The dueling club is a permanent gathering place for those who are interested in at least some combat application of magic, sorcery. Yes, not everyone likes to directly participate in such adventures—some study theory here, watching duels, other students' training, reading books, listening to Professor Flitwick's explanations and Snape occasionally dropping in, while such students sit at tables closer to the bookcases near the walls, simultaneously emptying the strategic reserves of tea in the School.
However, this evening, on Wednesday, besides the fact that almost all club members were still present here, they also didn't just sit on their fifth point of support—everyone continued to actively communicate, study spells and practice on dummies, of which there were even more thanks to Professor Flitwick's efforts. Students lined up, repeated wand movements or somehow differently, in their own way put knowledge of a new spell in their heads, and practiced it when their time came. Our tiny professor was simply happy with such enthusiasm.
I managed to notice that the guys were practicing the first spells from DADA study materials according to their year of study. Understandable—found a place to practice for themselves.
Finding Malfoy with a glance, who, in the company of his eternal comrades Crabbe and Goyle, stood a little to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, I immediately headed towards him.
"Enjoying the spectacle?"
Standing nearby, I turned to face the other guys, trying to understand what attracted Draco's attention so much.
"Look how pathetic many are," Draco smirked, continuing to watch other students' training. "As soon as they found out there would be no practice, they immediately started panicking."
"And you, I see, are not worried."
"Why should I be worried? There is a simple solution. You gather a small group, and considering how many students there are in one year of one house—everyone. You chip in a Galleon or two, find someone from senior years who knows the program and wouldn't mind making some quick pocket money, and that's it, the issue is resolved."
"That makes sense," I nodded. "If the group tries, a senior student will be able to 'set' its execution for everyone at a decent level in two or three hours. How many spells are there in the DADA program for this year?"
"As many as eight," Malfoy grimaced, "if you look at last year's textbook. In others there may be six, or maybe ten."
"Maximum—ten," I inadvertently noticed that Crabbe and Goyle, who were quietly discussing something of their own and had grown considerably over the summer both in height and in width, got out packages with goodies from somewhere, starting to enthusiastically gobble them down for both cheeks. "As a result—ten-twenty Galleons a year. I heard that the same Ron Weasley had twice as much pocket money last year, and that's at a minimum. So, this shouldn't be a problem for anyone."
"Exactly. Even Muggle-borns can exchange their money at Gringotts. Yes generally—earning this amount—is not a problem."
"You surprise me, Malfoy," turning to Draco, I smiled. "You changed a lot over the summer."
Malfoy grimaced as if from a lemon.
"I had no choice. This is what I'm interested in," he looked at me with an important, but not arrogant look. "How do you so successfully master new spells to such a high level?"
"Hmm?" a smile crawled onto my face. "That is, you admit that I am better?"
"What nonsense," Malfoy snorted, returning his usual dismissive expression. "A wizard—is not only the ability to wave a magic wand, perfectly reproducing a couple of spells. This is like evaluating a person as a whole by only one of his traits, albeit an excellent one, while the rest of his qualities will be below sea level."
"Sounds like a memorized phrase."
"So my father said, and whether you like it or not, there is sense in these words. So what? How?"
"Do you think I have some secret method?"
The question turned out to be rhetorical, and Draco with his comrades prepared to hear a great revelation, simultaneously looking at the training students.
"I don't make a secret of my abilities, but I have nothing to tell either. Two hours a day—extracurricular training in sorcery, strict discipline, schedule, physical exercises. But this is only a method of developing what I have initially."
"And what is this? Inflated self-esteem?" Malfoy could not help but issue something like that, so I was not surprised.
"No, although I am not without this flaw either. Abnormally high brain activity," I tapped my finger on the temple, causing slight bewilderment on the guys' faces. "My brains allow me to master and assimilate information, develop skills and habits many times faster. Well, and, of course, I develop my vision of magic, constantly deepening the understanding of how other wizards imagine magic, sorcery and magical processes."
"Sounds like nonsense," Draco was dissatisfied with such an answer, and Crabbe with Goyle simply shrugged their shoulders, glancing at each other, and returned to the quiet discussion of something of their own, occasionally nodding at one wizard, then at another, joking and smiling.
