I would have liked to say that another morning at Hogwarts began with my usual training — but no, not this time. On a whim, I decided to simply lie in bed after waking up. I could remember clearly how much I'd loved that, in the distant past, in another life.
I spent a full five minutes forcing myself to stay put, not to move, not to do anything — but drowsiness and idleness never came. Only the discomfort of inactivity. The result: the blanket flew aside and I practically sprang out of bed, stretching.
"Laziness is not my fate," I announced aloud, summarising the results of the experiment, and went off to get myself ready, prepare for training, and proceed according to schedule.
Meanwhile the others were sleeping soundly — Ernie and Zacharias among them, despite the fact that Sunday Quidditch practice would be starting for them soon enough, same as me. Then again, had I never developed such a rigid, precise schedule, I might have been sleeping right now as well, seeing out whatever dream I was having. Dreams, now that I thought about it, hadn't come in a long while. Perhaps I really was exhausting myself to the point where my brain preferred near-total shutdown to processing information through rapid dreaming.
After finishing my morning physical training, I stopped by the kitchen to see the house-elves and received a large bowl of porridge almost before I'd crossed the threshold — purely to top up my energy, since Sunday Quidditch practice was timed to coincide with breakfast. This wasn't strange or inconvenient; we could simply afford it, having the kitchens close at hand. Not too early a practice, no breakfast skipped, and no other team ever claimed that slot.
Having eaten, I left the castle and jogged to the changing rooms, where the rest of the team were already assembled, getting changed and preparing for the session. After a round of greetings I quickly changed, took Sleipnir, and headed out with everyone else onto the empty morning pitch. The sun apparently had no plans to appear — the sky was covered over with unbroken grey cloud — but it was already light enough for a proper session.
The training itself was in some respects individual that day. The Chasers worked amongst themselves and with the Keeper, relentlessly attacking the hoops or drilling passing, while the Seeker chased the Snitch in practice mode — the one that's impossible to catch, where the golden ball manoeuvres far more frequently. Ernie and I, the two Beaters, played something like table tennis — without the table, with two Bludgers for balls and bats instead of paddles. My task was to grow accustomed to the bat, practise a range of strokes at different angles, and work on coordination with Ernie.
The first thing I noted was how Bludgers actually behave in flight. When you send them off with a bat, they travel in a straight line — but once they slow to a certain speed, they change course toward the nearest player with a bat and accelerate toward them, becoming self-tracking. This behaviour opens up an enormous range of tactical options for obstructing opponents or putting them out of the game entirely.
Before long, once Ernie was satisfied I'd found my footing with the bat in hand, he suggested we stop simply hovering in place and hitting the Bludgers back and forth, and start flying — to get the experience of striking those iron balls while in motion, which was not only harder physically but required calculating trajectory, force, the current positions of players and their movement, in order to pull off more complex things. You could, for instance, send a Bludger well ahead of a player's path so that it should fly clean past — but then your fellow Beater drops onto the player's tail, and the Bludger changes course. Interesting, in short.
After training ended, we made our way back to the changing rooms in a noisy group, talking as we went. Over by the Hogwarts gates, the Gryffindors were milling about, well-fed and in good spirits. Judging by their turnout, they intended to train — and had even drawn an audience of about ten, because some people apparently had nothing better to do.
"So then?" Herbert dropped bodily onto my and Ernie's shoulders. "What's it like? Being a Beater?"
"Interesting," I said, removing his arm from my shoulder. "And you could try not draping yourself over the tired and weakly."
"Weakly, he says!" A grin spread across our new-old-temporary Keeper's face. "Have you looked at yourself in a mirror? Calling you weak — the word won't even come out."
"He's not wrong, though," Ernie backed me up, wriggling free of Herbert's grip. "You're too energetic. Should've had more Quaffles thrown at you."
"Perfectly fine. But come on — how was it?"
"You know," I said, affecting a thoughtful expression, "as I said — interesting. Though I'm sure it'll be even more interesting during an actual match."
"Obviously!" Herbert clapped me on the back. "You'll show them all! But yeah — playing Beater is great. The opposing Beaters, Bludgers flying everywhere, other players tearing across the pitch, you've got to think and watch and keep flying, constantly changing position and trajectory. And still hit those wretched balls — oh, brilliant!"
"You're a maniac, is what you are," said Ernie, smirking and wisely stepping out of range.
"Seem to be full of energy, do we?" Tamsyn, walking ahead of us, turned round, with a look that made plain she was seriously considering making the noisier members of the team train longer.
"Not at all, what are you saying?!" Herbert immediately performed acute exhaustion, lumbago, rheumatism, and general decrepitude, shuffling along like an old rusted mechanism — only without the sand pouring out.
