Chapter 96
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Theodore Nott survived. Had our duel taken place in the school corridor or anywhere on the street, the boy would have been buried the next day, perhaps even with honors. He was, after all, the heir to an ancient and pure-blooded family, you have to understand. But Madam Pomfrey was on duty at the foot of the dueling platform, and you can’t mess around with her. The school mediwitch practically flew to the dying second-year and, slapping Bony’s hands, managed to put him into stasis. At that very moment, with pomp and circumstance—I’m talking about a bright flash of fire—Dumbledore appeared, worried and ready for anything. The Headmaster quickly assessed the situation and, with the help of his phoenix, transported the dying Nott and the school mediwitch to St. Mungo’s, and then the debriefing began.
The Headmaster first questioned Flitwick, then, ignoring Lockhart, he approached me closely and, casting a veil of silence, quietly asked just one question: “Why?!” Dumbledore was outwardly calm, but my empathy told me the old man was furious, as confirmed by the thickening air around him. For a few seconds, I was stunned, then honestly replied that I had acted on pure autopilot, as that was how I had been taught and trained. The gray-haired old man listened attentively to my calm speech and even nodded respectfully, then turned his gaze to Lockhart, who was examining his boots, polished to a mirror shine.
It was the first time in my life I’d seen Dumbledore yell and curse, and honestly, I felt a little awkward. Not because of Nott—no, I couldn’t care less about that jerk—but because I’d angered the “kind grandfather” with my actions. The air around him crackled, his eyes glowed a bright blue, and even I, standing ten meters behind him, could feel the pressure of his magic. However, Lockhart deserves credit—he didn’t even blink and, with a stupid smile, replied that he hadn’t expected such powerful magic from a second-year student. The scribbler’s words finally infuriated the headmaster, and he began yelling even louder. Dumbledore, without hesitation or censorship, declared that when challenging Hellsing to a duel, one must be prepared for anything, including a local apocalypse. The headmaster reminded the scribbler and Flitwick that our family is completely fucked up and that from an early age they teach their heirs things that would immediately get them sent on a date with a dementor in polite society.
Dumbledore’s angry speech was interrupted by a translucent blue tit, who, in Madam Pomfrey’s voice, announced that Nott was fine and would be able to return to school in a week. Hearing the good news, the old man calmed down a bit and, glaring angrily at the silent Lockhart, headed my way. The headmaster looked me over thoughtfully, smoothing his beard and lifting the privacy charms that had been enshrined around the dueling platform. After that, Dumbledore sighed heavily and deducted a hundred points from Gryffindor, along with a month of detention with Madam Sprout for excessive cruelty that nearly led to a terrible tragedy. And, to top it all off, I was banned from the dueling club for the rest of the year, for the greater good, of course.
The light wizard was simply afraid that I’d maim someone during the next lesson or send them to a meeting with the Maker. He probably figured out that bone-crushing wasn’t the most dangerous spell in my arsenal. Dumbledore knew perfectly well that I could easily kill someone, and such an action wouldn’t affect my sound and healthy sleep. So what? I killed the enemy, and then we go find the next one.
I’d say I got off easy, but I didn’t give a damn! For starters, the showdown on the platform took place in a veil of silence, and the students in the stands couldn’t hear a thing, but they could see everything perfectly! By evening, several soundtracks had been added to this “silent movie,” and the angry principal’s speech instantly spread throughout the school, in a dozen different versions. Those in the stands were younger students, and children and teenagers have very rich and active imaginations.
It would have been fine if I’d been declared the merciless Dark Lady or the daughter of the Abominable One again—I’d gotten used to that—but things were far worse: rumors began swirling around the school that I’d cast a spell of the highest Dark Magic! According to the gossips, I easily defeated Nott, and then nearly killed Lockhart and Flitwick. The teachers heroically held me off until Dumbledore himself arrived at the very last moment, when their combined strength was nearly exhausted. Then came a brutal and bloody battle between the great Light wizard and the rabid Dark bitch, but the Headmaster, older and more experienced, was able to defeat me and save the innocent students trapped in the pit. And that’s probably the most plausible of the tall tales circulating around Hogwarts.