"Don't say that," I shook my head negatively, and someone of the training ones messed up with magic, making a small smoky explosion, the consequences of which Professor Flitwick liquidated at that very moment. "In the third year, when I just started mastering magic, I practically couldn't change the effect of spells. And I'm generally silent about how long the Patronus didn't give in to me. Now, with experience, and the control of consciousness that is realized by my brain..."
I just took out my wand and without pointing at anyone, just pointing up in front of me, created a simple Incendio. Instead of a jet of flame, a small fiery tourniquet appeared, wriggling as I wanted. A moment, and instead of a tourniquet on the tip of the wand a little fire man is dancing.
"Absolutely every learned spell enriches my experience of sorcery, and considering perfect memory—it is not a problem," I continued, while the guys were looking forward to another pirouette from the little fire man with interest. "Sometimes I learn something new, thereby diversifying my experience, expanding it or even revising it sometimes. As a result, every new spell is either given easier than the previous one, or slightly changes my picture of the world, but in the end still improving my skills. Result?"
I dispelled the little man, put away the wand and just stretched out my hand palm up, creating the little fire man again. Only now he danced on the palm.
"Sooner or later I start doing with sorcery what I want."
"No, well how?" Malfoy muttered indignantly.
"Textbooks omit an important detail," I dispelled the little fire man. "They say that sorcery needs wand waves, formulas, phrases and other things, and all this somehow creates a spell, absolutely identical in different hands. They say that a wizard needs all this to create sorcery. But the correct formulation—a wizard needs all this to force his magic to perform the sorcery he needs. Feel the difference?"
"There is something," Malfoy nodded.
"Your magic—is the same part of you as your hands or feet. You don't need special rituals to scratch your nose, do you? Having once learned to move your hands and feet, you only master new movements, and don't learn to move your hands anew for each of them. This is not some separate, new movement. You can even, just watching how someone else moves their hands, repeat it by trial and error. So it is with sorcery—you learn to 'move' your magic."
"Well yes, of course," Malfoy waved it off. "Hands-feet I at least feel and can compare sensations, attempts to move them and other things with the final result. Wait..."
Malfoy suddenly became thoughtful, as if he caught a thought and was afraid to let it out of his hands.
"You just coolly feel magic, yes?"
"One of the facets of increased brain activity. But this is not the most important thing. Far from the most important thing. The main thing—is to put the desired message into the magic directed by you, thoughts, extremely clearly formed in your head, and ideally also flavored with a perfect understanding of those processes that you want to recreate with magic. Well, like in transfiguration. The better you know the structure of the object, the easier the transformation will be given to you. Perfect knowledge and perfect images in the head will allow to transfigure anything almost by snapping fingers..."
I even snapped my finger demonstratively, turning the air in front of my hand into a transparent glass goblet. Empty, true.
"That is," Draco glanced at the goblet in my hands. "Your whole secret, amicably, is that you are absurdly smart?"
"I wouldn't say so. Mind—is a somewhat different product of brain work. In some matters I am absurdly stupid and literally do not see the obvious. I would say that the reason for my success—is extremely active brain work. Everything flows from it."
"Sounds still like nonsense," Draco nodded. "Without proof of these mythical capabilities of yours, I will faster believe that you manage not to sleep at night, training in sorcery without a break."
"I answered your question openly and without concealment," spreading my hands to the sides, I turned to the students continuing practice. "Believe it or not—your business."
"Check."
"Hmm?"
"Let's arrange a check. In the summer I happened to study a couple of original spells that you guaranteed could not find out anywhere. Pity only that happened to study them only at the end of the summer, and bringing them to an acceptable result cost great efforts, many restless evenings. Let's go."
We moved to one of the dummies in the far inconspicuous corner—some third-year in Slytherin colors was practicing there. Malfoy spoke to him, which is logical.
"Give way for ten minutes."
The kid nodded and stepped aside, and the dummy quickly recovered from simple damages. Draco waved his wand around us, quietly whispering the words of several privacy spells, and when a slightly image-distorting barrier appeared around us, inside which were only the two of us, he spoke:
"Don't want lovers of warming their ears to learn the words and gestures. Look," Draco sharply threw up the wand towards the dummy, slightly jerked it from top to bottom. "Sectumsempra."
