Apparently This Still Counts as Self Care
No need to go back over Binns' class. That is for sure one of the things every story but one got right. The class is a total snooze fest. Even Goblin Wars get boring when they're given in a monotone.
The one?
Someone decided to write a story where the MC was Binns.
Wild.
I'm kinda glad I didn't end up in that world. I never actually read it, so I have no idea what they did with the place.
Damn it, I'm doing it again.
Three years. I'd lived here for three years, and less than ten days of having all that old media knowledge back had apparently been enough to get me thinking about my life like it was another story again.
I rubbed a hand over my face as I made my way down the corridor.
This is a real world.
Glad we established that. Now move on.
So, like I was saying, Binns' class happened. And then it was done.
Luckily, the Society was scheduled to meet that afternoon, so everyone should be there today.
Time to clap some cheeks.
Wrong expression.
Damnit. You are correct as usual.
System 394, Josh 49.
What the hell? You're still counting?
Well, yeah. Apart from taking the mickey out of you, being sarcastic, and the occasional pep talk, I don't have too much going on. Maybe I should get a flower.
A flower?
Sure. I could plant it between your ears. Get more use out of that grey matter space than you seem to lately.
I walked right into that one.
System 395, Josh 49.
Oh, fuck you.
See? Hobbies.
I snorted and kept walking.
The Society wasn't meeting until later that afternoon, which gave me enough time to get back to Ravenclaw Tower, dump my school things, change, and make it down before everyone else started showing up.
That was the plan, anyway.
For once, Hogwarts cooperated.
By the time I reached the Society's room, the corridor outside was empty. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, closing it behind me.
The room had been here a hell of a lot longer than the Hogwarts Martial Society had. HMS had only officially existed since September, but Hogwarts had apparently taken physical combat a lot more seriously at some point in its history. When we'd gone looking for somewhere suitable to train, we'd found one of the old martial classrooms mostly intact.
Mostly.
We'd spent the better part of the school year putting the rest back together.
Weapon racks covered one wall, much like the collection back at the Manor. Wooden wasters and padded staffs shared space with blunted training swords, while farther along the racks sat even more actual steel than we kept at home. Swords, axes, spears, polearms, clubs, shields, and several weapons I still couldn't identify on sight without stopping to think about them.
Another section of the room belonged to magic. Reinforced targets stood at different distances, some shaped roughly like people and others built specifically to take spell impacts without making Flitwick regret sponsoring us. A few bore scorch marks. One had a chunk missing from its shoulder.
I wasn't asking.
The rest covered just about every way Hogwarts students had apparently found to hurt themselves productively over the centuries. Heavy bags. Wooden dummies. Pells. Grappling dummies. Open mats. Free weights and benches. A long mirrored wall for checking form. Scales occupied one corner for anyone who cared enough to track that sort of thing.
And then there was our contribution.
The snack bar.
Calling it a bar was probably generous, but we'd claimed a counter and several cabinets near the back of the room and kept them stocked with anything that could reasonably be described as protein, calories, hydration, or a reward for getting punched in the face. Water, juice, milk, sandwiches, fruit, protein-heavy snacks, and enough other food that nobody had a good excuse to finish training and then wander back to their common room running on fumes.
Teenagers were expensive to feed.
Teenagers who exercised were apparently worse.
I dropped my things onto one of the benches and stretched my arms overhead.
Empty room.
Plenty of time.
No reason not to get started.
The little black music player dropped into my hand.
I looked at it.
It had been an absolute asshole the last time we'd done this.
Naturally, I'd brought it with me.
I set it on the counter beside my water, stepped out onto the mats, and started loosening up.
All right. What've you got?
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then Jonathan Davis whispered through the room.
"Something takes a part of me..."
I stopped.
The music continued.
A grin slowly spread across my face.
"Oh, fuck yes."
The volume climbed.
I rolled my shoulders, bounced twice on the balls of my feet, and started moving.
...
I started easy, spending a few minutes stretching before letting it turn into footwork while Korn hammered through the room. Forward, back, lateral movement, pivots, changing direction without crossing my feet. Nothing particularly exciting, but fundamentals were fundamentals for a reason, and after sitting through classes most of the day, it felt good just to move again.
Once I was loose, I crossed over to one of the heavy bags and settled into position. The first few punches were simple, a jab followed by a cross and hook that sent the bag swinging away from me. I shifted with it instead of waiting for it to come back, slipped outside its return, and drove an elbow into the side as it passed.
There we go.
I settled into the rhythm and let the music handle the rest. Punches became elbows and knees as I changed angles around the bag, switched stances, and worked through combinations I'd practiced more times than I could count. Every so often I let it swing free and moved around it instead, keeping my feet working rather than standing in one place and beating the shit out of something that couldn't hit back.
Nothing new or complicated. Just practice, and damn, I'd missed this room.
The training room at the Manor was objectively better. It had more space, more equipment, and generations of Myrddins had apparently taken the position that there was no such thing as excessive preparation when it came to finding new and interesting ways to hurt people. This place had something the Manor didn't, though.
My friends were about to walk through the door.
Korn eventually gave way to another song, then another, and somewhere along the way I stopped paying attention to what the player was choosing. I left the heavy bag behind and moved over to one of the wooden dummies, settling into a familiar pattern as its arms gave me something more structured to work against.
Block.
Trap.
Strike.
Turn.
I reset and went through it again, then changed the sequence and kept moving. My hands knew what they were doing, leaving me free to enjoy the music and the simple pleasure of spending an afternoon doing something that didn't fucking matter beyond getting better at it.
By the time I stepped away from the dummy, sweat had gathered along my hairline and the stiffness from sitting through classes was gone. I rolled my shoulders, grabbed my water, and took a long drink while the current song wound toward its end.
The door opened behind me.
I glanced toward the mirror.
There we go.
