After practicing, though not the club's general curriculum but rather a couple of counter-spells from Snape's compiled notebook-diary, Daphne and I took a break, heading over to one of the empty tables.
"Surprisingly effective," Daphne twirled her wand with a smile, picking a book from the stack on the table. "A long time ago, my mom tried to interest me in this sort of thing, Charms included. She thought I would be drawn to the elegance and beauty she applies to the subject."
"Didn't work?"
"Didn't work. As I said," Daphne slipped her wand into a miniature sheath—obviously equipped with an Undetectable Extension Charm—and, having selected a book, flipped to a page that interested her, "I realized the limitations of wand magic quite early on."
"You mean brains?"
"Yes," Daphne pretended to read, though perhaps she actually was. "And the difference in success between someone who's dense and someone very smart is extremely negligible, provided they practice for the same amount of time and with the same diligence. To be even remotely great at wand magic is the domain of geniuses, who either have immense magical power or manage to find their own tricks to cast much more efficiently."
"Yes, we've discussed this, and I fully agree with it myself. All sorcery is in our heads."
"Exactly," Daphne glanced at me. "And I never considered myself a genius. Only in my dreams, like: 'Ah, if only my dream would come true.' But lately..."
Daphne placed the book on her lap and pulled out her wand again, looking at it thoughtfully.
"...Everything has started coming too easily. Better and better. It's strange, but now I'm curious as to when I'll hit the ceiling of pure efficiency and magical power, and how much higher it will be compared to the average level."
"I see. You should have mentioned this sooner—I would have roped you into my training."
"I didn't think your training sessions were open to the public."
"Meaning?" I asked, surprised, tilting my head slightly. Though, I had my guesses.
"I suppose I really was thinking about the wrong thing," a look of mild self-reproach appeared on Daphne's face, directed more at herself than anyone else. "Wizarding families have their own ideas about how to properly raise a successful wizard. Often, these ideas or methods differ greatly. Some, for example, use special potions developed by their ancestors. Yes, don't look so surprised; not every wizard is eager to publish their inventions, whether it's a charm, a potion, or some other form of magic."
"They want to keep it in the family, giving their relatives an edge over others."
"Exactly," Daphne smiled. "I literally just realized that this doesn't apply to you."
"Not entirely," I shook my head with a smile. "Yes, I don't mind sharing knowledge and conclusions, but I'd keep something truly important for myself and my family. Of course, my parents don't need that kind of knowledge, but still. Hermione... I believe it's not worth forcing your vision of certain issues, aspects, or anything else onto someone. If she wants to know something, she comes, asks, and gets an answer. But I won't force her to adopt my viewpoint just because I consider mine to be more correct."
"A rather... unusual approach, honestly," Daphne put her wand away again, resting her hands on the book in her lap. "Usually, parents are very... authoritarian. They're adults, they've seen life, and only they know what's best for you. In terms of development, too."
"To some extent, that's true," I leaned back in my chair, shifting my gaze from Daphne to the students around us, who were practicing or searching for study materials on the shelves. "Though, often, parents project their own failures and shortcomings onto their children, expecting them not to make the same mistakes. Or they teach what they themselves know and do—it's simple, effective, relatively quick, and seems like the only right option."
"That, I suppose," Daphne smiled, tucking a strand of raven-black hair behind her ear, "comes from some Muggle psychology."
"To be honest—I have no idea. Just popped into my head."
"We can think about that in our free time," Daphne nodded and opened the book to the page she needed. "I think I can join your magic training. By the way..."
Another thought crossed the girl's mind, preventing her from starting her highly desired reading.
"Yes?"
"I saw, and not just me, how you practice with the spear."
"It's not exactly a spear..."
"That's not my point. Did you know that magical photographs of you are already circulating around Hogwarts?"
I had received fragmented information of this sort from my little spiders, but I hadn't attached much significance to it—things like this happen at Hogwarts all the time. A few amateur magical photographers constantly manage to snap interesting shots, regardless of the content. These photos often circulate through Hogwarts among interested parties—guys collect photos of girls, girls collect photos of guys. After all, a magical photograph doesn't just show a still frame; it shows an entire scene, albeit slightly distorted. A whole mini-play can unfold there, and if the photographer is experienced and uses various techniques and potions, the wizards in the pictures gain the illusion of free will and can even react to external stimuli.
"I don't think it's that terrible. It's not uncommon at all."
"That may be true," Daphne nodded. "Except your photos are of you shirtless."
"Oh, well in that case, yes," I smiled. "That might generate a certain amount of interest, I imagine."
"It certainly does. I'll tell you a secret," Daphne leaned slightly over the table, getting a bit closer to me. "Pansy has a whole collection that she's trying to magically combine into one long, continuous picture."
