[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 18

(TN: Replaced Lin with Lyn)

"Things are going well."

That was how Kayneth would have assessed his current position. He stood on the train platform with his hands clasped behind his back, surrounded by a noisy crowd of witches and wizards eagerly awaiting the return of their children, nieces, nephews, younger siblings. Mid-June—the end of the school year at the country’s only school of magic—also marked the time when Ministry officials braced themselves for an oncoming headache. Six hundred teenagers, all armed with wands and some vague grasp of magic, yet still completely devoid of common sense, ready to test their newfound skills just a tiny bit, outside of regulated spaces.

Not that Archibald had any sympathy for the Ministry’s struggles. From his perspective, they had brought it upon themselves with their absurd restrictions on underage magic, coupled with their overly lenient attitude—turning a blind eye to "minor" breaches of the Statute if it was a first-time offense, accidental, with few witnesses, and so on… He’d love to see these reckless students witness a Church Executor "neutralizing" a rogue magus who thought secrecy didn’t apply to them—that would certainly cut down on the number of reckless violations overnight.

But such issues were the Ministry’s own making and had nothing to do with him. His personal situation, for now, gave him no cause for concern—at least, considering the initially unfavorable circumstances. He had a residence, a reasonably well-equipped workshop, a stable income, and a fair amount of money saved. His stock of mystic codes included a few high-level artifacts, and he had begun to establish some useful connections. By Lord El-Melloi’s standards, this was nothing—mere scraps—but for an orphaned magus with no lineage, it was more than acceptable.

More importantly, he had secured legal standing within this world’s society—an identity that no one questioned. James Victor Murphy might seem an unusual first-generation wizard, given his early introduction to the magical world and his excessive enthusiasm for the mystic arts, but no one doubted his existence. After all, if they had, he wouldn’t have been sold a wand—that alone determined one's status and privileges as a wizard.

Kayneth ran his fingers over the universal mystic code strapped beneath his coat sleeve, smirking wryly at the memory of acquiring it. Unlike Deserte, who had spent an eternity explaining the theory behind every wand he offered, Ollivander—the Ministry-approved supplier of wands in Britain—saw no need for discussion. The elderly wizard barely greeted him before immediately selecting potential mystic codes. Kayneth wasn’t entirely sure if the man had used some diagnostic spell within his shop or possessed an innate talent, but he had identified his elemental affinity almost instantly. After that, he focused solely on matching a mystic code to his Origin, ignoring any input from Kayneth himself.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander had muttered dismissively, as if the idea of personal preference was irrelevant.

And so, for an absurdly small sum, Archibald had legally acquired a mystic code fully steeped in Japanese tradition—a sakura wood casing (a symbol of youth in Eastern cultures, an apparent reflection of his Origin) with a core of kirin tail hair (a resonator for his primary elemental affinity). If he weren’t confident in his defenses against mental interference, he might have suspected the old wandmaker of peering into his memories just to mock him.

A sharp hiss and a plume of steam interrupted his thoughts.

The old train emerged from the tunnel, slowly rolling into the station.

This was another positive development—as strange as it was, Hermione Granger had managed to survive the school year. Meaning he could continue using her reputation as a brilliant Muggle-born prodigy to his advantage. It was convenient—her death or withdrawal from the magical world after everything she’d endured would have disrupted several of his planned experiments on evaluating his peers.

For now, the game continued.

He could keep up his act as the devoted apprentice.

That was why he had come to meet the train today.

The whole "attacks" ordeal had ended back in May, but both Granger and Lovegood had written very little about it—probably not out of reluctance, but because they had been instructed to stay quiet by their teachers and heads of house.

Which meant he would have to gather details from firsthand accounts. Even the vague mentions in their letters and the heavily sanitized articles in the newspapers—praising the Ministry’s supposed foresight and the Aurors’ valor—had contained a few details that piqued his practical interest.

Finally, among the flood of students pouring out of the train, he spotted the familiar trio—Granger, Weasley, and Potter.

The last of them looked especially grim, his expression one of complete dejection, as if he loathed the very idea of summer vacation. Otherwise, they looked much the same as they had half a year ago during Christmas break—except that Granger was now wearing glasses, matching Potter. A lingering effect of her injuries, perhaps? Something beyond what the school’s infirmary-level magical medicine could immediately heal?

Either way, Kayneth stepped forward, preparing to formally greet his "teacher" and offer congratulations—on surviving, if nothing else.

Conveniently, the trio walked alone.

No one had come to meet Potter.

Granger’s parents waited outside the station.

And the elder Weasleys were preoccupied with their many returning children.

"Harry, stop worrying so much! Summer will fly by before you know it. Just don’t forget about your homework."

"Yeah, easy for you to say, Hermione…"

"Good evening, Miss Granger," Kayneth greeted her, offering a polite nod. "Glad to see you in one piece—"

At that moment, Weasley shoved Potter aside, stepped forward—and punched him square in the face.

"You bloody bastard! This is all your fault!"

The blow sent Kayneth sprawling onto the platform, half-stunned.

The punch wasn’t particularly strong—Weasley clearly had no real training in fighting—but the surprise and the sheer difference in height and age had done their work.

Shaking his head, ignoring the ringing in his ears, Kayneth instinctively opened his circuits, flinging his hand forward to summon a cutting wind—

"Protego Duo!"

A silver barrier materialized between them.