The music player apparently noticed too. The song ended just as footsteps crossed the threshold, leaving the room quiet for barely a second before a guitar tore through the silence and BABYMETAL came crashing in behind it.
"Seiya, soiya, tatakaunda..."
I slowly lowered my water bottle.
Of course it picked fucking KARATE.
Arthur McTavish had made it about three steps into the room before the music stopped him. His bag was still hanging from one shoulder as he looked around, spotted me by the counter, then followed the sound to the little black box beside my water.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Good afternoon to you too, Arthur."
Arthur gave me a look and walked over to the counter, his attention staying on the player while BABYMETAL continued filling the room. He leaned closer without touching it, studying the little black box for a few seconds before asking if that was really where the music was coming from.
"Yep. Magical music player."
That explained what it was without explaining much of anything, which was probably why Arthur's next question was about the music itself. "What are we listening to?"
Ah.
Right.
I hadn't really thought about that part when I'd brought the thing to Hogwarts.
Rather than explain a Japanese band that wouldn't exist for another couple of decades, I reached out mentally and gave the player a nudge toward something a little less temporally inconvenient.
KARATE cut out.
A familiar laugh rolled through the room before Randy Rhoads' guitar took over.
Arthur's head turned sharply toward the player.
"Crazy Train," I said. "Ozzy Osbourne."
Arthur listened for a few seconds before looking back at me. "You didn't touch it."
"Nope." I took another drink and nodded toward the player. "It's linked to me. Mostly picks whatever fits what I'm doing or how I'm feeling. I can steer it if I want to. Apparently it can make music too."
That got another look at the little black box, this one considerably more interested than confused. Arthur asked a couple more questions while he dropped his bag onto the bench, mostly about how much control I had over it and whether it ever shut up on its own. I answered what I could while Crazy Train kept playing, although the second question got a less reassuring answer than he probably wanted.
The door opened again before Arthur could get much further, and this time neither of us had to explain why the people coming through it immediately noticed the music. Ozzy Osbourne blasting through an old Hogwarts martial classroom was going to do that.
More importantly, it meant we were running out of excuses to stand around talking about my new toy.
I capped my water and set it beside the player.
Time to get down to business.
To defeat the Huns.
I stopped.
Did they send me daughters when I asked for sons?
Wrong movie. Wrong song. Wrong century.
Three for three.
I looked toward the people coming through the door and pushed away from the counter.
All right.
HMS.
The room began to fill with my likeminded friends who decided to take this chance with me. First off, We have Arthur McTavish. Half~blooded Irish magical. His father a wizard, and his mother a school teacher with a strong sense of Independence and a love of history. I'm only slightly sure I heard her say Up the RA after I met her the first time, like she wanted to gage my reaction. Arthur has a strong sense of national pride, and a thirst for knowledge that almost rivals my own. He also likes blades just as much as I do, but his martial focus is based more in traditional styles and weapons from Ireland. He also had a taste for things that go bang and boom. Us being fast friends made perfect sense. That or enemies if not friends.
Next we James Corrigan. Full blood. Slytherin. Just another in a line of magicals that while not "Ancient" or "Noble" or the rest, of that can trace his family history back quite far within the magical world. Honestly, I don't know how he ended up in his house. He's an interesting sort. Family legit avoided the last war. They moved off to who knows where when Grindelwald started his war, and then after Tom fell to Harry, his family came back. Considering that he thinks pureblood ideology is a sign of missing brain matter helped him settle into our group easily. Although, if I were to factor in his chosen practice weapons, then it might make more sense. I mean, guy would make a decent arcane archer in a traditional ttrpg. It started with him practicing archery, throwing knives, and looking at my practice falchion. As soon as he realized that we could practice with them at school, he started showing up on a daily basis. I think he found a book on traditional longbow men as a kid and just fell in love with the aesthetic. ... speaking of "Aesthetics", as a Slytherin, I shouldn't have introduced him to gothic culture and couture..... when not in his school robes, it's like a Victorian vampire and a biker gang had a baby, and that baby, took one look at Snape's aura farming and said, Nah. That's amateur hour at best. I think Ced found him the spell that Snape uses to make sure his robe always gets that dramatic swoosh. I should look into that myself.... later....
Cedric Diggory.... damn.... Just ... at least he isn't sparkly. That might make for a fun prank for him though. .... At any rate, if Ced doesn't decide to be a professional quidditch player or go into the Ministry like his dad, I think he could be a professional dueler or a hit wizard. I can understand how he was picked for the cup. Smart, well spoken, easy to get along with. I don't know that I would call him the glue of our group, but he definitely smooths over the edges. He also has a mean left hook. Didn't think he'd take to boxing like he did, but it seems English wizards really like to throw hands. I guess that's how Arthur and Lucy ended up in their fight.
Abigail Asher. Gryffindor third year, so another of our batch mates that decided going old school has it's merits. Like me though, she favors some of the eastern martial arts. Unlike me though, she studies martial practices from India. I mean I guess it makes sense. Her family owns something like half a port over there. If I remember correctly, they do a lot of business with the Patels who I think own the other half. She has been working on finding practical ways to incorporate runes from over there into weapons along side traditional enchanting. Not quite alchemy, from her descriptions, but closer to a runic inlay like traditional fantasy stories. I think that might be where she got the idea. She also favors staff fighting, and has been trying to find an artificer like Ollivander to make her one ever since she saw mine. For now, she usually keeps a tonfa that has been shrunk down with a rune in her hair as a pin. The first time she pulled it in a match surprised the hell out of all of us. I should have never called it her love tap. I swear she engraved that into it the same day.
Oliver Wood also Gryffindor third year. He started exercising with us when he wasn't able to make it onto the quidditch team his first year. Said that he wanted a good way to keep in shape, and working with us he would have plenty of motivation. Honestly, the guy seems to have an almost infinite amount of energy when it comes to quidditch. I can understand him making the national team after graduation. That is unless he becomes a professional duelist. He fights just like this guy Flitwick told us about from Latvia. The man's name was Victor Vector ....something I could have swore was a joke, but can you blame me with alliteration like that?!? Any way, he used the principles of redirecting force around his body, and being a mobile fortress to win most of his duels, before he eventually retired from the circuit. I think that was what drew Oliver to him, but since he is the lions Keeper, I'm not surprised.