I’ve long noticed that wizards, most likely due to their small numbers and closed society, are very gullible and often rely on any wild rumors, which in Wizarding Britain are far more reliable than official news. So I wasn’t particularly surprised when many of the younger students began to shy away from me like I had the plague and avoid me at all costs. But the behavior of some of the older students was a complete surprise…
The boys, mostly purebred fifth-year students and above, started looking at me with some kind of gastronomic or scientific interest, whereas before they’d tried to simply ignore me. The older girls weren’t immune either; they’d disliked me before, but now they’d begun to almost openly hate me. No one said anything to my face, but I began to catch glances of hatred and contempt far more often; empathy was unnecessary. For a couple of days after the events in the dueling room, I simply didn’t understand what was happening, but then I got a call from my enraged mother, who was bordering on furious, which was unusual for her.
After listening to the platinum blonde’s loud speech, I started banging my head against the hard headboard, hoping to smash my head in, as the idiocy of the situation was overwhelming. On that fateful day, the Iron Lady of the entire British Empire was at General Headquarters, planning a secret operation in South America, but the important meeting was interrupted by a post owl. A fat barn owl perched on the second-story window sill, banging its beak on the bulletproof glass. The brazen bird was clutching a bright blue envelope, but before the generals could react, the barn owl was chased away by a huge eagle owl wearing a gilded pendant. Everyone in the room knew about magic, so they weren’t particularly surprised by this sight, so they decided to let the postmen in, in case there was something important or urgent. One of the generals called the duty officer, Hellsing, and opened the window, completely disrupting the important meeting. Several dozen feathered postmen, who had been perched in nearby trees all this time, pretending to be rags, rushed into the narrow passage.
Within minutes, several dozen heavy, expensive parchment envelopes had fallen on my mother’s head, and the room was heavily soiled, as postal owls are very vindictive and don’t like to wait. Naturally, Walter managed to intercept all the incoming mail, and he also saved Lady Hellsing from the embarrassment of being splattered with white spots. And while most of the generals were recovering and cleaning their uniforms, reminiscing about Nazi air raids, and a couple of duty wizard-soldiers tidied up the conference room, my mother studied the mountain of incoming mail.
To say Lady Hellsing was stunned when she opened the first envelope is an understatement. The thing is, those pureblood idiots actually believed I was incredibly magically powerful and practically the great-great-granddaughter of Morgana herself, so they bombarded my mother with letters of intent to court me and marriage contracts. The platinum blonde didn’t even have time to fully process the thought of her daughter having fifty potential suitors before a phoenix appeared before her in a flash of fire and handed her a modest light-brown envelope. I don’t know why, but my mother opened the letter from Dumbledore and read it immediately, probably expecting to find a clue or answers to her lingering questions. However, she turned out to be partially right.
In his letter, the bearded old man vividly described the consequences of my mock duel with Nott and “sincerely” worried that I was growing up excessively cruel and bloodthirsty because I lacked maternal love and care. According to the headmaster, this was precisely why I used a “terrible” Dark Curse in front of the entire school and nearly killed a defenseless classmate, thereby sparking widespread interest among pureblood families. Perhaps this letter was the last straw…
My mother had been on edge for the past three weeks, stuck in the general’s office all day long, dealing with the Latinos’ problems, and then came another complaint from the school principal and a mountain of letters from pureblood idiots proposing to marry her daughter. I don’t know how she managed to hold out until I arrived at the estate, but during the conversation, she angrily shook a stack of expensive parchments and seriously threatened to break my magical contract with Hogwarts the next day and transfer me to the Minsk University of Demonic Phenomena, or MUDYA for short . I absolutely did not want to graduate from MUDYA, and it wasn’t even about the stupid name or moving to the Union—I simply didn’t want to leave my friends at Hogwarts. Well, I was used to the guys, what could I do. So I had to listen to my angry mother in silence and nod, because I know her, she can do it.
After about twenty minutes, she finished talking, recalling all my mistakes over the past few years, and looked at me with reproach and disappointment, I think. At that moment, I felt incredibly hurt and I lost it – that’s how everyone looked at me in my past life, from the teachers at the orphanage to the professors at the institute. I also decided to speak out and started screaming back, because in this situation I didn’t consider myself guilty, not at all! I’m sick of always being guilty! You wanted a beaten fighter – take it and sign for it! You wanted the punishing sword of the crown – indicate the target! I was never taught to duel – I was taught to kill from childhood, so what the f*ck are you outraged about?! What do you all want from me?! I can embroider, I can whip up a simple artifact on my knee, I can build an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) out of shit and sticks, and I’m an excellent firearms expert! And I can also dance a waltz with Her Majesty’s grandson, and then torture the Crown’s enemy to the state of a vegetable, so what do you want from me?!