The words were quiet, which did credit to Malfoy—our regiment of those realizing the lack of necessity to shout during sorcery has arrived.
A fast small silvery clot flew off the tip of Draco's wand, almost instantly reached the dummy, and it jerked as if from a blow, immediately becoming covered with a dozen deep cuts. Really deep—as if struck by a sharp sword.
Evaluating the result, Malfoy nodded and turned to me.
"Against Enemies. Exactly like that—Enemies. Looks like Diffindo, only this—is a curse. Doesn't cut literally, but creates cuts. Not only outside, but also inside. You are not afraid of Dark Magic, are you?"
"Should I be?" I smiled, took out the wand, concentrated, making a small amount of my magic a little distorted, and exactly repeated Draco's gesture, as well as the words, "Sectumsempra."
My sorcery was weaker, clot slower, and generally. But even such a result made Malfoy a little surprised.
"You wait," not turning to him, I prepared to repeat. "Now I'll practice."
Said—done. Twelve repetitions, and the qualitative indicators of my sorcery surpassed those of Malfoy. Thirteenth, last attempt, I decided to flavor with a large amount of dark magic, trying to a lesser extent to entrust control over it to the wand, and to a greater extent—to do it personally. Still, this wand sorcery without the participation of personal control over magic is too wasteful.
In general, the thirteenth attempt happened for everyone suddenly. Why? I barely moved the wand—it seemed to just flinch naturally. Pronounced words generally mentally. Could have done without all this, but it would mean that I need to take complete control over magic on myself, and I am not ready to do this specifically with this spell yet.
The clot turned out to be damn small, damn dense, thin, but at the same time equally fast. It hit the dummy, and it crumbled into three dozen pieces with broken cut lines.
"Something like this," I turned to the surprised and seemingly feignedly gloomy Draco. "But still far from ideal—I clearly feel it."
"Clear. Believe. Somehow unpleasant to see such success in a Muggle-born."
"Train brains—all magic is in them. Ordinary people say that mathematics—is gymnastics of the mind. And need to pay attention to spatial thinking—mathematics will help here too, or rather, work with volumetric figures. Well or just training in sorcery until the seventh sweat."
"Ah," Malfoy waved it off. "Magic with a wand is still not mine."
"You better tell me, are we going to duel?"
"To Mordred. No mood."
As a result—there really was no duel. After talking with a couple of students, I left the gradually emptying dueling club and headed to the main hall—time for the prefects' meeting.
Didn't have to wait long. Practically at the agreed time everyone appeared, except Ron.
"Where is Weasley?" I asked Hermione, who looked somewhat tired.
"In the common room, where else? Says he has nothing to discuss with Slytherin snakes, nerds and blockheads."
"What a scoundrel!" Padma Patil, Ravenclaw prefect, was indignant. Here I wonder, she—is Indian. I know that they don't have their own good wizarding school there. So here—do Patils live here, in England, or just sent their children, Padma and Parvati to study here?
"Pfft, this is Weasley," Parkinson rolled her eyes to the ceiling with an insolent smirk on her face. "Was it really worth expecting anything else from this narrow-minded idiot?"
"He is not a fool, Parkinson," Hermione snapped back more out of house solidarity than from complete disagreement. "He plays chess better than anyone in the house."
"So guess now," Malfoy slowly looked around those present. "Either Granger exalted Weasley, or lowered her whole house to his level."
Such a thing caused natural chuckles in a good half of the prefects, and including me, because everyone knows firsthand about the hot temper of the sixth Weasley, as well as how ridiculous and stupid his actions eventually are because of this haste. I, actually, do not deny that Ron can show really good mental qualities, as well as his friend Potter, but short temper, haste, small outlook literally buried their intellect under themselves. The same Potter, for example—I have noticed more than once that he is able to think only in a calm atmosphere, but where would it come from here, at Hogwarts? He, like Ron, does not get along with most peers not from his house—for them irritants are everywhere. But this is lyrics. Time to take matters into my own hands before everyone quarrels, and it doesn't matter, for real or as a joke.
"Gentlemen, let's put disputes aside, time will still come for them. Ron's absence will not affect anything, because he still is not going to be a prefect, it seems to me. Does anyone know a classroom nearby?"
"There is one," Goldstein nodded his curly head. "Follow me."
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