The bare stone walls, the severe furniture, the modest shelves bearing house trophies and awards for individual students, the desk buried under papers and a handful of unremarkable personal touches ant to soften the atmosphere — Professor McGonagall's office was not a place that invited rest or pleasant company.
Waiting for an unknown outco was not pleasant company either. Hermione sat tense and agitated, clearly working herself up, lost in thoughts she wasn't sharing. I simply sat, making myself as comfortable as a chair would allow without quite crossing the line into looking like a complete layabout — habit, reflex, the instinct not to give the wrong impression.
Spotting a couple of interesting books on the shelves, I summoned one with a wandless pull and settled into reading, under Hermione's bewildered gaze.
"Don't you feel anything at all?"
"Not showing sothing doesn't an I'm not feeling it."
"So you are worried?"
"That's not quite the right word. I'm concerned that your companions might manage to get themselves killed and take a few people with them — the ones who'll be forced to defend them."
"Don't think we're so helpless."
"Of course not," I glanced up from the book. "Who am I to judge the great and mighty? A weakling like has no business passing judgent on the illustrious wizards of Gryffindor."
"They weren't ready — if you're talking about losing to you," the argunt on various topics was drawing Hermione away from her anxiety, which was good.
"What was I supposed to do — say, 'If you would be so good as to ready your wands, ladies and gentlen'? 'Sir, I hereby give notice of my intention to employ reflective shielding charms, so kindly prepare to receive your own spells back at speed'? Is that what you'd prefer?"
"All right, all right, I take the point," Hermione nodded. "But how did you orient yourself so quickly? That whole fight lasted seconds. It was very fast. And you seed to know every spell they were going to use in advance — you had shields and counters ready for all of it—"
"Practice," I shrugged. "A great deal of practice, and, as I've said more than once, I think very quickly."
"Sure, very quickly… How quickly, exactly?"
"Very. While Potter's Disarming Charm was in flight I had ti to consider several counters, map out a few possible developnts, and — incidentally — cast two spells."
"That's actually what I wanted to ask you about," Hermione leaned forward slightly, though contrary to her usual manner, her eyes weren't bright with enthusiasm. Understandably — however much she tried to hide it from herself, she was still worried about her housemates, who were no longer exactly close friends, but hardly strangers either. "What was that whip? It moved too fast to get a proper look, but it was definitely a whip in your hands, not a wand. And you didn't move at all."
"Flagellavertum." I set the book down on the desk and drew my wand, slowly and deliberately transforming it into a whip for her benefit. "To control it, you have to think of it as part of your body — like an arm or a leg. You project the motion. You can assist with physical movent, of course. It's rather like a broomstick in that regard."
"I've never read about that. Which book did you find it in? And — can the tip of the whip be used like a wand?"
"Yes, that function is preserved. And I didn't find it in a book. An older student told about it. Quite so ti ago."
"And where did he find out about it?"
"You want to know everything, don't you," I looked at her with mild, if theatrical, reproach. "Old wizarding families accumulate knowledge one way or another. This particular student is interested in the theory of magical duelling and combat. Purely theory — the practical side gives him trouble."
"It doesn't seem quite right, that so wizards have access to certain knowledge and others don't."
"Right or not — that's life. In the ordinary world you have to be sobody, rather than a nobody that no one needs or knows. And the more of a sobody you are, the more possibilities open to you."
"I know," Hermione nodded, subdued. "It doesn't stop the whole situation being rather unfair."
"Technically, nothing's stopping you while you're at Hogwarts. The entire library is at your disposal. I'd wager virtually every thod of spellcasting is in there — possibly all of them. You simply have to find them. Old families, as far as I can tell, don't so much have unique knowledge as systematised knowledge, and in smaller volus than what's here. Soone, for example, might have been devoted to potions for generations — made it their primary field. As a result they can find sothing on potions far more easily at ho than here at Hogwarts. And since all of magic—" I tapped my temple "—lives in our heads, a child growing up in a family of potions-makers, surrounded by the talk of brewing, recipes, ingredients, will simply think in terms of potions and ingredients. They'll be better at it — it's second nature to them."
"Sa as in the ordinary world — growing up in a family of doctors, for instance," Hermione picked up the thread. "We, for example—"
She caught herself, slightly embarrassed, since I hadn't exactly grown up in the family — and continued:
"I an — I have a working knowledge of skull anatomy, teeth, dentistry… Just the basics, but still."
And so, having started a conversation that was about nothing and everything at once, we waited for Professor McGonagall's return. I simply waited, occasionally thinking about the undesirability of these alternatively gifted individuals — Potter and the two Weasleys — sustaining any serious injuries. Hermione fretted continuously. She always worries about everyone, always has, masking her own feelings from herself through activity and constant motion.