A moment later, Potter recovered and grabbed Weasley from behind, restraining him before he could throw another punch.

Granger, already holding her wand at the ready, leapt between them through her own shimmering shield, arms raised to stop the fight before it escalated further.

"Stop it! Both of you! No fists, no spells. Ron, what’s gotten into you?! James, keep your temper in check."

Hermione swept her gaze over the small crowd gathering around them and added, not very convincingly, "Everything’s fine, just a misunderstanding. We’ll sort it out, no need to pay us any attention."

"Hermione, this is all because of him!"

With Potter still holding him back, Weasley had to jerk his head toward James instead.

"If it weren’t for this arrogant know-it-all and his stupid lectures, you wouldn’t have thrown yourself into a fight and gotten hurt! You’d have run away like the others did, or—or at least you wouldn’t have been nearly killed! What if that Slytherin hadn’t caught you in time? What if he just let you fall? What then, huh?!"

"I see. So this is a formal duel challenge?" Kayneth asked, his tone deliberately even as he rubbed his bruised cheek and slowly got back on his feet. He closed his magic circuits, realizing there would be no fight here—not in the middle of a crowded train station.

"Yeah!" Weasley shouted, though he had at least stopped struggling against Potter’s grip. "Tomorrow, noon, in front of our house."

"Actually, as the challenged party, I decide the time and terms of the duel," Kayneth replied politely, about to outline the proper dueling protocols.

"Oh, I do hope I’m not interrupting," Hermione cut in, her voice forcibly calm—likely mimicking one of their professors.

She stood firmly between them, wand still in hand. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she dispelled the Protego Duo and continued, "But let’s be serious for a moment. Are you actually planning to fight over me?"

"Hermione, you spent a week and a half in the hospital wing, covered in bandages and burn salve. Not to mention four pints of pain relief potions," Ron muttered bitterly, jerking his shoulder in frustration. "And the professors said it could’ve been a lot worse.

"Harry, you can let go of me now. You can see there won’t be a fight."

"I have no intention of ignoring a challenge thrown at me—especially not for such an absurd reason," Kayneth stated flatly.

"Alright, I’ve heard enough," Hermione declared. "Now listen to me, both of you."

She turned on Ron first. "I am so incredibly flattered that you feel the need to defend my honor," she said, twirling her wand in an exaggerated flourish, voice dripping with sarcasm. "But it’s my decision to make—who’s to blame for my injuries, and how much. Not yours. And if James was responsible, believe me, I would have made that very clear to him myself."

"But you—"

"Silencio."

Hermione cut him off with a quick spell, then leveled her wand at his face.

"I wasn’t finished," she said coolly. "Since it’s my right to decide what offends me, your ‘challenge’ is annulled. Now, James. As your teacher, I order you to ignore this ridiculous misunderstanding. There was no insult, no offense, and therefore, no duel. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to defy me and renounce your status as my apprentice?"

"No," Kayneth admitted quietly.

He had to give the girl credit—over the school year, she had clearly dug up some very old books on magical apprenticeship, the kind that detailed the rights of a teacher and the obligations of a student. Or perhaps she had simply spent enough time around Lovegood, who seemed well-versed in such things. If this kept up, in a year or two, Granger might actually have the authority to send him into some ruins if she needed something retrieved.

"I acknowledge my impulsiveness, teacher," he added smoothly.

"Good," Hermione nodded. Then she turned back to Ron.

"Now, you will apologize to him."

"…"

"Oh, right. Finita."

"And why should I?!"

"Did I not make myself clear?" Hermione asked, feigning confusion as she raised her wand again. "Shall I repeat myself?"

"No! No need, I get it."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I… Look, I… alright, I’m sorry. I was wrong," Ron muttered, glaring at the ground.

"There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?" Hermione said sweetly. "Now shake hands."

"But—"

"But what?!"

Under Hermione’s sharp gaze, the two boys reluctantly exchanged a limp handshake.

Ron knew he had five more years of borrowing Hermione’s notes and checking his essays with her—plus, if his mother ever found out he had been openly fighting with a girl in public, he might not survive the summer.

Kayneth, meanwhile, acknowledged that if he wanted to maintain his role as her apprentice, he would have to comply—she had the technical right to issue such an order. Of course, he could properly educate Weasley on his misjudgment and reckless assumptions later, when it would be far more advantageous. But for now, this resolution left neither of them satisfied.

"Now that we’ve settled that…"

Hermione turned back to James and smiled as if nothing had happened. "Good evening, James. I am glad you came to meet me."

"Could it have been otherwise?" Kayneth replied smoothly, as though the past five minutes had never happened and he hadn’t nearly fired a combat spell at a schoolmate. "In any case, my duty is fulfilled. I won’t keep you any longer."

His tone turned slightly more serious as he added, "I hope we’ll have the chance to speak soon? I have quite a few questions."

"Yes, of course. I’ll be staying in London until July. I’ll write to you—or actually, I’ll call you."

"I would appreciate that. Until then, farewell. Don’t linger here too long—your parents are already waiting outside the station. Potter, Weasley, try not to let your friend—" Kayneth deliberately emphasized the word, as if questioning how true it still was.

He had far more reason to blame them for everything than Weasley had to accuse him.

But he’d make that clear later—and not here.

"Try not to let her land herself in trouble again. Have a pleasant evening."

