Harry and Ron were moving back and forth across the Room of Requirent, correcting soone's attempts to master a spell, but they too were not especially focused on the task. The twins, along with Lee Jordan and the Gryffindor girls, were clearly deliberating what pranks might stir this gloomy swamp, but then thought better of it, put away their joke boxes, and got down to practising as well.
Sooner or later Potter and Weasley were bound to drift our way. And really — could Ron walk past Draco without saying sothing? Or doing sothing? Or at the very least looking at him with one of those terrible looks? Of course not.
— Pff, — Ron snorted, glaring at Malfoy with indignation. Then he looked at all of us, and at Hermione in particular.
— So now you're with the Slytherins. Well — like brother, like sister.
— Those words, Weasley, — Malfoy looked at the red-head with a smirk, — automatically drag your entire family down to your level.
— Nobody asked Death Eater spawn.
Harry moved to pull Ron away, though without much success. Malfoy rely waved a hand at Ron — which actually surprised everyone, including Potter, who stopped trying to drag Ron off.
— What? — Ron decided he'd found a weak point. — Not even going to deny it, for once?
— I'm more likely to prove to a brick that it's a tree than to prove anything to you. Father once quoted the words of a certain acquaintance of his: "Never argue with a fool. In doing so, you lower yourself to their level — and there they'll beat you with experience."
I could only shake my head. Though a word or two could be added.
— Are you seriously trying to start fights and rows over this? To break the fragile peace between houses? And by the way — this manufactured feud is one you're creating, if you didn't know. It irritates and it gets in the way of learning. For many others too.
Potter decided to offer his weighty opinion, fixing with a challenging look.
— People like his father killed Dumbledore!
The students nearby stopped even pretending to practise rather than eavesdrop, and began gradually drawing closer.
— Oh, is that right? — I stepped out from behind the table and stood facing Potter. — Would you like to remind you who put Dumbledore in a position where that was possible?
— You think I had a choice? What was I supposed to do? , Ron, Neville, Ginny — we did what we could…
— Did you try contacting Sirius properly? — I raised an eyebrow. — Find out how he was, whether he'd actually been taken?
— We used the fireplace, like I said.
— And that's it? Did you know you can send ssages by Patronus? Well, all right, that's a gap in self-education. But did you try going to Sirius in person to find out?
— Was there ti for that?! Think you're the smartest one here?
— There was, obviously. You could have Apparated — ah, right, why bother learning such a useful skill. Arguably one of the first on the list of most important things a wizard can do. But wait — you could have asked a house-elf. You have an acquaintance who's a house-elf, what's his na...
I snapped my fingers, as if trying to recall.
— Dobby, that's it. He'd have been delighted to take you straight to the doorstep of the right house. Would that have taken long?
Judging by the faces of Potter and the approaching Ginny and Neville, this simply hadn't occurred to any of them, which was strange.
— As for , the mont I'd subdued the four of you, I went straight to his house. And Sirius's house-elf revealed a terrible secret — he was asleep at ho, blind drunk.
— That house-elf could have been lying, — Ron stated with conviction, though not everyone shared his certainty.
— For your information, — drawled Draco from where he was still lounging on the cushions, — house-elves are entirely unfamiliar with the very concept of lying. You can't even train them to do it.
— There you have it, — I nodded in Draco's direction without turning round. — A house-elf can stay silent, dodge, leave things out — but not lie. You would have got your answer, perhaps even seen Sirius, and that would have been that — question resolved, everyone alive and well. But no: knowing the Dark Lord and Death Eaters were waiting for you there, you not only marched into the Ministry, but brought your friends along with you to the slaughter.
— We just lacked a bit more strength and skill, — Ginny parried, stepping forward with sowhat less than full conviction.