We laughed at the speed and thoroughness of Herbert's transformation and piled into the Hufflepuff changing rooms in a racket, got ourselves sorted with magic and changed — though I knew perfectly well that everyone was about to go not to eat but to the showers, since magic could restore cleanliness well enough but left behind the strangest feeling, and it was better to be rid of it with actual water.
After spending an hour moving back and forth across the castle, getting myself presentable, and sitting down to a proper breakfast in the Hogwarts kitchens, I headed for the Great Hall. What was there to do there on a Sunday after breakfast? As it happened, the Great Hall remained the most popular gathering place for students outside of lessons. Many simply sat there, talking, playing something — chess at the Ravenclaw table, or Gobstones in the far corner. Some were doing homework or working on something of their own, others were spinning yarns in large groups. For many of us, myself included, it gave a particular sense of belonging to something larger. Made you part of a community, even if you were simply sitting at a table with the best view of everyone around you and getting on with your own business.
And then of course there were the Aurors, moving through the Hall, doing their best to make their presence unobtrusive — though that presence set off a warning at the level of pure instinct. Wizards are more sensitive than ordinary people, and the feeling of a glance sliding across you from out of nowhere was genuinely unsettling. So students had taken to spending more of their time in open, well-populated places like this one.
I settled onto a bench at the Hufflepuff table, precisely in the middle, laid out various notebooks, a couple of runic reference books, copies of some other texts, and simply got to work. The loud, cheerful atmosphere of the Great Hall didn't distract me in the slightest, nor did the occasional bit of harmless magic the students got up to. My task was straightforward as ever, if extensive — designing protective artefacts.
The actual "forging" process was, in its way, simple enough — but before that, one needed at least a rough flowchart, the stages of the artefact's operation written out on paper. Then each individual block needed to be examined separately, broken down into functions, effects, and so on. Then, with a list of specific discrete functions in hand, one could consider methods of implementation — charms, runes, schematics, or something else entirely. At this stage it was necessary to account for how the individual functions interacted with one another, their mutual influences, as well as the possible effect on the whole mechanism. And only then, when all those workings were assembled into a single magical complex — compiled, in a sense — could one transfer it onto the hammer head and begin the actual forging.
The first idea that came to me, and one of the first on the twins' list as well, was a "thing" that, when pressed, generated a Protego Totalum and held it for as long as the pressure was maintained. Simple in principle, or so it seemed — but only if I were making the artefact for myself, where I could strip out any functions I didn't need and activate everything by mental command, by act of will. The moment you needed something closer to a button for anyone else to use, the whole thing became a different matter entirely. In fact it might even be simpler to have the artefact trigger on a condition — namely, a spell flying toward you.
So there I sat in the noisy, but for that reason peculiarly pleasant, Great Hall, drawing out diagrams in my notebooks, occasionally staring at what I'd produced with an expression of deep abstraction.
"Working, as always…"
Daphne sat down across from me — not alone, but with her sister. Astoria was not looking particularly cheerful, and what was more, her sunny blonde ringlets seemed almost to be curling tighter of their own accord in indignation. On the other hand, she was clearly also pleased to be walking the castle with her sister, and the fact that the walk had brought her here, to the Hufflepuff table, was merely an unfortunate inconvenience.
"Hello, Daphne," I said, looking up from my scribbling. "Miss Greengrass."
"Granger," she nodded, purely in the interest of civility. She clearly didn't feel as much hostility toward me as she wanted to project — but she was doing her level best to convey how little she cared for my company.
"What are you working on, if it's not a secret?"
"Not a secret at all. I'm thinking through the construction of various useful artefacts."
"Artefacts?" Astoria raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you rather overreaching yourself, Mr Granger?"
Noticing that she was wearing a warming amulet of my own making, I simply smiled.
"Not in the slightest."
"I'm not so sure," she said, shaking her head. "I wouldn't risk using something so… theoretically unreliable."
Daphne smiled at her sister's words, and I found it equally amusing.
"Did I say something funny?"
Astoria looked back and forth between Daphne, seated beside her, and me.
"Hector, are you going to tell her?"
"Don't you want to?"
"I think it would come better from you."
"But you're her sister — she'll take your word for it. If we're even thinking of the same thing."
"Did you two plan this?" Astoria protested. "Is there something wrong with my face? Why else would you both be staring at it like that?"
"It's simply," Daphne drew her sister's attention, "that what you said about the artefact is rather amusing. Seeing as you're wearing one."
Astoria didn't follow at first — she apparently wore several different artefacts. Then understanding arrived: her eyes widened, and her hand moved instinctively to the pendant at her throat.
"But the twins made them…"
"That's a rather well-kept secret," I said with a smile — although in truth the whole thing had become something of an open secret some time ago.