Ignoring their disgruntled expressions, Archibald turned and walked away, passing through the crowd of familiar and unfamiliar witches and wizards.

Nearby, he caught sight of the entire Malfoy family, which surprised him.

In his own world, he would never have personally come to pick up his heir. He would have sent a servant—along with security, of course. Either the local aristocracy had an appalling shortage of competent magical servants, or there was still much about this world’s traditions he had yet to grasp. As he walked, Kayneth absently touched his bruised cheek, opening his circuits for just a moment to channel spiritual healing. The punch had been unimpressive, but the mark would have lasted a couple of days—and why should he bother dealing with that?

Llewellyn was already waiting by the car when Kayneth reached the parking lot. As soon as he slid into the passenger seat, he turned to his apprentice and asked,

"Notice any differences from our last visit?"

"Yeah, boss," Llewellyn nodded briskly.

Back in January, the squib had already driven his mentor here, and the previous autumn, Kayneth had shown him this station alongside other magical locations within London.

"There’s no security. I mean, no wizarding security. In winter, they were way too obvious—wandering around, staring at everything, not knowing how to answer questions from tourists. Today, I spotted maybe one guy, and even then, he could’ve just been some cheap private detective or a jealous husband tracking his wife. Total amateur."

"Good. And why do you think they’re not here?"

"How am I supposed to figure out what those Ministry types are thinking?" Llewellyn scoffed as if the mere idea of understanding bureaucrats was ridiculous. "They’ve got horse-sized cockroaches running around in their heads, I swear."

"Not ‘your’ Ministry. Ours," Kayneth corrected. "You’re already tangled up in this enough that, if things go south, we’ll be rotting in Azkaban in neighboring cells. Now, any theories? Or have I been making you study the magical world for nothing?"

"Love your optimism, boss," Llewellyn muttered. "As for security… I dunno. Maybe they’re all tied up somewhere else? But there’s been nothing in the papers. And yeah, sure, there’s twice the number of people here compared to January, but no Aurors patrolling the regular train platforms. Maybe a couple inside the station, max."

"Inside, there are exactly two, plus a couple of regular patrol officers. And as for the reason—does the elimination of a dark wizard at school ring any bells? You read the papers, right? They pinned everything on him—Travers’s death, that fire, all the school attacks, and half a dozen other unsolved cases from last year. The criminal’s dead, so security isn’t ‘needed’ anymore."

"As if they only had one criminal in the entire country—" Llewellyn started, then abruptly stopped, turning to Kayneth with a skeptical expression. "Wait, boss. You’re not telling me things are really that bad, are you?"

"More like, I hope I’m wrong," Kayneth sighed. "Either way, we’ll be getting firsthand accounts soon enough."

He nodded toward the groups of wizards and witches emerging from the station—those who had traveled by mundane, non-magical means.

"But for now, let’s go. First, the workshop—we still need to sort out your musket. Then, home."

"You mean to tell me you've never seen Star Wars?"

Hermione stopped mid-step, staring at him in disbelief.

"Is that really so strange?" Kayneth tilted his head slightly.

"Yes," she said flatly. "At least for a Muggle-born. With pure-bloods, sure, no surprises there."

"What can I say? The tellevision at the orphanage was probably old enough to have broadcast Churchill’s speeches, and it only had one channel. And trips to the cinema? Completely out of the question."

"Oh… right," Hermione murmured, her expression shifting slightly.

She prided herself on having developed a good sense of tact after two years of friendship with Harry, but every so often, she still managed to put her foot in her mouth. Awkwardly, she tried to recover, "Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up."

"It’s fine. I’ve almost forgotten about it myself," Kayneth waved her off. Moments like this made using James’s background very convenient. "But as you can see, there are some… gaps in my knowledge."

"You have to watch the trilogy! Maybe it’s not the best film series ever made, but in terms of cultural impact, there’s almost nothing like it. And besides, without the proper context, it'll be a lot harder for me to explain the concept behind my spell. Speaking of which—where exactly are we going?"

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.

"We’re already here," Kayneth replied, gesturing toward what appeared to be a wide fireplace at the edge of a small square in the magical quarter. Though technically a gateway, the structure had been designed to resemble a fireplace—just enough to ensure the transportation mystery functioned correctly.

He handed Hermione a small slip of parchment. "Here’s the address. They’re expecting us."

"I agreed to this when you said a few incoming first-years wanted to hear about the attacks at school," she said, frowning at her attire—a Hogwarts robe and tie. "But isn’t this a bit formal? I’m not giving some grand speech at an induction ceremony."

"Not at all. You’ll be setting a positive example—showing them what an ideal witch should aspire to be. Every detail matters. And besides, this was how you dressed when we first met."

"That was ages ago. And ideal? You’re exaggerating," she muttered, flushing slightly.

"Not in the slightest. But we’re already running late," Kayneth replied, ending the conversation.

He stepped onto the fireplace platform, took a handful of Floo powder, and clearly announced, "Morris family home, Ireland."

Stepping through the green flames, Kayneth emerged on the other side, casually dusting off his cloak.

Given the nature of magical transportation here, he had quickly made it a priority to apply spells against soot, dirt, and singeing to his clothing. Then had come enchantments for resistance to tearing, impact absorption, and temperature regulation.

Most of the spells were local, but he had supplemented them with a couple of reinforcement techniques from his own repertoire—enough to withstand a weak knife strike.