Penelope Clearwater. Penny. Ravenclaw fourth year, my best friend, and probably the person here most likely to notice I'm about to do something stupid before I've actually decided to do it. She'd started training with us mostly because she wanted to stay in shape. Hogwarts has a lot of stairs, but apparently climbing seven flights because one of them decided to move while you were on it doesn't count as a fitness program. Who knew? Penny didn't come in with some obscure family fighting style or childhood obsession with swords either. She picked up traditional magical dueling and proceeded to approach it exactly like Penny approaches damn near everything else. Research it, understand why it works, discard the bullshit, practice the useful parts until they're second nature. She's not the kind of Ravenclaw who disappears beneath seventeen books because the eighteenth might contain one sentence the other seventeen missed. She'll read four, realize three of them are citing the first one, find the original source, and then actually go do something with what she learned. It makes her dueling annoyingly clean. Nothing particularly flashy unless flashy happens to be useful. Good footwork, good spell selection, and enough awareness to recognize when somebody is trying to bait her into doing something stupid. She also somehow manages to look polished while trying to hex me in the face. I still haven't figured that one out. Right now she was probably somewhere in the library trying to determine whether her grandmother had casually neglected to mention that Penny was descended from Sir fucking Percival. So, yeah. She'd probably be late. Although, now knowing about Percival, our lady of the grail might come around yet. I think she'd be quite a sight with a sabre.
Maeve Mercer. Slytherin fourth year, punk, professional pain in my ass, and one of the few people I'd met at Hogwarts who had apparently looked at the DMLE and thought, Yes, I would like people to shoot spells at me for money. Maeve wanted to be an Auror. Or a Hit Witch. She hadn't completely decided which yet, mostly because every time she asked someone in either profession which was better they immediately started explaining why the other lot were a bunch of overpaid cunts her words, not mine. She'd already been interested in combat magic when we started training together, but then she'd learned House Myrddin sponsored witches and wizards pursuing certain Masteries and occasionally sent promising candidates to the United States to train under actual War Mages™. That was pretty much it. I don't think I've ever seen somebody develop a career plan that fucking quickly. Apparently British magical law enforcement training wasn't enough anymore. Now she wanted the American experience too, preferably somewhere that would teach her how to keep fighting after a duel stopped being polite. I couldn't exactly criticize the ambition. Aesthetically, she and I probably weren't helping each other either. Boots, leather, chains, dark clothes, enough metal between us to make Professor McGonagall question what this century was coming to, and a mutual appreciation for the idea that respectable clothing should occasionally frighten respectable people. Unlike James's Victorian/punk/vampire fever dream, though, Maeve looked like somebody had handed a punk rocker a wand and then made the catastrophic mistake of giving her government career aspirations. She fought the same way. Aggressive, mobile, practical, and always looking for the point where a duel stopped being an exchange of spells and became a fight. Come to think of it, she might even seen Tonks as a role model. I can't believe I didn't think to ask if they'd met prior to this.
Julian Beaumont. Hufflepuff fourth year, Maeve's best friend, and supposedly a lover rather than a fighter. He reminded us of that frequently. Usually while holding a rapier in one hand and his wand in the other, because apparently irony wasn't part of the Beaumont family curriculum. Julian liked women. A lot. Women also tended to like Julian, which would have been considerably more irritating if he were an asshole about it. Somehow, he wasn't. He flirted shamelessly, dressed well, remembered names, gave compliments like he actually meant them, and understood that no was a complete fucking sentence. If somebody wasn't interested, he'd smile, wish her a good afternoon, and move on without acting like she'd stabbed his mother. The bastard had somehow discovered the forbidden technique of being horny and respectful. His actual fighting style made the whole thing worse. Rapier in his dominant hand, wand in the other, traditional fencing mixed with spellwork until fighting him looked less like a duel and more like somebody had given a storybook gentleman adventurer access to combat magic. He'd parry steel, slip the return, throw a spell from the off hand, and somehow find time in the middle of all that to tell his opponent they looked lovely today. Maeve once threatened to break his jaw for flirting during a match. Julian reminded her that she'd been trying to curse his bollocks off at the time, so he felt maintaining a pleasant atmosphere was the least he could do. They're best friends. I still don't completely understand it. Then again, Maeve wants to cross an ocean to learn how professional War Mages turn people into cautionary examples, while Julian would much rather cross the same ocean because he'd heard American witches liked the accent. Maybe they balance each other out. wait... Beaumont... oh fuck me I hope his family aren't vampire hunters...
Daniel Price. Danny. Hufflepuff third year, Muggle-born, and probably the only person in this room who'd learned how to properly hit the ground before he learned magic existed. His parents put him in judo when he was six. Nothing magical about it. No secret family history, no long-lost wizard grandfather, no ancient martial tradition hidden in the attic. His parents just had an energetic kid and figured a martial art might do him some good. Turns out they were right. Danny stuck with it right up until Hogwarts sent him a letter and he discovered that the magical boarding school with moving staircases, prejudiced morons, and a forest full of things that wanted to eat students somehow had less physical education than his mundane primary school. Quidditch. That was pretty much it. Apparently knowing how to fall without cracking your skull open wasn't considered important when half the student body regularly threw spells capable of knocking people across a room. Danny thought that was fucking stupid. I agreed. He'd been one of the easiest people to bring into what eventually became HMS. Didn't care about swords at first, wasn't particularly interested in learning how to punch people, and his spellwork was about where you'd expect for a third year. Put him close enough to grab you, though, and things got interesting very fucking quickly. Judo gave him an understanding of balance and leverage that translated almost unfairly well once we started experimenting. Ced learned pretty quickly that having a mean left hook didn't help much if Danny got underneath it and introduced him to the floor. Oliver loved training with him because trying to redirect somebody whose entire martial art revolved around redirecting you apparently sounded like fun to both of them. Weirdos. More importantly, Danny taught damn near everybody else in the society how to fall properly. Probably saved us more injuries than any spell we've learned so far. He'd started playing with ways to incorporate magic into his judo since then, but Danny was stubborn about one thing. Magic was allowed to improve his technique. It wasn't allowed to replace it. If he needed a spell to throw somebody, as far as he was concerned, he hadn't actually thrown them. I could respect that.