"Don't worry," Daphne said, reassuringly enough, while casting a quick glance along the table — no one nearby, and no one attempting to eavesdrop; I would have felt the magic. "Astoria takes secrets very seriously, even when she considers it absolutely essential to tell everyone immediately. Isn't that right?"
Astoria nodded vigorously and turned to me.
"But why don't you sell them yourself?"
"You, Miss Greengrass, stated the reason yourself, not a minute ago."
"Oh… yes, quite," the girl's expression fell — though a moment later an entirely devious smile spread across her face, one I'd seen on Daphne once or twice in third year. It appeared to surface at the same age in both of them.
"Are you plotting something?" Daphne had caught the smile too.
"Not at a-all," Astoria drew out, still smiling in that predatory, plotting way. "It's simply that certain individuals wear them with such pride — such wonderful amulets, made by one of the most ancient wizarding families, if not the most respected. All those words about the supremacy of the pure-blooded, and soon they'll take the artefact market back from the Asians. Pff…"
Astoria covered her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking with laughter, while Daphne allowed herself an open smile.
"Yes, well…" I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. "They're going to have quite the breakdown when they find out."
"Oh," Astoria said, recovering. "The things I know now. I won't breathe a word to anyone, don't worry."
This entertaining exchange didn't prevent me from noticing a particular figure advancing toward us with singular purpose.
"Hector!" Hermione was somehow simultaneously outraged and astonished. "I simply cannot believe it!"
My sister sat down beside me, exhaled, pushed at her hair — which was staging a determined effort to throw off several pins and break free at any moment — and, having drawn a breath and restored some semblance of composure, noticed the Slytherins at the Hufflepuff table.
"Greengrass," she nodded to Daphne.
"Granger."
She looked at Astoria.
"And… Greengrass."
"Granger."
"It really does look rather remarkable from the outside. Now I understand Snape—"
"Professor Snape," Hermione corrected me, which was itself surprising. "What?"
"You haven't been correcting people lately when they drop the 'Professor' for teachers."
"I do slip up. But that's not what I came to talk about. I simply cannot believe it!"
"Believe what?"
"There's a Duelling Club at Hogwarts," she said, dropping her voice considerably. "And you're in it. The best one there, apparently."
"That's right."
"And you didn't tell me? Didn't even invite me? This is… this is such a rare opportunity to learn something extraordinary…"
"Hold on," I raised a hand in a placating gesture, simultaneously casting a privacy charm around us — which startled Astoria, who wasn't accustomed to that sort of thing from me. "First of all, lower your voice. And answer me this — do you actually want it?"
"Of course," Hermione said, in her important way, the nod setting her unruly curls in motion, threatening to dislodge the pins altogether. "It's valuable knowledge—"
"No," I interrupted. "It's not knowledge — it's practice."
"That's also important."
"You didn't let me finish. Practice not in harmless spells, but in their active application in combat. Both sporting duels and full engagements are permitted. The spells used aren't just capable of disarming you — they can put you on a hospital bed with genuine injuries. You can't simply walk in and say you'd like to join. What's required is a readiness to knowingly cause potential harm to an opponent, combined with existing skills in something beyond Expelliarmus and Stupefy."
"Sounds like a fight club," Hermione said, looking doubtful. "I shouldn't think Dumbledore approved of anything of the sort."
"He approved of all of it," I said. "Just not publicly."
"Even so, I don't believe it can be quite that dangerous," she continued, uncertain. "Otherwise McLaggen would certainly never have survived."
"He's not the worst duellist," I said, and Daphne's expression communicated something along the lines of: a questionable claim, but defensible. "He's not brilliant either. Lots of swagger, arrogance, and self-importance."
"Oh, there's no shortage of that, certainly," my sister smirked. "But is it really as serious as all that?"
"Last year I fought Romanova more than once. From Durmstrang. Their style doesn't prioritise the sporting format — where you stand still and simply need to break through the other person's defences, no dodging permitted. It's more…"
"Realistic," Daphne supplied, finding the word in the brief pause.
"Yes, thank you, Daphne."
Astoria, meanwhile, was listening attentively while maintaining a performance of pride and self-sufficiency, expressing mild displeasure at her "obligatory" presence in mine and Hermione's company. But honestly — the whole performance was so transparent that only someone of deeply alternative intellectual gifts would take it at face value.
"Anyway," I continued, returning to the point, "in those duels — if Romanova or I had taken each other's spells, there would have been a small but real chance of killing one another. Small, yes. The supervisors would have patched us up without difficulty. But the point stands."
"In that case," Hermione said, frowning, "it's altogether too dangerous for you to be involved in anything of the sort. Though — why didn't you tell me?"