I almost blurted out about going back to the orphanage, but I looked the tired platinum blonde in the eyes again and immediately shut up. I almost wanted to cut out my tongue, I was so carried away. The Miracle Phone can’t convey emotions, but my mother’s gaze spoke for itself—she was ashamed and hurt, just like me. As they say, close people understand each other without words, so my mother and I stared into each other’s eyes for a couple of minutes, and then nodded silently. Some might find this strange or absurd, but this was how we apologized to each other and managed to make peace; the eyes are the windows to the soul, as they say. That’s the kind of fucked-up family we have, but that’s all later, and right now it was more important to deal with these purebred idiots, so we started reasoning, probably even logically.
The reason for such actions by both ancient and young families was quite simple and logical: everyone knows that wizards have always engaged in a kind of selective breeding, carefully choosing a groom or bride for their child. And the main selection criterion is magical potential, and whether it’s dark or light isn’t particularly important, since most British wizards are universalists, or at least neutrals. I’m not particularly knowledgeable about this, and I’m not yet fully capable of translating Smethwick’s lectures into human language. And then a rumor spreads that a second-year student possesses higher dark magic—that’s a fucking big deal! And no one gives a damn that this nonsense was started by a particularly impressionable first-year.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, sensible wizards would have simply ignored the stupid gossip, but then that stupid article from Witchweekly resurfaced. The one where they called me the most promising witch of the twentieth century. Thanks to it, many pureblood families suddenly forgot that Hellsing is a family of Crown dogs and renegades, but suddenly remembered that we are noble, influential, and incredibly wealthy, especially by the standards of the wizarding world. And I’m also very smart, beautiful, and look a couple of years older, but that’s just my own personal speculation and a slightly inflated sense of self-importance.
After discussing all of the above, my mother and I realized they wouldn’t leave me alone any longer, which meant we had to do something urgently, otherwise these idiots would definitely do something, like Amortentia in juice or a love spell—the most harmless options I knew. I was about to panic, but the tired woman grinned wickedly and abruptly transformed into the imperious and unscrupulous Lady Hellsing. The platinum blonde winked at me and quietly said that the decision regarding the engagement and marriage of the heir to the sacred Hellsing line was made jointly with the Archbishop of the Anglican Church and Her Majesty. This meant that the future candidate had to be a devout person and sincerely believe in the Creator, and also be liked by the Queen of the British Empire and Lady Integra. Naturally, none of the representatives of the magical aristocracy fit these criteria. At the same time, Mom promised to remind the presumptuous idiots that any illegal action against me would lead to the extermination of their family line, root and branch, down to the fifth generation. The woman even quoted one of the clauses of the Treaty and added that if anything happened to me, these degenerates would suffer the wrath of the Anglican Church, the Crown, and Hellsing in particular. I roughly imagined the text of the response letters and immediately calmed down, because Mom wasn’t joking and was ready at any moment to raise the Order’s alarm or send Victoria on a hunt.
After that, we laughed a little more at the absurdity of the situation, especially the letters from some of the purebloods. Among them were the father of Nott, whom I’d crippled, a certain Macnayer, whose son was widowed in his sixties, and even Malfoy. His letter surprised us the most; this slippery weasel threatened to break off Romulus’s engagement to Astoria Greengrass and even promised to pass on vital information to the Order. He didn’t specify what, but we knew perfectly well that he was a former Death Eater and was trying to protect his family from the Abomination, who would surely return. Malfoy was the most reasonable of the whole gang hunting for Morgana’s heir—me, that is—and besides, we didn’t harbor any ill will toward him. Lucius is a normal guy, that’s what my gut instinct tells me, and I’ve learned to trust it. Yes, he’s a bit of a jerk and arrogant, but no one is perfect, so Mom promised to contact him separately. We weren’t planning on marrying into the Malfoys, especially since I don’t consider Romulus a man at all, but we could negotiate that crucial information on mutually beneficial terms.