"I honestly don't even know how to react to that. On the one hand, it flatters my ego a bit. On the other hand, you're telling me your friend is collecting photos of me, where I'm practicing with a glaive while shirtless..."
"When you say it out loud, it really does sound strange," Daphne, still smiling, tried once again to return to her book. "But Millicent caught her doing it, and just for fun is trying to blackmail her into giving her extra Charms tutoring. I have a feeling either Pansy will cave soon, or Millie, to prove she's not bluffing, will sell this secret to you in exchange for something."
"Slytherins."
"Are you judging?"
"Not at all."
"Well, now you know Pansy's 'great secret', and Millicent won't catch you off guard by trying to trade the information for something valuable."
Needless to say, I'd already guessed as much? The fragmented data from my spiders was an excellent source of information and various proofs, albeit indirect ones. Generally, I'm damn glad I launched that project and continue to periodically create new units, scattering them in the most secluded corners of the castle. Whatever anyone says, information is highly valuable even in a world without magic, and here—even more so. Moreover, it allows me to understand what is happening around me a little more deeply. It's scary to even imagine how many times I could have made a mistake and what consequences such mistakes could have led to, if not for the intelligence gathering I started back in my third year, studying everything about the wizarding families of England. How many fatal mistakes could I have made? And am I destined to make them anyway, even with all the information and my abilities? For some reason, these thoughts are depressing. Is the total uncertainty regarding the Dark Lord to blame?
Those few minutes remaining before the end of our club meeting passed in contemplation. The students started to disperse. Hannah and Susan took it upon themselves to walk Daphne back, since our common rooms are quite close to each other. Draco... Draco is his own master. The rest—older students, younger ones—headed off in one cheerful crowd about their business and to their common rooms, as curfew was approaching. The girls were also whispering merrily among themselves, discussing Cho Chang and Cedric's relationship. With her instigation and permission, of course; the main "problem" subjected to universal interest and discussion was long-distance romantic relationships.
Naturally, I was also getting ready to leave, but while I was putting the books back on the table—I don't know why, I couldn't say—what with one thing and another, I found myself practically the only one left in the Room of Requirement, aside from Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
"Don't forget to close the door behind you. And don't wander around at night," Hermione issued instructions in her usual style and hurried to leave us, pulling on her robe. Yes, some took them off, remaining only in their school uniforms. Others wore them unbuttoned, letting them billow behind their backs like superhero capes. Come to think of it, I wonder if some Muggle-born kids tried comparing their magical abilities to superpowers—superhero comics are popular here, just like everywhere else, although there aren't quite as many of the well-known Marvel and DC products directly in England.
But I got distracted by side thoughts yet again. Potter being depressed—that's what had been bothering me practically the whole time. I mean, I perfectly understand that humans are fickle creatures. This inconsistency can manifest in anything—take a person's mood, for instance. But today in particular, Potter was as depressed as humanly possible. And that's not right—the face of our club, and the Hero of All England in general, cannot be this miserable by definition. And Ron, his friend, is sitting next to him, sympathetically doing nothing, sulking.
Approaching the sofa where a brooding and miserable Potter sat, I sat down next to him.
"What's eating you?"
"Eating me?"
"Oh, come on," Weasley huffed, "can't you see Harry doesn't want to deal with you, Granger?"
"Nevertheless," I settled in more comfortably, leaning against the armrest. "Maybe I can offer some useful advice."
"I doubt it," the depressed Potter shook his head, running a hand through his already messy hair.
"I'd venture a guess that you're in this mood because you lost to Malfoy."
"Is it that obvious?" Potter looked at me, as if trying to discern something.
"Just ignore people like him, Harry," Weasley waved dismissively.
"What is your problem, Ron?"
"What?" Ron glared at me, adopting a less relaxed, more aggressive posture. "I don't like you. You fraternize with Slytherins, you think you're Merlin knows who... And Harry here is ten times better than you."
"And how exactly do you measure the degree of one wizard's superiority over another?"
"Well... He doesn't fraternize with Slytherins... And generally, he's a great friend."
"Ah, well then, alright," I nodded with a smile. "So, Potter, am I right?"
"Yes..."
"You don't seem very talkative. Tell you what, I'll talk, and you correct me if I'm wrong."
"Watch out, mate," Ron slid closer to Potter. "This lackey of the Dark Forces will brainwash you, and that'll be the end of it."
"I just don't get it," I stared at Weasley with genuine bewilderment. "What is your problem? I get along perfectly fine with absolutely every member of your family I know, and you are just... I don't know, you piss me off so much I want to smear you in a thin layer across the walls of this room. Are you jealous or something?"
"As if there's anything to be jealous of," Ron sulked, crossing his arms and settling into a slouch on the sofa.
"I actually," Potter looked at Ron, "don't understand it either."