— Do you actually believe that? You think it was your skill that kept you going until help arrived? They were running you through the entire Ministry for sport. The arrival of reinforcents, including Dumbledore himself, was precisely what they were waiting for. Judging by everything — they were waiting for nothing else. And do you know why? Because Dumbledore had no choice but to go and save the backside of one heroic idiot. It was only with the arrival of the rescue party that the real fight began. One where you couldn't so much as poke your heads out of cover without risking your lives. And that is precisely the battle in which you received every single one of your injuries. Before that — you were just playthings.
— You're wrong… — Potter wanted to argue, but Neville cut him off in a quiet, uncertain voice.
— No, Harry. Hector's right.
— Oh, what do you know about combat magic! — Ron objected indignantly.
At that mont the twins exchanged a glance, and one of them passed the other a coin, his expression one of naked displeasure.
— But the real beauty of it is that the Dark Lord's whole sche was built on planting false thoughts in Potter's mind — that Sirius had been kidnapped and was being tortured. And Dumbledore knew sothing like this might happen. Knew it — and even sent you, Harry, to learn Occluncy from Professor Snape.
Murmurs spread through the group — what's that? and with Snape himself?. The latter were fewer and ca only from those who knew sothing, Malfoy among them.
— But instead of productive training under an expert teacher, you were spitting bile and practically seething with uncontrolled emotion, spite, resentnt. Oh, Snape can see my mories, horrible evil Snape, he shouts at , and I'm perfectly fine, everything else is wrong, I'm the best, everyone around is rotten, only I'm D'Artagnan.
— Occluncy is an extrely complex discipline, — Neville unhelpfully contributed, standing with his usual diffident look. — My grandmother told , for what it's worth. Just saying.
— Exactly! — Ron imdiately pointed to Neville, pressing the argunt. — And Neville's grandmother wouldn't lie. So Harry making slow progress — hardly surprising.
— You don't say! — I smiled broadly and warmly, which for so reason made Ron's hand twitch toward his wand. — Snape is teaching two other students Occluncy at the sa sessions as Harry. And those two students, oddly enough, haven't drawn any complaints. Only progress — by leaps and bounds. So either Occluncy isn't that difficult after all, or those students are extraordinarily gifted, or soone is simply incompetent.
— Don't insult Harry, — Ginny said furiously.
— And Harry himself has nothing to say for himself?
— You just don't understand, — Potter said, barely keeping himself in check, his fist clenching.
— Perhaps not. Only that doesn't change the fact that your lack of self-discipline, your restlessness, and your arrogance will one day get you or your friends killed.
— Hector, — Neville beca remarkably serious. — No one can be best at everything. And you can't reproach soone for not being the best.
— I'm not reproaching Harry for not being the strongest or most skilled wizard. I'm reproaching him for not trying to beco better even knowing the full extent of the danger hanging over him. I'm certain that even now he's thinking about how he'll have to go back to the hated Snape and endure his lessons. Endure them — not learn from them.
— Are you done? — Potter, furious now.
— I'm done.
It was faintly amusing to watch the clumsy attempt to punch . Heartfelt, wide swing, whole body behind it. I didn't even bother hitting back — simply shifted, set my foot right, and gave him a slight nudge with my shoulder, as if by accident. Potter stumbled and went down awkwardly, and I walked back to my seat. With my back turned I sensed magic, and heard a woman's voice: Stupefy. Without turning round, I transford the wand that had appeared in my hand into a whip in an instant and was preparing to cast Protego Reflecto at the right mont — but to my surprise, Daphne and Hermione reacted first. Daphne dispatched a counter-jinx, fast and clean; Hermione sent a Disarming Spell at the caster.
Everyone around went oh, ah, a fight! — but there was no fight, and everything died down before it had properly started.
— Bravo! — Malfoy applauded loudly, not rising from his cushions. — Exactly what the Dark Lord needs! Discord, quarrels, brawls.
Returning to my place at the table, I gave the girls a grateful smile. Hermione, seizing the mont, decided to make good on her role.
— Right, everyone, listen…
The noise gradually subsided and all eyes turned to her.
— Yes, sothing terrible has happened. Yes, mistakes were made. But we shouldn't be casting bla or looking for soone to fault. We should be drawing lessons from these bitter events.