Still couldn't understand how someone that fucking cheerful could look me dead in the eye, smile, ask if I was ready, and then immediately attempt to acquaint my shoulder blades with Scotland. Maybe I should return the favor and teach him some Taiichi...
Rowan Taverner. Hufflepuff fourth year, pureblood, and from an old magical family that apparently never got the memo that wizards were supposed to stop knowing how to fight once somebody got inside dueling range. The Taverners aren't Noble, Ancient, Sacred, Hallowed, or Extremely Fucking Impressed With Themselves. They're just old, and somewhere along the way they managed to preserve a practical magical fighting tradition built around the revolutionary concept that sometimes the other wizard is close enough to punch you in the mouth. Protect the wand hand, control theirs if you can, cast from bad positions, use your free hand, and don't assume losing your wand means you're helpless. Rowan actually recognized some of what we found in the old Hogwarts martial classroom, without having to sit down and take a class on it. The best part is that when I asked how much of his family's fighting style he was allowed to teach us, he looked at me like I'd suffered brain damage. Apparently the Taverner position is that if nobody shares a technique, eventually nobody fucking remembers it. Naturally, this made him and Danny dangerous together. Danny knows how to get hold of a person and put them on the floor. Rowan knows what a wizard should do when someone gets hold of them. They've been arguing over which one wins ever since. Personally, I think that's how Hufflepuffs make friends. That or I just have a habit of attracting every wizard who understands that the wizard makes the weapon, not the wand. Wands just make the whole thing easier.
....
My guy. You are running through a roster of your friends like this is the first time a reader is meeting them.
I.... yeah, I guess I am still wrapping my head around things. Like yes, this is the real world, but you know what I know. You know that for the most part, all the people here are new to the story in my head.... YES, not just a story. Real world real people. However, if I fail to cement them in my mind I worry that I will slip into some kind of trap where I stop treating them as my friends okay. Forgive me for worrying. I am still human.
An admission of fear? Really... Maybe I am being too harsh.. THIS TIME. See, I can yell too. but yeah, no, you raise a valid point, so a point to you.
System 395, Josh 50
I'll take it. Thank you for understanding.
You are welcome. Bitch.
Jerk.
Damn straight.
I looked around the room again, and this time I let myself simply enjoy the sight of it.
While I'd been standing there lost in my own head, everyone had been settling into the familiar routine of an HMS afternoon. Most had arrived already changed, while a couple had used the old changing rooms attached to the classroom before joining the others. Nobody wore anything particularly exotic. Shirts, shorts, sweatpants, tennis shoes, and the sort of athletic clothes that could survive an afternoon on the mats without anyone mourning them afterward. James was stretching near the weapon racks, Cedric and Danny were talking while they warmed up, and Oliver was already moving through enough exercises that I suspected sitting still all day had caused him some level of physical pain.
Wands were part of the equipment too. Everyone had theirs secured in one kind of holster or another, chosen according to preference and whatever worked best with how they trained. Some rode at the hip, others along a thigh or forearm, but after months of practicing falls, rolls, grappling, and spellwork on the move, nobody here treated wand placement as an afterthought. Moody would be proud. All arese cheeks shall remain firmly attached.
Maeve and Julian had wandered over to investigate the music player, with Julian leaning against the counter while Maeve studied the little black box as Ozzy continued filling the room. Across from them, Abigail was finishing her stretches, Rowan and Danny had gotten into a conversation about something that involved entirely too much use of the color magenta, that I am sure I would rather not understand, and Cedric looked like he was enjoying whatever argument he'd found himself standing beside.
It was familiar.
Not because nothing had changed. A hell of a lot had changed.
But this hadn't.
My friends were here. The room was ours for the afternoon. Nobody needed rescuing, nobody was trying to kill anybody, and the only violence on the immediate schedule was the recreational kind.
Then I noticed Arthur.
He was standing near the edge of the mats, already changed and warmed up, his wand secured at his hip and entirely too much energy still rolling off him for someone who'd spent most of the day sitting through classes. Almost as bad as Oliver that one. When he caught me looking, the grin that spread across his face told me exactly where he intended to burn the rest of it.
I felt my own grin forming before either of us said a word.
There we go.
Arthur rolled his shoulders and stepped onto the mat. "You planning on standing over there all afternoon?"
"Nah." I pushed away from the counter and headed toward him. "Just wondering how long you'd last before asking."
Arthur snorted and told me I'd been taking too long, earning an "Impatient bastard," from me as I stepped onto the mat.
"Says you," Arthur shot back.
"Fair." I couldn't exactly argue with that, so I rolled my shoulders loose again and asked, "What are we doing?"
Arthur considered it for a moment before suggesting, "Start simple?"
"Works for me."
....
Apparently, Arthur's version of simple today was to play a game of deception.
We started like normal, approaching the mat, taking our spacing, and bowing like we would for a traditional duel. That's when things got interesting. I stepped into a forward-facing stance with my left side bladed toward him, one hand forward and the other pulled tight against my side.
"Stupefy! Impedimenta! Silencio!"
Arthur opened with a rapid chain, his wand snapping into his hand fast enough that the first spell was already coming before I'd fully registered the draw.
In his defense, it was a valid tactic.