Ti passed. Hermione kept drifting back to her anxieties, and twice got up from her chair and paced between it and the trophy cabinet. The strictly functional atmosphere of this strictly functional office lacked a good chanical clock — sothing whose crisp, insistent ticking would count out the long seconds and set your nerves on edge. But there wasn't one.
At a mont that was, in its way, both welco and unbearably tense, the office door opened and McGonagall walked in. As was usually the case, her face gave almost nothing away — only an unusual pallor and the speed of her movents betrayed the tension in this far-from-young witch, a coiled spring that shouldn't still be wound this tight if matters had already resolved themselves.
McGonagall walked quickly to her desk, sat down, pushed so papers aside — performing so private ritual for organising her thoughts — and appeared ready to speak. Hermione, as teenagers will, and in particular sixteen-year-old ones who have beco rather tall about it, imdiately flew to the desk.
"How are they?" her sister asked at once.
"Compose yourself, Miss Granger," the professor answered, evenly. "Your friends are alive and largely unhard."
"Largely?" Hermione had apparently already had ti to conjure all manner of frightening images, since the phrase alive and largely unhard covers an enormous spectrum of possible conditions, especially in the wizarding world, where even severe fractures are not causes for disability but minor inconveniences.
"Minor injuries, nothing serious. They are in the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's care, and there is no danger to them."
Hermione was on the verge of turning and sprinting there to assess the situation and reassure herself, when McGonagall stopped her.
"Visiting is not permitted at this hour, as it is not on any other night, Miss Granger." The professor's firm tone did, in fact, stop Hermione. "You, Miss Granger, and Mr Granger, will now co with — the Headmaster would like to see you. Partly to assure you personally that your companions are well. And to thank you for your good sense."
"Now, rather than tomorrow?" I asked the obvious question.
"These things are better handled imdiately," said the professor. "While the impression of the events — or misdeanours — is still fresh. That is what my experience as Head of Gryffindor, and as a teacher in general, has taught ."
McGonagall gave her desk a quick sweeping glance, rose and headed for the door. We followed. As soon as we were in the dark corridors of the castle at night, Hermione's curiosity broke loose.
"Professor — what happened over there?"
"Your brother's suspicion that it was a trap proved entirely correct. As Deputy Headmistress, I did not leave Hogwarts myself, and for obvious reasons I cannot speak to the details…"
We followed McGonagall at a brisk pace as she spoke.
"…However, I can tell you that there was a battle. There are casualties. Deaths were avoided, but the situation on You-Know-Who's side is unknown. The Headmaster went in person to extract Potter and the others, and ca face to face with You-Know-Who."
She fell silent, as though sothing had struck her.
"Did the Headmaster win?" Hermione asked, with confidence.
"There was no winner. Both were… hurt."
A powerful concussion shook the floor and walls of the corridor, sending a deep vibration through the stone, followed by the crack of an explosion. Through the window, a flash of fire was already dying — I'd missed its appearance entirely. My wand was in my hand instantly, and the professor's was no slower. Hermione had not yet drilled that habit into herself — she clearly tried to understand what had happened first, and reached for her wand second. The difference was less than a second. Perhaps it was ti to work on her reflexes, given that the whole world was apparently losing its mind.
"The Headmaster's tower," McGonagall located the source of the explosion imdiately. And it was exactly that.
"Instructions?" I asked at once, moving to cover McGonagall's back — given recent events, none of this could be coincidence or accident.
McGonagall summoned a corporeal Patronus in the form of a cat and murmured several phrases, of which I caught attack, combat alert, and gather students in the common rooms. The silvery cat shot away to deliver its ssage, and McGonagall looked at us.
"Protocol requires to escort you to your common rooms. Going alone may be dangerous—"
"But Professor!" Hermione objected. "Headmaster Dumbledore might urgently need help. We can't delay."
On the whole I agreed with Hermione — a full-scale assault seed unlikely. This was almost certainly a prepared act of sabotage.
"I am forced to agree. Mr Granger—" McGonagall looked at with absolute sternness. "May I rely on Hogwarts' finest duelist to look after his sister if necessary?"
It wasn't surprising that McGonagall knew of my results in the duelling club, even though I had never sought those results, nor the reputation that ca with them.
"Of course."
"Then follow , and stay alert."
We set off after McGonagall again, this ti at near-running pace.
"Finest duelist?" my sister found ti for questions. "Since when? And what else don't I know?"
"Recently. Quite a lot."
"Wonderful."
"Save the conversation," the professor hissed.
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