"What would have been the point? It's not for you regardless."
"Are you saying I couldn't fight?!" That landed.
"You could, if it came to it," I assured her. "I wouldn't even be surprised if it turned out you knew more spells, interesting facts, and magical laws than anyone else. The key phrase, though, is 'if it came to it.' Not 'because you want to.' Those are very different things. But if you want — someone will assess you next year."
"Why not now?" Remarkable, her capacity to ignite at the prospect of any examination, regardless of what kind.
"The Club is closed — the supervisors are occupied. Right now they're just drinking tea and reading books."
"Books…"
"You have more than enough of those already, don't worry."
"Hm…" Astoria looked at Daphne with a thoughtful expression. "She reminds me of someone. That reaction to the word 'books.'"
"Naturally," Daphne's face was perfectly neutral. "We're at Hogwarts to learn, after all — not to entertain ourselves."
Did it surprise me that at this moment Daphne and Hermione looked at each other, found something in one another's expressions, and exchanged a silent signal of mutual recognition — two people suddenly elevated sharply in each other's estimation? It was an entirely indescribable picture, those imperceptible details that a single phrase captures perfectly: birds of a feather. Leaving that without comment was decisively beyond my powers.
"You know," I said, drawing both of them back, "if it weren't for the ridiculous inter-house rivalry and all the attendant prejudices — you could have been storming the library together since first year, comparing notes on your 'light reading.'"
"Light reading?" Astoria looked at me with a smirk. "You wouldn't be referring to certain enormous volumes, would you, Mr Granger?"
"Precisely."
"A couple of those can definitely be found in my dear sister's room. A couple of dozen. She's a great devotee of 'light reading.'"
"Astoria…"
"Yes, dearest sister?"
"Don't you think," Daphne bared her teeth in a smile that held not a trace of malice — predatory anticipation was closer to it, "that you're talking rather a lot?"
"Not in the least," Astoria mirrored the smile.
Evidently my participation in this conversation was no longer required, so I returned to my diagrams and calculations with a clear conscience. Hermione peered into my notebook, frowned, appeared to remember something, and departed briskly with a quick apology. The Greengrass sisters made ready to leave shortly after — but not before Daphne proposed setting aside time in the schedule for a trip to Hogsmeade in about a month and a half, just after the Hufflepuff–Slytherin match. I agreed at once, and we even settled on a reason for the outing: celebrating the apprenticeship. A pity there were no Hogsmeade trips planned before then — the schedule was fixed at the start of the year and we knew it in advance.
And so, working — occasionally breaking off to talk with the others, or even spending an hour training with classmates — Sunday passed. From Monday onward, life fell back into its usual, familiar rhythm, except that free time had dwindled to almost nothing, and even those remnants went to walks with Daphne around the castle or outside it.
Quidditch practice three times a week, an hour a session — hardly a great deal, by any measure. And it wasn't: no one had any difficulty finding the time for this engaging if mildly draining pursuit. In my case, however, those sessions had become the last additional burden I was willing to take on. Artefact project work — and I still hadn't touched the Hammer — lessons, magical practice sessions with the others, homework, library sessions, evening patrols twice a week, the occasional bit of paperwork, helping students in the common room — rare, that, and Hannah rescued me by trading her share of the paperwork for mine, since I got through it quickly. Day after day without exception.
There were moments when I felt exactly as I had… some long time ago, in another life, when I'd had a small business of some kind. Or perhaps I hadn't? Hard to say, given the state of my memories. But the feeling was similar: up in the morning, on your feet all day, and the only proper rest was sleep when you got home at midnight. Things were shaping up the same way now, and I was certain that if not for my excellent health, perfectly extraordinary stamina, and a powerful mind, I'd have been running myself into the ground. As it was — none of it exhausted me, but time vanished in an instant.
It was no surprise, then, that I barely noticed April arriving and passing. The event that pulled me out of this enclosed cycle of Hogwarts life was news from Susan. Over breakfast on Saturday the twenty-seventh of April, she relayed a message from her aunt. According to it, the MLE had detected traces of large-scale movement by significant numbers of magical creatures across Scotland. Not toward Hogwarts, apparently, and not even particularly nearby — but given recent events, we all arrived at the same simple conclusion: the Dark Lord would be making his next move before long, and it would not be a peaceful one. Which meant I needed to find a way, and soon, to get artefacts to the MLE and the Aurors — or at least inform them of the possibility of acquiring such things for next to nothing. Through the twins, naturally. And the informing could be done through Susan. Did I intend to take an active part in what was coming? No. But a Voldemort-led revolution wasn't something I needed either — the current order suited me well enough. It seemed that getting through to the Slytherin match in peace was not going to be an option.
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