That was the end of our conversation. Mom asked me not to act up anymore and not to kill anyone, and reminded me of Her Majesty’s assignment. In the magical world, I’m supposed to conduct reconnaissance and establish friendly relations with wizards, while also preventing any anti-imperial activity. I already do this every day, so I said goodbye with a smile and went to bed with a clear conscience. If I’d known how difficult the next month would be, I probably would have happily agreed to the transfer to the MUDYA …
***
Relaxing back in the soft chair, I took a sip of tea and carefully examined my creation. The pile of transfigured bricks, which had been lying in the corner of our base of operations for a month, was beginning to take shape as a fireplace. This decorative and heating element still looked crude and unsightly, and the chimney was still an open question, but a start had been made. I think I’ll have it done by the end of the school year, maybe sooner. I glanced at the color picture in the decor and design magazine lying on the table, and a satisfied smile spread across my face.
– It even looks a bit like it, all that’s left is to add the chimney, the trim and the moldings, and then paint… – I nodded to myself, and then my gaze caught the dirt stains on my school skirt and blouse. – Well… – The wand instantly appeared in my hand. – Evanesco!
It turns out that not only Madam Sprout’s signature manure is immune to the cleaning spell, but also magical building clay. With a tired sigh, I hung the “notice” on the door and began to strip off my clothes, glancing at the screen behind which was the shower stall. I wasn’t worried about prying eyes, since it was Saturday and all my friends were enjoying themselves at the dueling club, which I was now banned from. But I wasn’t offended and enjoyed the silence and solitude, while simultaneously learning about the craft of building—I even liked it. Having finished undressing, I tossed my dirty clothes into my bag and, taking out soft slippers and a towel, splashed off to freshen up. Finding myself under streams of warm water and washing off the construction clay, although not as smelly as fertilizer, I replayed in my head the recent events, of which quite a few had happened in January and early February.
Let’s start with the fact that for a fucking month, a whole month, I spent wearing pink headphones, catching young mandrakes running around the greenhouse, then loosening the beds and treating them with Madam Sprout’s signature manure. Every weekday afternoon, I went to the second greenhouse and, under the watchful eye of the Badger Dean, tidied it up. Vasily actively assisted me in this difficult task; my familiar proved impervious to the mandrakes’ screams and chased them between the beds, uttering contented obscenities. The little humanoid freaks enjoyed this kind of entertainment and, once captured, calmly allowed themselves to be returned to their tubs. Yes, these creatures had grown noticeably larger and no longer fit into standard pots. However, the entire time I was alone with the Badger Dean, I was haunted by a feeling of anxiety and mortal danger.
I don’t know, but this smiling and seemingly harmless woman was practically terrifying. What infuriated me most was the lack of information about Madam Sprout, even though she’s over three hundred years old! I specifically called my mother and asked her to find out about this strange individual, but the Order’s analysts and the EBSE investigators couldn’t find anything other than the scant official information. I got the impression she’d appeared out of nowhere three hundred years ago, immediately became Head of Hufflepuff House, and had been holed up at Hogwarts ever since. What’s more, Madam Sprout had never even attended a single formal reception or visited the Herbology Guild headquarters in Munich! It turns out she’s a recipient of numerous awards and had been offered the leadership of this organization a dozen times, but the sweet, plump lady simply ignored them. It got to the point that after a week I started going to drills wearing a suicide belt and with a pair of MON-50 (Author’s note: anti-personnel fragmentation mine with directional damage) in my pocket.
The trigger was an incident, about a week after I’d started working in the greenhouses. That evening, I was weeding a young toothed geranium. These impudent flowers kept trying to bite me, and I had to fend them off, all the while standing with my legs spread out, inhaling the aroma of damp, compost-soaked earth. Not to mention the incredible humidity and stuffiness. So, I gave a particularly brazen flower another flick, and then jumped from a sharp pain in my calf—a bowtruckle had stung me there. I know these little creatures are very useful and protect the magical trees from various parasites, but at that moment, I was furious and simply crushed the brazen aggressor. Why the hell did it bite?! Madam Sprout noticed me wiping the green offal off the soles of my shoes, and she gave off such a feeling of hunger and anger that I almost started producing magic fertilizer.