After that the whole thing dissolved into another round of speechifying, most people understood — or made a convincing show of it — that training really was the thing to do, and promptly got on with it. Even Potter, once he'd cald down and sat on the floor looking sufficiently put-upon, filled himself with resolve and went off to practise so spell he needed with Weasley.
— Were you a bit hard on him? — Daphne asked, pressing her shoulder against mine once more — her way of asking for attention, and preferably a certain amount of decent, within-the-bounds-of-propriety cuddling.
— Hard, yes. But perhaps it will finally make him take not just schoolwork seriously, but the actual learning of useful practical skills.
— Yes, because that always works, — Malfoy remarked drily, and even the Hufflepuff boys sitting on the nearby cushions with their books or practising their wand movents were inclined to agree with him. — That might require sothing more powerful in the way of motivation.
— Hmm… — I sighed. — I genuinely had no idea about all these troubles of Potter's. Which is why I hadn't paid any attention. I an, he's just a bloke, isn't he — runs about, has his problems, studies half-heartedly. As most people do. But it turns out he knows — and quite possibly understands — the full extent of the threat hanging over him, and is doing absolutely nothing about it.
— You judge everyone by too harsh a standard, — Daphne was clearly smiling, though I couldn't see it from where I sat. — Don't asure everyone by yourself. You can take in new things at extraordinary speed, follow a strict schedule, achieve remarkable results.
— Thank you, but you're hardly idle yourself. Even Malfoy isn't.
— Don't drag into the club for slackers, — Draco said, with theatrical indignation. — I left its ranks under a certain degree of compulsion.
— Your parents made you? — Ernie said with understanding.
— My parents. And a rather bruised sense of pride. I was told from childhood that I was the best, the finest — because Malfoy, because a pureblood wizard from an ancient line, because obscenely wealthy. And it turns out all of that is rely a foundation.
— By the way, — Ernie turned to Malfoy. — You don't look particularly troubled by Dumbledore's death.
— Should I? — Draco posed the obvious question. — I never liked him or understood him. Besides, he was a political opponent of our family. I'm not going to perform grief — no one would believe it, they'd only accuse of hypocrisy. But out of respect I'm also not setting off fireworks. So of ours are no doubt celebrating, though they don't quite know why. And honestly, there isn't much to celebrate.
— How so?
— There's uncertainty now, and what cos next is completely unclear. Will things be worse? Better? And if so, for whom? Father… had a profound and long-standing dislike of Dumbledore. To the point of grinding his teeth. But he never seriously contemplated the possibility of his death. As Father says: "The existence of such figures on the political and magical stage lends stability. And stability is the foundation of predictability and success." So there it is.
And so, in conversation and reading, the club eting ca to an end. The lot of us from my particular circle decided to leave practice alone for the evening — the mood was counterproductive. Then the ti ca for and Daphne to go to our additional sessions with Snape, and there we were mildly surprised — Potter wasn't making a fuss, wasn't arguing with Snape, even though Snape made a couple of attempts to provoke him. In the end, Snape gave an almost imperceptible nod at sothing and stopped needling Potter, speaking strictly to the point.
— Looks like it worked, — Daphne murmured to ; I was sitting with my back to her, as I was to everyone — Snape's design was that I shouldn't be able to see and prepare for the incoming assault on my mind.
— For how long — that's the question.
In my thoughts, I was waiting for events. Various events. The day just gone hadn't brought any greater clarity as to what the Ministry intended to do, there was no certainty about the position of Headmaster, and all the rest of it. I spent so of that ti running calculations on new defensive and offensive devices — to make my parents safer, or Hermione, or Daphne… Or everyone, really. And anwhile I was looking forward to the Quidditch match in just under a fortnight, but still more to the Hogsade trip that traditionally fell either the day before the match or after it. More often the forr. Though a rather adventurous escape with Daphne was already in the planning — and most likely Pansy as well, since the Slytherin prefect had been looking distinctly flat in lessons and out of them lately.
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