I hadn't realized he'd changed to a spring-loaded holster. Hell, I hadn't even realized they made spring-loaded hip holsters.
Learn something new every day.
Unfortunately for him, I used a spring-loaded holster too.
"Protego Duo!"
My wand snapped into my hand and the shield caught his Stunner near its leading edge. I turned with the impact instead of trying to stop it dead, redirecting the spell across the space between us and straight into the path of his Impediment Jinx. The two spells collided while I stepped clear of the Silencing Charm and brought my wand around again.
"Avis Fors!"
Never let it be said that summoning charms needed to be complicated. A midsized cloud of small birds burst into existence between us, filling Arthur's line of fire just in time to absorb the next spells in his chain. Not to be confused with the similar transfiguration spell avifors that turned an object into a bird. Although I suppose it has it's own uses. Or Avis Oppungo to go straight in to offense mode with the spell. Good shit.
Honestly, I wasn't surprised I wasn't the first person to think of it. With witches and wizards like McGonagall and Flitwick running around, there had probably been more variations on using conjured creatures as disposable cover than I could imagine.
Arthur disappeared behind a flurry of wings.
Then he came straight fucking through them.
What the hell?!
I barely had time to register the movement before Arthur burst through the cloud instead of wasting time trying to destroy it. He'd already committed to closing the distance, scattering birds around himself as he came.
Hadn't expected him to close that fast.
"Parry this, you filthy casual!" Arthur yelled as he threw a wild haymaker with his free hand.
The punch was bullshit.
Not because he wasn't trying to hit me. He absolutely was. But the glow building around the wand in his other hand told me where the real problem was.
Another Stunner, if I had to guess.
Cute.
No worries. My turn.
Arthur had committed to closing the distance, so I stepped inside his guard and ducked beneath his wand arm, bringing my own wand up with barely an inch between its tip and his chest. "Flipendo." The spell caught him point-blank and launched him backward and up, buying me all the space he'd just worked to take away.
I followed before he could recover, catching him on the way down with "Rictusempra!" Laughter tore through whatever landing he'd been attempting, and since I'd already started, I threw one of the alteration spells I'd picked up from the Marauders' contribution to my new grimoire into the chain for good measure. By the time Arthur hit the mat, his hair had turned a lovely shade of neon blue.
Magnificent.
He was still laughing when I brought my wand around again and cast, "Expelliarmus!" Arthur's wand tore free and sailed toward me. I caught it with my off hand, leveled my own at him, and finished with "Aguamenti Duo!" A respectable blast of water caught him squarely and finished cooling him down in more ways than one.
I lowered my wand and looked at the thoroughly soaked, neon-blue-haired Arthur. What was that, fifteen seconds? That seemed easier than it should have.
It only took another second to find out why. Something tightened around my ankle and ripped me off the mat before I could react. "Shit!" I barely kept hold of my wand as I swung upside down, and looking toward the ceiling revealed several thick vines hanging above me with one wrapped firmly around my leg. The sneaky bastard had summoned them while I was distracted. Arthur had expected me to follow through with hand-to-hand when he'd charged through the birds, while I'd expected him to keep his distance and try to overpower me with spellwork. Apparently both of us had made some changes to how we fought.
Still, if I couldn't free myself, it was a draw. Luckily, I still had my wand and Arthur didn't. His wand should have been in my other hand, actually. I glanced down and found that hand conspicuously empty. Apparently I hadn't managed to catch the damn thing before the vines grabbed me. SHIT! I slashed my wand toward the vine around my ankle and cast, "Diffindo!" The severed vine released me immediately, which solved one problem and introduced me to gravity again.
I twisted as I fell, preparing to dodge whatever Arthur had coming the moment I landed, then pointed my wand toward the rapidly approaching floor. "Spongify!" The mat softened beneath me just before impact, absorbing enough of the fall for me to roll through it and come back up in a half crouch with my wand ready. I immediately looked toward where I'd last seen Arthur and found...
Nothing.
What?
I turned and spotted Arthur outside the marked training area, wet, neon-blue-haired, and looking almost as confused about how he'd gotten there as I was.
That was too easy too.
Then I noticed the water still covering part of the mats and the section I'd just hit with the Softening Charm. Apparently my Aguamenti Duo had made the floor slick enough that Arthur had already been having trouble with his footing when he'd moved in to capitalize on the vines. My Spongify had caught the mat while he was close enough to be affected, and instead of having another spell waiting for me when I landed, Arthur had bounced his ass straight out of the fighting area.
I stared at him for a moment before looking down at the mat beneath my feet. If Flitwick hadn't insisted that leaving the marked training area ended the round, I'd probably already be dodging whatever Arthur had planned next.
Instead, apparently I'd won.
Neat.
Arthur took the loss with all the dignity expected of a soaked fourteen-year-old with neon-blue hair, which was to say he called me a lucky bastard while I helped him off the floor. I couldn't exactly argue with the lucky part. Neither of us had planned that ending, and judging by the laughter coming from the others, nobody intended to let us pretend otherwise. Once we'd dried the mats and Arthur had done something about his hair, we got back to it.
The rest of the afternoon went the way HMS afternoons usually did. Partners changed, weapons came off the racks, and spells started flying again once the mats were dry. I won some, lost some, and spent a respectable amount of time getting knocked around by people who knew most of my favorite tricks because I'd been practicing those tricks against them for years. Arthur got his revenge eventually, Danny introduced me to the floor at least once, and by the time we finally called it for the afternoon, I was sweaty, sore in all the right places, and happier than I'd been when I walked in.
We cleaned up after ourselves, put the room back in order, and split off toward our respective Houses with enough time to shower and change before supper. By the time I made it back to Ravenclaw Tower, got clean, and pulled on fresh clothes, my stomach had started reminding me that the snack bar was not an acceptable substitute for an actual meal.
Supper it was.