Empathy is both a gift and a curse. On the one hand, it’s useful to understand the emotions of those around you; even a master of mental magic can’t deceive you, as it’s simply impossible. But on the other hand, you’re constantly under intense pressure from various feelings and emotions. Being in a crowd can drive you crazy, as they become too overwhelming, and at some point you start to choke. Yes, I’ve learned to block or turn off my empathy, but it’s not easy and requires constant concentration. Therefore, when I find myself far from the crowd, I relax and release my inhibitions. This is probably why, for a split second, I sensed the feelings of the Badger Dean, who was at the other end of the enormous greenhouse. From then on, I always kept the “good-natured” woman in sight and was always on guard, and I no longer harmed the Bowtruckles, nor the other inhabitants of the greenhouse.
After detention, I rushed to the common room to wash up and change, as I stank like a homeless person living in a perpetually burning dump. Several times, obsessive admirers or embittered seniors crossed my path, and then I had to act on my mood, which was almost always bad. Once, I fed one idiot dragon dung, which ended up in the pockets of my robe. The problem was, there were a lot of these differently gifted people, and Madam Sprout’s dung might not be enough for everyone. It got to the point where I seriously considered borrowing Valera from Mia and staging a small genocide in the Great Hall, but ultimately settled for the Invisibility Cloak. That’s how, invisibly, I navigated the school hallways for a couple of weeks.
The problem was that my mother’s reply letters only worked on the oldest and noblest families; they had something to lose, and most of their children were already engaged. But the younger generation, mostly broke and with nothing to lose, decided to take matters into their own hands. They began showering me with bouquets of flowers and various cheap trinkets every day. Naturally, all these “gifts” were publicly destroyed, but that didn’t stop the young, purebred families who wanted to rise from faggot to sucker. These degenerates continued to send their weak and arrogant sons after me, and they did the most outrageous things.
I understand, of course, that this is a magical world and almost all marriages are arranged by parents, but surely boys should have some idea of how to behave with girls?! How do you react when a big guy comes up to you with a stupid smile and suggests a walk around the castle, in January, through snowdrifts, at -20 degrees? How do you react to that?! Your friends are laughing, but this idiot is clutching a shabby rose in one hand and picking his nose with the other. It’s a shame to even hurt him like that, so I had to quickly retreat. I patiently endured it for a couple of weeks, but then my nerves gave out, and I beat the living daylights out of that brave fifth-year badger. He simply brazenly pushed Ron and Justin aside and sat at our table, right across from me, then smiled with crooked teeth and stole a cutlet from my plate! The latter was unforgivable, and with a cry of “Cowabunga,” I rushed at the enemy and introduced him to the brass knuckles and telescopic baton. Perhaps I overdid it, because this insolent fellow, with a broken head, was urgently sent to St. Mungo’s, and I was given another month of detention, this time with Filch. I didn’t regret a thing, as this action had a modest success, and the future grooms quieted down a bit, unlike the pureblood sluts.
Perhaps out of envy or jealousy, some of the older girls were fixated on “teaching” the brazen Hellsing a lesson. Thanks to my empathy, I spotted ambushes in advance, so Mia and I dealt with the first two attempts rather peacefully. First, we used flashbang grenades, and then we finished off the would-be saboteurs with cold-iron telescopic batons. Well, I didn’t want to maim the young girls, and knocking out their teeth was more out of spite. Unfortunately, such kindness wasn’t appreciated, and the participants in the next ambush suffered all the pent-up anger and nervous tension I’d been harboring.
I, accompanied by Mia and Elvira, was returning from the library when I sensed a surge of hatred and anticipation around the corner, so I decided to make a show of it, drills to the wind. First, these sluts tested the effects of traumatic grenades and thoroughly familiarized themselves with my arsenal of healing spells. I decided to go big and cast Bowel Removal on each of them, then removed the bones from all their limbs and tied them in knots. The girls didn’t stand by and, after beating the villains’ kidneys, smeared their scalps with a special depilatory ointment. It’s a great thing—it makes your hair fall out almost instantly and doesn’t grow back for about six months. It’s a shame I didn’t have this product in my previous life. Only after such a “cruel” reprisal—and these sluts still wear headscarves—did my enemies calm down a bit and stop playing skinny partisans; I didn’t let them grow fat. Well, I didn’t give a damn about their angry looks.