"Well? Everyone’s been waiting for you," an impatient, freckled boy—slightly younger than James—called out from the sitting room, where the Floo exit was located.

"A few more seconds of patience."

The flames flared again, and Hermione stepped through, her eyes immediately darting around the unfamiliar room.

She reread the address on the parchment, as if still not believing it, then turned to Kayneth with wide eyes.

"Ireland? Seriously?"

"Northern Ireland. A magical settlement near Derry," he corrected smoothly, then gestured between her and their host.

"Stuart Morris, half-blood. Hermione Granger, Muggle-born. I trust you’ll get along."

"Yeah, nice to meet you. Now, let's go," Stuart muttered quickly, already turning toward the door.

Kayneth followed without hesitation, leaving Hermione with no choice but to trail after them. As he politely held the door open for her, she froze for a moment, visibly struggling with the urge to bolt back to the fireplace.

She had agreed, of course. She knew that aside from Kayneth, a few of his acquaintances might be present to hear about the so-called "school maniac."

But now, standing outside on the green lawn, were nearly a dozen children, ten or eleven years old, sitting, standing, or idly wandering around. Including James, that made twelve. And every single one of them was watching her—some with interest, others with skepticism.

"You don’t quite understand something yet," Murphy murmured beside her.

"This whole story spread far and wide over the past six months. We all followed it—getting letters from friends, siblings, older students. We all knew that in a few months, we’d be at that school ourselves, and this could happen to us. So, you can imagine how relieved we were to hear that after nearly twenty attacks, one second-year actually fought back against that lunatic."

"But I lost," Hermione protested, trying to refuse the kind of reputation he was implying.

"Against an adult wizard. One-on-one. After an ambush," Kayneth calmly corrected her. He had expected she would resist, but he also knew it wouldn’t take much to convince her.

"You fought back and exchanged spells with him. As far as I know, none of the others even had the chance to defend themselves before he drained their magic and left them bleeding. You walked away from the fight."

"Through a window. From the sixth floor."

"And what if he hadn’t let them go? What if he had taken more than just their magic? Or done something worse, then erased their memories with Obliviate?"

"You’re not suggesting," he added, voice edged with dry sarcasm, "that we should have just waited and assumed, like Weasley, that ‘nothing too bad had happened yet,’ are you?"

"...No," she admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly. And that’s why all of us want to hear your story and learn from it," Kayneth continued, smoothly reinforcing his argument.

"It would be incredibly selfish of me to keep this information to myself, wouldn’t it?"

Hermione let out a deep breath. "Alright. I’ll tell you. But don’t expect too much from me," she said aloud, addressing not just him but the waiting group as well.

She took a few hesitant steps forward, moving toward the gathered children.

"Oh, don’t worry," Kayneth said lightly, walking behind her. "I have no doubts you’ll give us more than enough."

When Hermione stopped next to the group, uncertain of where to begin, he stepped in smoothly.

"Ladies, gentlemen, my future classmates," he addressed them in a clear, authoritative voice.

"As planned, we have gathered here today at the esteemed Morris residence to hear firsthand the account of recent events at Hogwarts—from someone who lived through them.

"For those who may not recognize her, this is Hermione Granger, student of Gryffindor, second-year—soon to be third-year. A witch whom I have the honor of calling my teacher in magic, even before any Hogwarts professor."

He let that statement hang for a moment before continuing.

"But we are not here to discuss her. We are here to talk about the danger that threatened the school for seven months. There is no guarantee that this will not happen again a year from now—or that next time, one of us won’t be the one in harm’s way.

"Which is why practical knowledge is invaluable to us.

"And so, Miss Granger—the floor is yours."

Then, lowering his voice so only she could hear, he added,

"Just start from Halloween. Give them a general idea of how the attacks began."

With that, Kayneth stepped back and sat on the soft grass behind the group.

If nothing else, the weather was cooperating.

If it had been raining, they would have been forced to gather in the sitting room by the fireplace. That might have created a different kind of atmosphere, but it wouldn’t have had the same feeling of openness, of safety, as this bright summer afternoon.

Hermione cleared her throat.

"As James just said, my name is Hermione Granger. Gryffindor, second—now third-year. If you have questions, remember them or write them down. You can ask them once I finish. Is that clear?"

She waited for a round of nods before continuing.

"Good.

"So. It all started in November, when a Ravenclaw first-year failed to return to his dormitory after curfew. The prefects had to go looking for him..."

As she began recounting the events, Kayneth let his gaze sweep over the gathered children.

Some of them he had never seen before—clearly brought along by others after hearing about the opportunity to listen to this story firsthand.

He had personally invited seven of them, but had also encouraged them to bring others who were interested in their own safety and the study of practical magic.

Setting everything up in just a few days hadn’t been difficult—finding a willing host with an empty house on a secure property had been the easiest part.

And the potential benefits were significant.

If he could subtly introduce a new generation of young wizards to different ways of thinking—through a figure of authority they respected—it could lead to long-term changes in how they approached magic.

Of course, there were drawbacks.

For instance, not a single child from an old noble family was present.

That would have been particularly useful for gauging their reactions to these ideas. There were a few third or fourth-generation pure-bloods, but the majority were either half-bloods or Muggle-born.

For now, though, he would have to make do.

"...At the end of March," Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts, her tone turning sharper, more focused, "I was working on a new spell and stayed late in the library.