I grabbed my expanded bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed down. Peter's cage was still tucked safely inside, and considering he'd managed to keep his mouth shut this long, I saw no reason to disturb him.
The common room was busy when I came downstairs, with most everyone either getting ready to head to supper or squeezing in whatever they could before they went. I exchanged a few greetings as I crossed the room and headed out into the corridor.
I hadn't made it down more than a couple of staircases before I decided to turn on the Stream.
Stream Online
The viewer count started climbing almost immediately.
"Hey, guys."
momfriend.exe: Hey, Josh.
disinterested_doorknob: What are ycartoon_nightmare: I'M BACK!**ou doing?
I stopped halfway down the stairs and blinked at the message.
disinterested_doorknob: What the fuck?
momfriend.exe: Brad?
cartoon_nightmare: Hi!
BillionairePlayboy: Did you just interrupt a text message?
cartoon_nightmare: Don't worry about it.
"How the hell did you do that?"
cartoon_nightmare: Don't worry about it.
I stared at that for another second before shaking my head and continuing downstairs. "Right. Well, I'm heading to supper."
cartoon_nightmare: FOOD STREAM
most_interesting_demigod: You're excited to watch someone eat?
cartoon_nightmare: FOOD
BillionairePlayboy: I'm with Hunter on this one.
cartoon_nightmare: TRAITORS
I snorted and continued down the stairs. "Whatever. I'm hungry."
momfriend.exe: You do keep streaming tasty-looking food.
"That's because I eat tasty food."
momfriend.exe: I am beginning to resent you for it.
"Sounds like jealousy."
momfriend.exe: It is absolutely jealousy.
cartoon_nightmare: Envy. Not jealousy. I saw Homer correct Lisa on the very same subject once. Jealousy implies that you are afraid he will take something from you. Envy is about wanting what he has. You envy him. *Smug grin*.
"Listen, that might be technically correct," I started only for Brad to interrupt me as well
cartoon_nightmare: The BEST kind of correct and the only one that matters in this context!
" BUT the lexicon of language changes as people use or misuse words. While you would be correct in a classroom or professional environment, in context of use, you a bitch."
The next staircase deposited me into a corridor with enough students heading the same direction that continuing to talk to people nobody else could hear seemed like a great way to start rumors. I shifted my responses to the chat into my head and joined the flow toward the ground floor.
Guess we're doing this quietly now.
cartoon_nightmare: COWARD! And you call me a bitch. Shameful.
You try explaining invisible people from other universes to Madam Pomfrey.
LawLord: Don't.
See? Harry gets it.
From there, the chat continued alongside me while I made my way down. By the time I reached the main landing, the corridors had filled with students converging on the Entrance Hall and Great Hall for supper.
I was about to turn with everyone else when a familiar voice caught my attention.
"Mr. Myrddin, if I could have a moment?"
I looked over and found Professor Flitwick waiting off to the side of the Entrance Hall, deliberately out of the stream of students heading for the Great Hall.
I glanced toward the doors, then back to him.
So close.
Flitwick followed my glance toward the Great Hall and gave me an apologetic smile. "I shouldn't need to keep you long. Two representatives from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement arrived a few minutes ago. They asked to speak with you."
Well, that could be a few things.
He led me away from the flow of students toward one of the quieter alcoves off the Entrance Hall, where two men were waiting. Both looked like Aurors. The first was a tall Black man, broad through the shoulders, with a shaved head and a gold hoop in one ear. The other was a little shorter, white, with dark hair beginning to grey around the temples. Neither was dressed particularly formally, but both had that alert posture I'd learned to associate with people who carried weapons professionally.
The older of the two stepped forward as we approached. "Thanks Professor," he began by addressing Flitwick, "Mr. Myrddin, I am Senior Auror Gawain Robards." He indicated the man beside him. "This is Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt."
"Joshua Myrddin."
Shacklebolt gave me a small nod. "We understand you have something for the Department."
"Yeah." I slipped the expanded bag off my shoulder and opened it, then glanced at Flitwick. "Professor, have you met Scabbers?"
He looked understandably confused as I pulled the cage free. Peter was still a rat, still awake, and apparently smart enough to recognize what two Aurors waiting for him meant, because he retreated toward the back of the cage almost immediately.
"Former pet of Percy Weasley," I continued, setting the cage down. "Also known as Wormtail of the Marauders and, more importantly, Peter Pettigrew."
That got him.
Flitwick went completely still, his attention locking onto the rat as Peter pressed himself farther into the corner of the cage. "Pettigrew?"
"That's him."
The change in Flitwick was subtle, but I'd known him long enough to see it. His expression tightened as the morning's headlines suddenly acquired a living, breathing centerpiece sitting a few feet in front of him. Sirius Black was innocent. Peter Pettigrew was alive and wanted by the DMLE in connection with the betrayal of James and Lily Potter.
And Lily had been Flitwick's favorite student before I came along.
His hands slowly closed at his sides as he stared through the bars. Whatever he was feeling, he kept it behind the kind of control I'd expect from a former dueling champion and a man who'd spent decades teaching children how to throw magic at each other without killing anyone.
"Mr. Pettigrew," he said quietly.
Peter somehow managed to make himself look smaller.
Flitwick let the silence sit for another moment before looking toward the Aurors. "I believe you gentlemen have an identity to verify."
Robards gave a slight nod but didn't reach for his wand. "At the Ministry. No sense confirming it here if we don't have to." His attention shifted back to me. "Since taking possession of Pett- the Rat, has anyone else had access to him?"
"No. He's been with me the entire time. I've opened the cage to feed and water him, but he's never been out of it." I tapped one of the bars with a finger. "It's enchanted unbreakable, and the door can only be opened from the outside. He's not getting through it on his own."
That seemed to satisfy him. Shacklebolt stepped closer to examine the cage without touching it, studying Peter for a moment before asking, "And you're certain this is the same rat you originally captured?"
"Absolutely."