Because of all these stupid events, January and early February flew by in a flash, a long and very miserable day. Detentions with Madam Sprout, unwanted admirers, and jealous idiots took up a lot of time from studying and training, and then there was Potter. The four-eyes tried to catch me with another joke curse or slip some nasty thing into my food almost every day. Thanks to him, I improved my already good reaction time a little, and also learned a few diagnostic spells.
The problem is that so-called joke spells are harmless, meaning protective artifacts don’t react to them, so you have to be constantly on guard and set up your own shields. This training paid off, and by early February, I managed to cast a mirror Protego nonverbally, meaning without words. At that moment, not only Potter, who had developed a camel’s hump on his chest, was stunned, but so was I. Such progress needed to be celebrated, and I thanked my brother with symmetrical black eyes. Joke potions are a similar story—they don’t harm the body, meaning the Poison Detection Ring doesn’t react to them. More accurately, it signals that the food contains magic, but it’s harmless.
In the normal world, that would be enough, but I’m at Hogwarts, and everything here is steeped in magic, including the kitchen ingredients. So I had to rack my brains and quickly learn a few spells. Now, during meals in the Great Hall, I constantly check my plate, and my friends constantly chuckle and compare me to Moody. Weasley once pulled a prank: while he was distracted by a conversation with Justin, I put a suspicious sausage on his plate. As a result, his hair turned into yellow feathers, and Thomas, who had been laughing the loudest and pointing at him, ended up with a split lip and a broken nose. After such a demonstration, the kids still laughed, but they also learned a couple of spells, just in case.
I was pulled from my memories by the ringing of the alarm; I was just pulling on some clean underwear. I hadn’t even had time to fasten my bra when the door to the operations base slammed open with a bang, as if kicked, and Weasley’s loud shouts rang out.
– … I’ll show you! That snob was cheating! – The redhead’s voice was filled with hurt and annoyance. – His spells are too powerful! Even Rigel can’t do that!
I began to guess what they were talking about, but I was in no hurry to come out from behind the screen and continued to leisurely get dressed, listening to my friends along the way.
“Ron, calm down,” Lavender’s soothing voice sounded. “Potter was trained from early childhood by Sirius Black himself, and he is a master of combat magic.”
– Harry even beats fourth-years, so there’s no need to get so upset. – And this is Parvati. – You saw how he crushed Stokes, and his father is an Auror veteran.
“At least he didn’t make fun of him!” the red-haired guy grumbled in response. “And let that knut shove it up his ass, idiot.”
“Weasley, you volunteered,” I recognize my best friend’s voice. “So stop complaining.”
“And Rigel will fix your robe for you,” Lavender’s soothing voice rang out again. “By the way, where is she?”
– I’m here. – I had to peek out from behind the screen. – I’ll be quick, and in the meantime, you go boil the kettle.
“Okay.” Elvira nodded understandingly and headed towards the table, the rest of the crowd following her.
While getting dressed, I listened to my friends discuss Potter and Weasley’s humiliating duel. The dueling club had become a place of revelations and surprises, though I regret not having witnessed it. It turned out that many purebloods were practically inept in combat and didn’t know even the most basic spells, something that stunned even Lockhart. So he began teaching everyone the basics and regularly held mock duels. Beforehand, mindful of my performance, he strictly limited the opponents’ arsenal. Our deans helped him, of course, but it was mostly lackluster, and Prince Harry regularly called students up to the platform for demonstrations, after which they were carried off to the hospital wing. So, my brother became the star of this club; he proved incredibly talented and never lost! Even after his duel with Prince Harry, he managed to stand up and hobbled to Madam Pomfrey’s on his own.
– …First he set fire to the robe… And that’s a forbidden spell! – Ron’s voice made me speed up. – And Lockhart didn’t say anything to him, even when Potter called me a Muggle with a wand! And the face he made when he threw me a Knut and told me my robe was worthless?! And my mother made it from the fabric Mrs. Hellsing gave her! It’s better than Acromantula silk! And how everyone laughed?! Did you see? And no one said anything… It’s a shame…
Ron fell silent, and I quickly donned a clean, ironed uniform and left the makeshift shower room. By this time, the girls had managed to get out snacks and pour everyone some tea, and of course, they hadn’t forgotten about me. I took my seat between Hermione and Elvira and glanced sideways at the upset boys. Justin was melancholically and thoughtfully examining his wand, and Ron was furiously devouring waffles, completely forgetting his manners and smearing crumbs all over his face.
