After all, you can consider that summer is outside, want to walk, enjoy the weather, sun, fresh air, nature in the end, which, actually, we all tried to do. But this merciless load deprived of this opportunity almost completely. Well, if you plan to pass exams normally at all, which is absolutely unimportant for all years except the fifth and seventh. Sixth-years understood this for the most part, and boldly ignore everything, walking around the neighborhood. The rest sacredly believe in the importance of exams, study tirelessly.
I was worried about Hermione, because she practically does not communicate with her two friends. But I worried in vain—having got rid of them, my sister still joined the company of Gryffindor girls from different years. So here you can not worry about her.
At the beginning of June, nerves failed some Quidditch players—they arranged a game into one gate. Oh, how McGonagall raged, complaining about irresponsibility, carelessness, frivolity of these young wizards playing Quidditch, neglecting all safety, not on a specially prepared field. And if someone breaks their neck? If Madam Pomfrey doesn't arrive in time? If they don't manage to provide first aid?
"Madam Pomfrey can do a lot," said the Deputy Headmistress, standing on the street in front of the players lined up on the green grass with brooms in their hands, gathering more and more spectators around with every moment. "But she is unable to resurrect the dead. None of us are capable..."
McGonagall continued to mercilessly nag the Quidditch players, and other students, albeit at a safe distance so as not to fall under a hot hand, stood and watched—not every day such a debriefing takes place outside the castle walls. In all senses.
"You know," Daphne standing nearby spoke, "I assumed that I would see you among these desperate flyers."
"You have such a high opinion of me?" turning to Daphne, I involuntarily admired the blue-black hair glowing with health in the sunlight. Just like mine. Yes, a drop of narcissism is always present in a person, and considering that this is my favorite hair color...
"You fly perfectly," Daphne looked back at me, smiling. "Usually, such wizards do not see life without flights."
"Well, for me it is most likely just one of the facets of possibilities. Playing Quidditch, I..."
"What are we talking about?" Pansy boldly wedged herself between us, shifting the gaze of green eyes from me to Daphne and back. And her hair shimmers with chocolate in the sun, although also black.
"About life vicissitudes, Parkinson," I answered with a smile. "Listen, what is the reason for your amazing desire to destroy our tête-à-tête with Daphne in every possible way?"
"Obviously, Granger," Pansy proudly turned up her nose, "as a well-bred young lady and a friend of another no less well-bred young lady, I simply cannot allow myself to stand aside when this very friend sinks deeper and deeper into the abyss of vicious relationships with an unequal... Not equal at all."
"But somehow you do it... Ineffectively, or what?" I smiled, watching out of the corner of my eye how McGonagall led the negligent Quidditch players into the castle, and the audience began to disperse who knows where.
"I'm a friend," Pansy shrugged. "And since my dear Daphne decided to wallow in this abyss so selflessly, my task is to support her or at least try to accept such a strange choice. Yes. Exactly so."
"Hmm..."
Daphne smiled at Pansy, pushing her out and standing next to me, and Pansy deftly slid to the other side of Daphne.
"Don't your own thoughts seem somewhat contradictory to you, girlfriend?" Daphne still looked at Parkinson.
"I'm a girl," she shrugged. "I'm allowed."
"Well-well-well," a familiar voice rang out from behind, and I habitually expected imposingly drawn-out words and phrases. "Just look..."
We turned around to behold the most brilliant Draco Malfoy with company. The composition of his company does not change—Crabbe, Goyle, and now Nott frequented there too. I wonder why Zabini and Pike prefer their own atmosphere to this company? Is Malfoy really not an authority for them from the word "at all", and his father has no influence on their relatives? Amazing.
"...I, honestly," Malfoy continued to smirk, "had a better opinion of you, Parkinson. But it seems another bottom has been broken, and now you prefer the company of a Mudblood, and not much more worthy wizards? My father..."
"Draco," I was the first to enter the dialogue, not letting the rather hot-tempered, albeit quick-witted Pansy say some caustic crap. "Not further than after the second task of the Tournament, I had the pleasure of talking with your father..."
"I didn't allow you to address me by name," Malfoy grimaced. Nott grimaced just like that. They are funny. Ignoring Draco's dissatisfaction, I continued to speak:
"...and we had a very productive conversation, if you remember. Respected Mr. Malfoy offered to provide me with comprehensive support in my endeavors of various kinds. And with Lady Malfoy—wonderful, really, woman—we had an extremely interesting conversation about Dark Magic."
"And why are you telling me this?"
"Because, Draco..."
"Tsk..."
"...that all this smacks of intrigue, the plan of respected Mr. Malfoy. And since it didn't work out for you to help your father in his endeavors, be kind, at least don't interfere."