"Afterward, I decided to stop by Professor Flitwick’s office to ask him about a slowing charm I had been experimenting with."

A murmur rippled through the group—they could sense the story reaching its climax.

"But I never made it to his office," she admitted, her grip tightening on the hem of her robe.

"Because I was attacked."

She hesitated before adding, "There’s something I should clarify. I don’t remember the fight itself. At the very end, he cast a memory-wiping charm on me—one that lasted about ten minutes.

"So I remember leaving the library... and then the next thing I knew, I was falling out of a window, everything around me on fire, and someone on a broom was racing toward me.

"To be honest, I was so terrified that I think I passed out before they even caught me."

A collective groan of disappointment rippled through the audience.

"Yes, I know that’s not what you were hoping to hear," Hermione said, raising a hand to quiet them. "But my friends and I did manage to reconstruct most of what happened.

"So, from what we pieced together—

"The attacker waited until I was alone, then ambushed me on the stairs near the sixth floor.

"Judging by the evidence, he used Stupefy first—but the enchantments on my robes softened the blow, so instead of knocking me out completely, it just threw me into the corridor.

"And here’s where things get strange.

"I don’t know why I started fighting."

She looked away for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the open fields beyond the house.

"Thinking back now, I know I should have run. I should have bolted straight to the nearest window and screamed for help. But the version of me that got erased didn’t do that. And I’ll never know how I found the courage to stand my ground."

She exhaled sharply, then forced herself to continue.

"Logically, I must have started by throwing up a shield with Protego, then fired back—probably with Stupefy, Petrificus Totalus, or Immobulus—something to stun or paralyze him.

"But he just blew straight through my shield with Reducto.

"There were clear impact marks on the floor near the staircase where the spell hit.

"It knocked me back again, and he moved in.

"And that’s when I used my new spell—

"Light Saber."

"The Light Saber?" one of the boys repeated, eyes widening. "Like in the movies?"

"Yes. I was trying, with some help from my friends, to recreate the weapon from the film using spells and enchantments," Hermione admitted. "And, well… I got a little carried away. It didn’t turn out that accurate, though. In the original, it’s supposed to be an extended loop of contained plasma, and I don’t think there are any spells capable of producing something like that. So, what we created is really just an imitation, a loose interpretation at best. It doesn’t even look that much like the original."

"Does it glow blue or red?" another child asked—undoubtedly a Muggle-born.

Most of the other kids, Kayneth included, turned toward him in mild confusion, not understanding the significance of the question.

"I wanted it to glow blue, but that didn’t work," Hermione admitted. "So I had to settle for white."

"Can we see it?" MacEvoy, sitting in the front row, asked eagerly, struggling to hide his excitement. Which was understandable. After all, it wasn’t every day that someone their age got to witness a completely new spell. "Just for reference, at least. To visualize how it looked in action."

"Yes, of course," Hermione said, retrieving her wand, which was currently secured in a tightly wrapped cloth sheath. Taking a few steps away from the group, she glanced around and asked, "Stuart, you don’t have any subtle artistic landscaping out here, do you? It’s just grass?"

"Just grass. Cut it, burn it—whatever. My mum’ll probably thank you for getting rid of it."

"Perfect. Alright, everyone—shield your eyes," she warned, adjusting the plain black rectangular glasses perched on her nose.

Then, gripping her wand with both hands like the hilt of a greatsword, she swung it in an arc and called out, "Fos!"

A wide, tapering blade of white light flared to life, extending a few inches above the tip of her wand and sweeping through the air in a blinding semicircle.

Anyone who hadn’t heeded her warning—failing to squint or cover their eyes—was left blinking away bright spots and multicolored halos for several minutes.

Hermione, however, was unaffected—clearly, her glasses were enchanted, automatically dimming to protect her vision from the flash. 

As she finished her motion, the glowing blade vanished, only to reappear with her next swing and incantation. The second and third strikes were aimed lower, and wherever the brilliant edge passed, grass was cleaved away in bursts, leaving behind charred, blackened lines in the soil. After the third swing, Hermione lowered her wand to one hand and added, "That’s more or less how it works."

"So, it’s just a combination of basic spells woven together into a single effect," Kayneth remarked, speaking over the murmurs of admiration. "Probably Lumos, Diffindo, and I assume Incendio. First-year level."

"Lumos Maxima and Incendio Duo," Hermione corrected. "Second-year. But otherwise, yes.

"We modeled it after the levitation safety charm—the one that projects a cushioning field half a meter above the ground. Here, the spells are projected from the wand sheath itself. We didn’t dare try enchanting the wand directly, though we wanted to."

She traced an outline in the air above her wand, sketching the triangular contours of the blade.

"Incendio, followed by Diffindo, then Lumos—projected outward from the wand’s tip to a length of about five feet. The problem is that it requires extremely precise spatial alignment to keep the effects from interfering with one another. After just a second or two, the magic starts to drift, overlapping in the wrong places, and the whole structure collapses. That’s why it can’t stay active continuously."

"Can it deflect spells like blaster shots?" another Muggle-born asked, hopeful.

"We wanted it to," Hermione admitted, absently turning her wand over in her hands, as if it were the hilt of a sword. "We even tried adding a projected Protego field along the flat edges of the blade, but it disrupted the Lumos effect. And stability was already an issue—the shielding layer was always the first thing to collapse. Plus, Incendio and Diffindo would reflect off of it, sending spells flying in all directions... The whole thing just fell apart. Three spells barely hold together—four is completely unmanageable."