Then he turned to me, looking expectant.
"So," I began to think out loud. "You, Harry, are extremely saddened that you lost to Malfoy for the first time in something you considered yourself truly great at."
"And he is great..."
"Weasley?"
"Been Weasley for fifteen years now."
"Besides that," I continued, deciding to ignore Ron, "it turns out you're not particularly strong in DADA either, and I've managed to notice that it's one of your favorite subjects."
"I wouldn't go that far, but close enough," Potter sighed tiredly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Losing at Quidditch to Malfoy... Fine, that time the Dementors were flying over the pitch—that was just genuine bad luck."
"You know," I mused. "I think your compass is a bit misaligned."
"Meaning?" Potter looked at me with an obvious question in his eyes.
"Well, you want to be better than, or at least as good as, Malfoy."
"Not just him," Potter shook his head. "I need to be better. That's what they say, at least."
"You're already the best, mate," Ron patted Harry on the back encouragingly. "Don't sweat it. Next time—you'll get him back good!"
"But how are you going to be better than someone you don't know?"
"I don't know Malfoy?" Harry sounded a bit indignant. "I know him inside out. Arrogant, insolent..."
"That's not what I mean. Tell me, how do you become better than Dumbledore?"
I didn't expect an answer to this question, nor could the guys provide one.
"You don't," I answered my own question. "We don't know what he's been through in his life, we don't know what he's capable of, we don't know his strengths and weaknesses, we don't really know his character. We know practically nothing about him..."
"Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard!" Ron stated firmly.
"Let's assume so," I agreed. "But due to what? Let's skip the lengthy debates for now. The point is, neither you nor I know exactly what needs to be done to become better than Dumbledore, much less in what specific way. The same goes for Malfoy. Neither you nor I truly know Malfoy—the limits of his capabilities, strength, skills, knowledge, or expertise."
"Oh come on," Ron scoffed. "We know everything about Malfoy's knowledge... That sounds stupid."
"Indeed," I smiled. "After all, he's one of the best students not just in our year, but in all of Hogwarts. And you two aren't even close."
"Are you saying he's better?" Potter started to bristle.
"You're thinking too narrowly. That's not where I'm going with this. Being better than someone is extremely difficult. Just when it seems like you're constantly outperforming him in something, all he had to do was focus on the game instead of trying to screw with you—and suddenly Malfoy is ahead. The result? Disappointment."
"Alright. Then what?" Potter was genuinely interested in what I had to say.
"Then it's simple. Since it's so difficult, practically impossible, to be better than some specific person because we fundamentally don't truly know them, who can you be better than?"
They fell into thought. That's good. But I didn't want to wait for an answer—I wanted to get back to the common room and not interact unnecessarily with these people, or anyone else for that matter.
"You," I pointed a finger at Potter.
"Me?"
"Yes, Harry. Right next to you, always and in any situation, is the example of a wizard you know perfectly, even if you doubt it. The ideal option is to be better than yourself."
"How does that even work?" Ron didn't get it, but I didn't care—if I had the ability to completely tune out the remarks of specific people, the sixth Weasley would absolutely make that list.
"I think I get it," Harry nodded.
"Striving every day to surpass the 'you' from yesterday is a great method. You can't make excuses like, 'I don't know what he's achieved while I haven't seen him for a week.' Or anything else. You always know the limit of your abilities. The task for every day is to step beyond that limit. Beyond your own limit from yesterday. For example, cast an Expelliarmus in two seconds yesterday? Today, try to cast it in 1.9 seconds. And so on."
"Do you even do that yourself? Or can you only give advice?" Ron grumbled. "Because there's a dime a dozen of your type."
"Not in everything. Yes, it's not easy. But it's just a piece of advice, and you are a great benchmark for yourself. Give it a try. You'll be surprised by the results over time."
Smiling, I patted Potter on the shoulder and headed to the common room—I still needed to finish up some prefect duties so I could hand the paperwork to the Head of House tomorrow morning.
. . . . . .
Time went on. The first week of November came to an end—if we consider only the studies—quite quickly. It seemed like only yesterday the Headmaster announced that Snape and Flitwick would be teaching DADA, and yet here it was, Saturday already.
To say that I had prepared for the meeting with the wizards to discuss my ideas regarding artifacts would be a massive understatement. I was armed to the teeth. And so, in the evening, an hour before dinner, all that was left for me to do was to check my combat artifacts, listen to the information from my little spiders and the security wards at my parents' house and on my parents themselves, dress appropriately, and set off.
Which is exactly what I did. Slipping off the Hogwarts grounds completely unnoticed, the moment I stepped beyond the anti-Apparition barrier, I transported myself to London. The meeting was in Diagon Alley. So, that was where my path lay.
I wonder what the coming evening will bring?
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