Robards produced a small form from inside his robes, and thankfully there wasn't much to it. My name, the time, confirmation that the DMLE had received one securely contained suspected Animagus answering to Peter Pettigrew, and enough bureaucratic language to officially make him someone else's problem. I signed where Robards indicated, he signed beneath me, and then took possession of the cage.
Just like that, Peter Pettigrew was no longer my problem.
Almost.
"One more thing. Don't force him back while he's in there. The cage won't give."
Robards's eyes dropped to the rat-sized cage, and his expression said the rest of that calculation happened without my help. "Understood."
Shacklebolt took the paperwork from him and gave it a quick look before folding it away. "That should be everything we need from you, Mr. Myrddin. If the Department requires anything further, we'll contact you."
"Works for me."
Robards lifted the cage, earning himself the full attention of the rat inside it. Peter scrambled forward and wrapped both paws around the bars, apparently deciding only now that being carried away by two Aurors was something he should be concerned about. I smiled and gave him a little wave. "Bye, Peter. Enjoy your stay."
Robards's mouth twitched, but he managed to keep whatever he was thinking to himself. Shacklebolt simply inclined his head to Flitwick and me before the two of them headed for the doors with Peter between them. I watched until they disappeared from sight, then let out a breath. One more problem officially handed over to people who actually got paid to deal with it.
Flitwick remained quiet for a moment before looking up at me. "I believe you've been delayed from your supper long enough, Mr. Myrddin."
"Professor, you have no idea."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Off you go."
I didn't need telling twice.
cartoon_nightmare: You just handed a grown man to the police in a rat cage.
Yep.
BillionairePlayboy: That's not even close to the weirdest sentence I've heard this week.
LawLord: Give it time.
I made it perhaps twenty feet before a sweep of black robes crossed my path.
Of course.
Professor Snape stopped in front of me, looking exactly as pleased to see me as usual. "Myrddin."
"Professor."
His gaze lingered for a moment. "I see you've decided Hogwarts requires your assistance educating its students."
Ah. The book. "Not really. I wrote it for people who didn't grow up knowing how this world works. Some of them happen to attend Hogwarts."
"A distinction I'm sure you find important."
"I generally find knowing what I'm talking about important, yeah."
most_interesting_demigod: Fight him.
No.
most_interesting_demigod: You have fists. He has a face. The universe has provided everything you need.
The corner of my mouth tried to move.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Something amusing, Mr. Myrddin?"
"No, Professor."
most_interesting_demigod: Coward.
I am not punching my Potions professor in the Entrance Hall.
most_interesting_demigod: Not with that attitude.
I very carefully kept my face still.
Snape watched me for another second, clearly unconvinced, but apparently decided there wasn't enough there to make an issue of it.
"See that you don't give me a reason to regret asking."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Professor."
That earned me one last suspicious look before he swept past, robes doing that fucking thing they always did. I waited until he'd made it several steps before starting toward the Great Hall again, silently addressing the peanut gallery before any of them could make this worse. Nobody say anything.
most_interesting_demigod: I didn't say anything.
You told me to punch him.
most_interesting_demigod: Privately.
cartoon_nightmare: He's got you there.
I hate all of you.
momfriend.exe: No you don't.
Meh.
I reached the Great Hall doors before another thing could interrupt me putting food in my belly. I made it three steps before my eyes caught up to my nose and I got a proper look at the House tables. The house-elves seemed to have taken my return after a week away as a holiday.
Hell yeah.
The usual Hogwarts fare was still there, but tonight it was sharing territory with what looked like three years of house-elf experimentation unleashed all at once. Burgers, pizzas, cheesesteaks, roast beef sandwiches, hot dogs, fries, poutine, casseroles, biscuits and gravy, and enough fried food to make any Southern heart proud covered huge stretches of the House tables. Fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, chicken-fried chicken, mozzarella sticks, and nuggies sat alongside bowls of mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, vegetables, and the more traditional dishes Hogwarts served every night.
The desserts weren't being neglected either. Pecan pies and cobblers had joined the usual spread, and somebody had thoughtfully put a block of extra-sharp cheddar beside the apple pie. Pitchers crowded every available gap between the food, filled with iced tea, lemonade, fruit cider, chocolate milk, and the house-elves' growing collection of homemade sodas. More importantly, there was actual ice. Lots of it. I could already see condensation running down half the pitchers from where I stood.
LawLord: Merlin's left nut, he really is an American....
You went to school here. How is this surprising you?
LawLord: Hogwarts did not look like this when I attended.
Damn. Straight. I am not going to have anyone say I am not a Southerner. Everyone knows that our culture flows around food and who we share it with. A good meal with decent conversation can heal a lot of the worlds ills. You just need the right food.
I started toward the Ravenclaw table and finally noticed that the food had rearranged the Great Hall almost as thoroughly as the staircases rearranged the castle. Everyone was still sitting at their proper House tables, but within those tables people had clustered around whatever section of the spread they preferred. Burgers and fries had their crowd, several pizzas were disappearing fast, and the fried food was getting absolutely fucking demolished. Nobody seemed particularly concerned about where any of it had originated. After three years, they knew what they liked.
I found Penny farther down the Ravenclaw table with a book beside her plate and an open seat nearby. More importantly, the section in front of her had pizza.
Priorities.
I dropped into the open seat beside her and immediately reached for the pizza. Pepperoni, black olives, stuffed crust. Whoever had put this section together knew their audience. I loaded a couple slices onto my plate, added some mozzarella sticks and fries, then poured myself a glass of cherry vanilla cola over ice. Penny looked up from her plate as I took my first bite. "Hello to you too."
"Food first. Social interaction second," I told her, earning an entirely unsurprised, "Of course," before she went back to her own dinner. Damn, that was good. I was halfway through the first slice before I finally paid more attention to the book sitting beside her plate. Black cover, Hogwarts crest. Apparently the library copies had arrived.
"Any parts hard to understand?"