"And it wouldn’t work against a magical shield anyway," Kayneth pointed out. "But against someone without a shield? It would be highly effective."

"Exactly," Hermione agreed. 

"That’s what happened.

“Judging by the scorch marks and cuts left in the walls and ceiling, I must have been using the Saber.

“But the maniac blocked with a shield charm.

"Of course, I wasn’t trying to seriously harm him—more likely, I just wanted to scare him, maybe slice through his wand at most.

"But for him, that wasn’t enough.

"When the corridor caught fire, I probably tried to break his shield with Reducto, Bombarda, or some other explosive spell.

"But I must have been too drained, and the blast got reflected—into the walls, a nearby door.

"One spell must have hit the floor beneath me, because the next thing I knew, I was being flung toward the window."

She hesitated before adding, "At that point, I must have decided to run.

"I shattered the window.

"And part of the wall."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small glass sphere, holding it up for the others to see.

"I had this with me—one of the Weasley twins’ ‘prank items.’ There’s a Transfiguration spell called Duro. It temporarily turns anything—cloth, liquid, even air—into solid stone. And then there’s the opposite—Fluidum. It briefly liquefies solid materials—stone, metal, glass. It’s a sixth-year spell. I could never have cast it myself. But the twins sealed it into this."

She rolled the orb between her fingers.

"If you break it while speaking the activation word, the spell affects everything in its immediate radius."

"Why not just blast the window open with Fenestra?" Morris asked. "That way, there wouldn’t even be shards left in the frame."

"I don’t know how to cast it yet," Hermione admitted reluctantly.

"There are lots of ways I could have broken the window, but I was probably panicking by that point and just acted on instinct.

"Either way, they later found traces of Fluidum—‘drops’ of liquefied stone and glass scattered on the ground and inside the corridor. The last thing I managed to do was cast Flagrante. After that… I don’t know. Maybe he hit me with a stunning spell. Maybe part of the floor collapsed under me. But either way, I fell."

She swallowed.

"And then Lucian Bole caught me. For which I owe him my life."

She tried to make light of it, forcing a weak smile.

"I don’t think I’d have enjoyed falling six stories to the ground."

But despite the attempt at humor, her voice was flat.

And no one in the audience was laughing.

"Are you two dating now?" asked one of the girls—Pix, if Hermione remembered correctly.

"N-no!" Hermione shook her head so quickly that her already unruly hair became even more tangled. "He's three years older than me, and besides, I'm in Gryffindor, and he's in Slytherin. What kind of relationship could we possibly have?"

"Does that really matter?" another student chimed in. "Same House or not, what's the difference?"

"Usually, it doesn't," Hermione admitted. "But Gryffindor and Slytherin… that's a special case." She abruptly changed the subject. "Anyway, back to the maniac. A week after the attack, when they finally let my friends visit me in the hospital wing, I asked one of the older Weasleys to use Priori Incantatem on my wand. That's how I confirmed that the last spell I cast that night was Flagrante."

"The burning curse?" someone asked.

"No, but similar," Hermione explained, raising her wand. "Flagrante lets you write in the air with fire." She demonstrated by tracing her initials in the air, the letters lingering in flaming script for a few moments before fading away. "I doubt I was leaving an insult for the maniac before making my escape, so we figured I must have been leaving a message for someone else.

"The problem was, by the time we figured this out, the corridor had already been repaired. We interviewed at least fifty people to reconstruct the scene, even reached out to the ghosts, and—Merlin help me—we had to talk to Mr. Filch and the house-elves who cleaned up afterward.

"But in the end, we found something. Witnesses confirmed that just before I fell, I had burned a few smeared letters into the floor: ‘V. P. L.’"

"'V' must stand for 'Villain'," MacAvoy guessed.

"That was our first thought too," Hermione nodded. "The real trouble was the 'P. L.' We initially assumed I had identified the culprit; otherwise, why would I leave such a cryptic clue? So we sat down and went through the names of every student I knew, trying to find a match. Patricia Lewis, Lyon Parker… we checked everyone with those initials, but it led nowhere."

"And you only figured it out in May—that the 'P' wasn’t a name or surname?" asked one of the Muggle-born students.

"Yes. We…" Hermione hesitated, clearly reluctant to admit her mistake, but she pushed through. "I never considered that the culprit might be one of the professors.

"But I should have.

"Professor Lockhart—we only started watching him out of sheer desperation.

"And imagine our horror when one evening, he just walked out of his office and tried to stun Colin Creevey, a first-year from my House, in the middle of a corridor. As it turned out, the man I had fought that night was our own Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"But the newspapers said he wasn’t acting of his own will. That he was possessed," someone pointed out.

"He was," Hermione confirmed. "I saw it myself. That night, he was holding a strange notebook, muttering to himself, and following him was a ghost. But not just floating—walking, noiselessly. A handsome boy, about a senior’s age—maybe even a graduate. He was wearing Slytherin robes. 

"The ghost gave commands. And the professor obeyed.

"He ordered him to attack a kid because ‘more magic was needed.’ And then we intervened.

"This time, no sword," she added with a small, self-deprecating smile. "Stupefy, Expelliarmus, Rictusempra—basic spells, but enough to buy time and make enough noise.