“Mia, I understand,” I quietly addressed my friend and nodded towards the red-haired boy. “Has Potter been discharged from the hospital wing yet?”
“That’s right,” the curly-haired witch smiled sourly. “He recovered somehow quickly.”
“We should have hit him with the cast-iron frying pan, not the gilded dish, there was one right next to him.” Ron heard us. “There were still slices of bacon on it, he got blood all over it anyway.”
“First he scattered everything, and then he made a mess…” Justin supported his friend. “And we also learned today that Potter is ambidextrous.”
– Even so? – I tilted my head to the side. – How did you figure that out?
“His right hand was bandaged and he was holding a wand in his left,” Padma said, drawing attention to herself. “That fork was silver, and wounds like that don’t heal that quickly.”
“I know.” I grinned predatorily, and a picture of Friday breakfast appeared before my eyes. “Next time I’ll send Potter to St. Mungo’s; he’s become rather insolent lately.”
“And you’ll earn another round of detention.” Justin looked at me reproachfully. “You’re already grounded until the end of April, and we’re just missing you and worrying about you.”
“Oh, come on,” I waved my hand. “It was worth it, Harry really got on my nerves.”
Yesterday morning, I was sitting quietly at the faculty table, tucking into porridge with bacon, when I checked my teacup as usual. The spell’s response indicated something truly dangerous was in there; the poison detection ring had even warmed up. I glanced around in disbelief and saw Potter’s smug face, hypnotizing my mug. But when he met my gaze, he immediately looked away. At that moment, my patience finally snapped, and a bloody haze appeared before my eyes.
I instantly jumped up and, leaping over the table, was next to my brother in a couple of leaps. He saw me with sparks in my hair and started screaming loudly, simultaneously drawing his wand. This behavior from my only BODY brother finally lowered my visor, and battle madness overcame my reason. At that moment, I had a fork in my hand, and it’s a very formidable weapon, since one blow leaves four holes! With a sharp movement, I managed to pin his hand, holding the concentrator, to the table – the silverware easily pierced the soft flesh and sank a couple of centimeters into the oak tabletop. Finding myself weaponless, I instantly got my bearings and caught sight of a huge platter with fresh baked goods on it. Grabbing a gilded basin, I brought it down on the screaming bespectacled boy’s head with all my might, probably ten times, until it bent. My hand was already reaching for the cast-iron pot of porridge, but Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick intervened. The deans immobilized me and quickly handed the bleeding, bespectacled boy over to Madam Pomfrey. Then they yelled at me and gave me a month of detention. I don’t care who did it now, but that’s for April. That’s how busy I am.
– And you can’t argue… – Finch-Fletchley sighed sadly and continued fiddling with his magic wand, Creator, how ambiguous that sounds.
– Why are you so upset? – I looked sympathetically at the young aristocrat. – Did something happen?
“Justin went out for a mock duel against Diana,” Elvira said calmly. “You’re the fool,” the girl popped a candy into her mouth and took a sip of tea. “Now you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of the whole school.”
– And in more detail? – I looked at the chatterboxes.
“Malfoy immobilized him, then made him vomit up slugs,” Lavender chuckled. “And when there were too many, she conjured ice under his feet, and the poor guy fell into a puddle of slugs and his own vomit.”
“Jass didn’t even attack!” Ron, who had calmed down a bit, interrupted the conversation and nudged his friend with his elbow. “Why were you just standing there, mate?”
– Well… – Finch-Fletchley blushed a little. – She’s a girl.
“It didn’t bother her.” Weasley laughed. “You could have answered.”
“But I lost with honor!” A satisfied smile appeared on Justin’s face.
“Malfoy even offered him her hand…” Parvati whispered. “Of course, I didn’t tell anyone, but if you…”
“NO!” our quiet friend barked. “My father would never approve of such a relationship! That’s it, we’re done with that, Malfoy and I aren’t even friends.”
“It seemed to me…” Lavender began, but was interrupted.
The door to the operations base slowly slid open, even though everyone with access rights was inside. A guest entered, and upon seeing her, I nearly choked on my tea and asked myself just one question: how? How the fuck did she find the entrance?!
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