Penny glanced down at the book. "I've only made it through a few chapters."
"Still counts. If anything doesn't make sense, mark it for me. I've got a master copy I can use to update the rest."
That got her attention. "All of them?"
"That's the idea."
"Protean Charm," I explained around another bite. "Same basic principle as linked objects. The master copy is the control, so if I correct or update something there, I can push the change to the other copies."
Penny's eyes went from me to the book and stayed there for a moment. "You put a Protean Charm on an entire print run?"
"Modified Protean Charm," I corrected. "And only the copies made to accept it. I'm not remotely stupid enough to let anyone who buys a book accidentally join the network."
"That was going to be my next question."
"I know you too well."
She gave me a look that suggested the feeling was mutual and picked her fork back up. "I'll make notes."
"Thanks."
That was good enough for me. I grabbed another slice of pizza while Penny shifted the book a little farther from her plate and went back to supper. Conversation came and went around us as people ate, plates emptied and refilled, and food migrated up and down the Ravenclaw table whenever somebody spotted something they wanted three seats away. I traded a mozzarella stick for a piece of apple pie at one point, acquired a second glass of cherry vanilla cola somewhere along the way, and watched the last cheesesteak on a nearby platter disappear into a negotiation involving three people and what I was pretty sure was a promised favor on somebody's Arithmancy homework.
The chat had opinions, naturally.
cartoon_nightmare: I would like to formally apologize for doubting the food stream.
BillionairePlayboy: You were the only person who wanted the food stream.
cartoon_nightmare: AND I WAS RIGHT
momfriend.exe: I hate to encourage him, but he was.
Thank you. Finally, people with culture.
most_interesting_demigod: Your culture appears to be frying things and putting cheese on them.
And yet you keep watching.
Hunter didn't answer that one.
That's what I thought.
I reached for the apple pie I'd traded for and shaved a piece off the block of extra-sharp cheddar before laying it across the top. That apparently caught Brad's attention almost immediately.
cartoon_nightmare: What are you doing?
Eating pie.
cartoon_nightmare: YOU PUT CHEESE ON IT
Yes.
BillionairePlayboy: I'm actually with Brad this time.
Then you're both wrong.
I took a bite before either of them could continue. Warm apple, cinnamon, pastry, and sharp cheddar worked exactly as well together as they always had, regardless of what the peanut gallery thought about it.
momfriend.exe: Is that actually a thing?
Very much a thing.
cartoon_nightmare: I DON'T TRUST YOU
You've been begging for a food stream since I turned this thing on.
cartoon_nightmare: THAT WAS BEFORE YOU VIOLATED A PIE
I nearly laughed into my cola and had to swallow before answering. You're the one taking culinary advice from Homer Simpson.
That shut him up for approximately three seconds.
cartoon_nightmare: HOMER WOULD NEVER BETRAY PIE LIKE THIS
Across the table, Penny glanced up when I snorted, but whatever she saw on my face apparently wasn't interesting enough to ask about. She went back to her supper while I finished the slice and contemplated whether pecan pie was worth adding on top of everything else I'd already eaten. I eventually decided against it. There were limits, and I'd already need to walk all the way back to Ravenclaw Tower when this was over.
....
The Great Hall had started settling into that point near the end of supper where more people were talking than eating. Plates were being pushed aside, pitchers passed around for final refills, and students were beginning to peel away from the tables in twos and threes.
Penny had slowed down too. She picked up the book beside her plate and flipped back a few pages, checking something she'd apparently marked before slipping the parchment back into place. "I should have some notes for you in a few days."
"Appreciate it." I leaned over enough to glance at the page without actually trying to read it upside down. "I'm mostly curious where I accidentally assumed something was common knowledge."
"I've already found one."
"Well, shit."
The little smile that appeared on her face immediately made me suspicious. Penny closed the book before I could ask what it was, leaving me to wonder whether she'd actually found something or had simply discovered a new and exciting way to annoy me. Considering who I was dealing with, either was entirely possible.
"You'll get your notes."
"Fine. But if this turns out to be revenge for the time I corrected your Runes translation, I'm rejecting the entire thing on principle."
Penny's expression remained perfectly innocent.
Yeah. That told me absolutely nothing.
Around us, supper continued winding down, the enormous spread reduced to scattered survivors and serving dishes that had been picked nearly clean. The cheesesteaks were gone entirely, most of the pizzas weren't far behind, and somebody farther down the table was scraping the last of the poutine onto their plate with the determination of a man protecting an inheritance.
The house-elves were going to be insufferably pleased with themselves.
As they should be.
Arthur was already at his desk when I got back to the dorm, surrounded by enough parchment to suggest he had personally offended one of our professors. His tie was gone, his robes hung over the back of his chair, and three different books were open around a sheet of parchment covered in numbers, calculations, and enough corrections to make the original writing difficult to follow.
I set my bag beside my desk and took another look at the mess. "Arithmancy?"
"I hate numbers," Arthur muttered without looking up, which was such an absurd statement coming from him that I stopped halfway through pulling out my chair. His mother was a schoolteacher. He'd gone through Muggle primary school before Hogwarts, was actually pretty damn good at maths, and he knew perfectly well that I knew all of that. Apparently he could feel me staring because his quill stopped moving. "Don't."
That made it worse. "I'm not saying anything."
"You don't have to." Arthur finally looked over, caught whatever was on my face, and pointed his quill at me. "It's not the maths. The maths makes sense. It's all the shite they decided numbers mean."
Ah. That made considerably more sense. First year of Arithmancy and the poor bastard had apparently discovered that knowing how to work with numbers and knowing why a wizard from six hundred years ago thought the number seven had opinions were two very different skill sets.
I sat down at my own desk while Arthur returned to his parchment, grumbling something about numerological correspondences as he scratched out another line and started it again. For all the bitching, though, he had three books open and showed absolutely no sign of giving up.
Ravenclaw.