"Upper-year students arrived soon after.

"By then, everyone was already on edge, so people gathered fast. The professor fought them off—he even stunned a few—but he wasn’t trying to seriously hurt anyone, even though the ghost was screaming at him to. Before the teachers and Heads of House arrived, he managed to retreat into the dungeons and disappear.

"Later, we found out there was a hidden entrance beneath the normal corridors and classrooms—leading to a secret laboratory belonging to Salazar Slytherin, one of the school's founders.

"The entrance could only be opened with Parseltongue."

"Professor Lockhart was a Parselmouth?" Pix asked in disbelief.

"No. But the Slytherin ghost was.

"He locked himself inside, and the professors and Heads of House waited at the door for the Aurors, who had already been summoned. They arrived half an hour later—a full squad, at least twenty. From what people saw, they Apparated to Hogsmeade and sprinted the rest of the way.

"After that, the students were sent back to their dorms, and the Aurors went in after the culprit.

"The rest, you probably read in the papers," Hermione said with a shrug.

"Deep in the laboratory, there was a basilisk—an ancient, incredibly dangerous creature that had lived for centuries. Several Aurors were wounded in the battle, but luckily, none of them were killed. They had broken bones and injuries, but at least the basilisk didn’t manage to bite anyone.

"As for the professor…

"He was too dangerous to capture alive while he was still controlling the creature.

"So he was mortally wounded by a powerful spell, and the cursed object controlling him was destroyed. 

"Only then did the ghost disappear.

"And after that, the Aurors finally managed to kill the basilisk."

After a moment of silence, Morris finally asked, "Still… what was that object, if even the Defense professor couldn’t fight against it? Some kind of dark artifact?"

"Probably.

"But we’ll never know for sure—it was almost completely destroyed by fire.

"But my friends and I have some guesses.

"Remember how, alongside the attacks on students, all those weird accidents kept happening to Harry Potter?"

A few heads nodded.

"Well, right after I landed in the hospital wing, barely conscious from all the healing spells and potions, something else happened to him.

"I can’t remember if it was a chair collapsing under him or a door hitting him in the face—something ridiculous. But the important thing was that it triggered a magical outburst. You do understand what that means, right? How powerful emotions can cause spontaneous surges of magic?"

Most of the kids nodded in understanding, and even Kayneth gave a slight, approving nod for show.

"This time, it must have been panic—he probably thought the same attacker who put me in the hospital was coming for him.

"He lost control. And his magic lashed out.

"It created some kind of explosion—or maybe just a massive telekinetic shockwave—and it caught something by surprise.

"Something that had been tailing him for months under an invisibility spell.

"And when it fell, Ron caught it.

"It turned out that, for nearly half a year, Harry had been secretly followed—

"By a house-elf."

"How?!"

"No way!"

"Yes, yes, I know," Hermione raised her hands reassuringly. "For us—especially for Ron—it was just as much of a shock." She could understand the reaction of the young wizards, especially the half-bloods who were more familiar with magical creatures. "But the fact was undeniable."

"But how is that even possible?" MacAvoy voiced everyone's confusion. "How could a house-elf consciously harm a wizard?"

"It was a paradox," Hermione raised a finger in explanation, adopting a professorial tone. However, it was doubtful that anyone truly understood what she meant. "An almost impossible paradox of thought. You see, twelve years ago, when You-Know-Who waged his war, house-elves suffered greatly—his followers treated them like dirt, punishing, humiliating, even killing them for the slightest mistake. Some, especially the older ones, accepted this as the natural order, but others hoped for something better.

"When You-Know-Who was defeated thanks to Harry, many elves rejoiced—Harry became a symbol of hope for them.

"And among them was one elf, a servant of a pureblood family that sympathized with You-Know-Who. This elf overheard that his master was planning to smuggle a dangerous dark artifact into Hogwarts that year.

"When the elf tried to object, mentioning that Harry would also be in danger, his master ordered him to punish himself. Then he gave a direct command—not to help Potter in any way.

"And that's where things get interesting," Hermione snapped her fingers, drawing their attention to what she considered the most crucial part. She clearly took pride in solving this mystery.

"A house-elf cannot harm a wizard or endanger his own kind. But at the same time, this elf could not help Potter—his master’s direct order prevented him.

"So, he decided that the only way to obey both commands was to stop Harry.

"He started sabotaging him, hoping to drive him away from the school—to put him in danger, to leave threatening notes. That way, he wasn’t ‘helping’ Potter—he was doing the opposite. But at the same time, if this forced Harry to leave before he was cursed or possessed, the elf would be helping him—just indirectly, by harming him a little to save him from something much worse.

"A human would never come up with such twisted logic, but elves aren't human. They think in entirely different terms of loyalty and duty. And when Harry refused to take the hint and instead doubled down on his Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, the elf grew desperate.

"By late March, when the boys caught him, the elf agreed to stop interfering—if they could find and destroy the artifact themselves. In the end, all we managed to do was find it. The Aurors were the ones who actually destroyed that notebook.

"But for the elf, that was enough."

"But how did it even get into Hogwarts?" someone asked. "Everyone said security checks were much stricter at the station last year."

"Yes, but they only seriously checked the students. Think about it—if, say, a second-year's father walked onto the platform with the artifact hidden on him, and then, while saying goodbye, slipped it to his son and told him to leave it somewhere in a corridor where a first-year—preferably from Gryffindor—would find it…

"Then, later, a surprise inspection could be arranged.

"And when they discovered that an incredibly dangerous dark artifact was just sitting in some dormitory while the prefects and teachers had no idea what was happening…

"There would be problems.

"Not just for the students, but for the Heads of House. Even for the Headmaster.

"But something clearly went wrong.

"I don’t know—maybe Professor Lockhart was the one who found the notebook first. Maybe he confiscated it from a younger student. Or maybe some frightened student, realizing what they had been given, handed it over to a teacher instead of keeping it. Though, honestly, that last one seems unlikely…

"But somehow, the notebook ended up in his hands.

"Maybe he thought he could control the spirit inside it. Maybe he didn’t realize the danger until it was too late. But either way, by the time two months had passed, it had completely taken over him. And he started attacking students, draining their magic. Maybe he was feeding it to the ghost inside the artifact. I don’t know for sure."

"And did the elf tell you who the wizard behind it all was?" someone asked.

"He wasn't allowed to. But he was smart about it," Hermione smirked.

"Last week, at the station, when the students returned home, he just appeared next to his master—making sure we saw him.

"He handed something over, probably a message. And then he simply disappeared. His master never suspected a thing."

"So who was behind it?"

"I'm sorry, but I can’t say," Hermione spread her hands apologetically. "I refuse to accuse someone when we have no solid proof. The elf's word wouldn’t hold up in court, and that's all we have."

"How can it not hold up?" MacAvoy frowned.

"The Law on Evidence and Testimony in Court," one of the half-bloods, who had been quiet until now, spoke up.

"The Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures has been a mess since the Ministry was founded—before that, the same department under the Wizarding Council was just as bad. Every ten to twenty years, they change their minds on which beings are classified as ‘Beasts,’ ‘Beings,’ or even ‘Spirits,’ and then they change it back again.

"And by law, only Beings can testify in court—not Beasts.

"But the law can’t keep up with the bureaucratic mess.

"Right now, house-elves are classified as Beings—but in judicial records, they’re still listed under Beasts, meaning they can’t testify.

"Trolls, on the other hand, can."

"This is insane…" someone muttered.

"Who’s arguing with that?" another shrugged.

"Teacher," Kayneth interrupted before the conversation turned into pointless noise, "I think the most important lesson from this entire situation is the necessity of preparing in advance for trouble—and not limiting yourself to standard methods.

"If you hadn’t taken the time to enchant your robes for protection, you would have been knocked out by the first spell.

"If you hadn’t considered weapons, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did.

"If you had only carried your wand—do you think you could have held your own against a professor, especially one possessed by a dark entity?"

"I highly doubt it," Hermione admitted. "Though, looking back, I should have carried more than just enchanted items—I should have had potions, too.

"Not just healing balms, but Swamp Fog, which can create an entire opaque cloud from a single vial.

"Or Rattling Potion—the kind that explodes on impact but can pass through magical shields."

"Maybe if you're using a sword that sets everything around it on fire, you should carry a vial of Ice Potion," one of the witches suggested. "And maybe some kind of nuisance potion—like one that causes coughing or sneezing. If you smash it near your enemy and then evaporate it into the air, they'd breathe it in. It's hard to cast spells when you're sneezing three times a second," she added, glancing around importantly. "Trust me, personal experience."

"By the way, that other Flagrante—the curse one—could be applied to the wand sheath, right? Covering the top two-thirds so that even if someone Expelliarmus’ed it away, they'd burn their hand trying to catch it..."

The magus didn't interfere in this discussion, leaving Hermione to dismiss the more absurd ideas and refine the ones that had merit. The specific suggestions weren’t what really mattered. Far more important was the willingness to think outside the rigid framework of a textbook. Hermione was demonstrating exactly what that kind of thinking could achieve. And right now, her authority carried far more weight than his—after all, she was the battle-hardened third-year who had fought off a dark wizard, while he was just another student who hadn't even set foot in the school yet.

Where they would all be sorted in three months didn't matter. He needed allies at Hogwarts, not to play along with the meaningless game of earning House points—especially since the system was rigged anyway.

Later that evening, after returning to Diagon Alley, Hermione asked him on their way to the exit:

"Was all of that really necessary?"

"Yes," the magus replied just as easily. "From what I can tell—based on your stories, too—dangerous things happen at that school all the time. And not just inconveniences—life-threatening ones. Sure, you can treat it as just another part of magical education, but that doesn’t make the risk any smaller. You know that if that troll two years ago had hit just a couple feet lower, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now."

She grimaced but didn’t argue.

"Then it happened again last year," he continued. "And I have no reason to believe that my first year will be any different. If—or when—something happens, I want to know I can count on my classmates."

"And what if one of them decides that, with all these new tricks, they’re suddenly invincible? That now they can start lording over the 'underachievers' however they want?"

"Then that gives the others more incentive not to sit around doing nothing," he shrugged. "By the end of summer, they'll have improved even more. And so will I. Shame we won’t have time to go over second-year material during the break."

"Yeah, my whole family is going to France for the rest of the summer—my mum’s parents live there. But we’ll see each other at school, and we can always talk there."

"Assuming nothing happens before then," Archibald said dryly. "Knowing my luck, I wouldn’t be surprised if the train derails on the way."

"It’s enchanted."

"And I’m a very 'lucky' person…"