"And you know what, Granger?" Malfoy smirked. "Father can plan whatever he wants. And I have my own opinion on this matter..."
Now one of those situations happened during which, if it were a cartoon or a comedy film, a tumbleweed driven by the wind in complete silence should have appeared in the background. Because this is—unthinkable!
"Bravo," I clapped my hands, breaking the silence around. "This must be celebrated!"
Snatching out the wand, thereby forcing this evil company to twitch, I pointed the tip into the sky, causing fireworks charms. Bright flashes illuminated the sky, and I immediately put the wand to my throat, casting Sonorus.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Attention! Breaking news!" my voice spread around the district. "Draco Malfoy has been found to have His Own Opinion! Truth or fiction—time will tell!"
"Granger!" Malfoy roared and even wanted to take out his wand, but changed his mind.
"Stop getting angry in vain, Draco," I smiled. "We are at school. Unique and fast-passing time—childhood. Do not waste it on empty and unnecessary enmity. Time will put everything in its place."
"You know, I can't stand you," Malfoy exhaled. "But here I am forced to agree. Time will show where whose place is. Enjoy life while you can. Let's go."
Draco turned around and headed towards Hogwarts, and his entire company followed him.
"It's not a secret for you," Daphne spoke, looking after Malfoy and company, "that I can't stand them?"
"Oh, a minute of fresh news?" Parkinson smirked. "We are aware."
"That's good," Daphne nodded. "Annoying sometimes. And what does Astoria see in him?"
Potter and Weasley hurried to us from the side of the lake—there were as many as three redheads, two of whom are identical.
"Did someone say 'Malfoy'? Where?" Ron was the first to speak, and I pointed my hand towards the company almost hidden behind the gate. "Let's go, buddy..."
Ron pulled Harry by the sleeve.
"...track these scoundrels..."
Here it dawned on him that he was standing next to two Slytherin girls. Ron immediately soured, pulling Potter even harder.
"Silence, Harry," Ron continued to mutter.
"Ladies..." jester-twins took off invisible hats in a no less jester-like bow.
"...and gentleman, 'one piece'."
They immediately followed the heroic duo.
"...fireworks," one of them said, but we heard him.
"...yes, need to make our own. Only through potions."
"...think correctly, Forge."
"...how else, Gred."
"Jesters," Parkinson snorted. "Where were you going anyway?"
"To the lake."
"So forward!"
On the shore of the Black Lake, not far from the pier with the Durmstrang ship, there was absolutely nothing to do—unless organize a picnic. Actually, for such purposes we looked out for a site, but the most attractive place, a couple of fallen tree trunks near the grove, was constantly occupied by someone. As a result, while walking along the shore, sometimes kicking pebbles under our feet, we came to a logical conclusion—need to equip our own place.
"Interesting," Daphne thought, looking at the water. "What prompted the Quidditch players to such a desperate act?"
"And what's the big deal? Went out to fly," Pansy did not understand the reasons for thoughtfulness, but I knew that such a thing—is a desperate act.
"Unauthorized training—strict violation of rules," I explained.
"Really? I thought spitting in Snape's cauldron—violation of rules."
"Hey!" Daphne and I were indignant simultaneously. "Don't touch potions."
"Okay-okay!"
"And the reason, as it seems to me," now I thoughtfully looked at the water surface, basking in the rays of the sun, "is simple and obvious. Our professors together with these Ministry hacks turned the whole field into some vegetation wilderness. Only from the third time. May Merlin grant, by next year they will return to normal condition."
"Hacks? Good word," Daphne smiled. "Need to remember. And tell the mentor. Let him enrich the vocabulary."
"Do you want Snape to describe the intellectual abilities of that herd of sheep that come to his classes even more vigorously?"
My phrase caused giggles from the girls.
"Why not?"
"And you, I want to say," Pansy looked at us suspiciously, "are quite masochists."
"Brazen insinuations!"
So days passed one after another, until at one fine moment understanding came—exams are just around the corner. Literally any day now. And immediately after them—the third task. By this moment it was no longer a secret for anyone that a strange and terrible plant maze, in which at least ten wizards swarm day by day, concocting something, will be this very test. Cedric is preparing, and does it desperately, practicing various directions of magic, while not forgetting about exams. Yes-yes, champions are exempt from classes, but not from exams. Wonder how it will all end? And is it worth, if Cedric wins, asking him for access to the fire of the Tribunal? After all, I have already come to the conclusion that such a thing—like cheat codes in a game, will kill all interest in self-development. Think soon I will know the results, and will be able to answer my own questions myself, but the most important thing—hope that the egg will ripen before having to leave for the holidays.
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advanced chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell