Chapter 14: Scars and Spells
On the morning of November 9th, Harry Potter played in his first Quidditch match for Gryffindor. His natural talent on a broomstick secured a victory for his house, but the game was marred by a sinister event: someone had clearly been trying to kill him, jinxing his broom mid-flight.
Before dinner, Harry and Ron were huddled together, feverishly discussing the incident. Hermione, however, was not with them. It was a Saturday, a day with no classes, and she would not waste a single moment of potential study time. She had already dragged a reluctant Neville to the library to prepare for their evening session with Solim. His influence had, intentionally or not, created a certain distance between Hermione and her Gryffindor roommates.
As for Solim himself, the idea of him attending a Quidditch match was laughable. His weekends were reserved for his own research.
After dinner, as soon as Hermione, Neville, and Solim were settled in their usual hidden room, Hermione burst out, "Solim, you heard what happened at the match today, didn't you?"
"If you're referring to Potter's broom being jinxed, yes. Draco provided a rather... enthusiastic commentary throughout the meal," Solim said dryly. Malfoy had been bitterly disappointed that Harry hadn't fallen.
"I saw Snape!" Hermione insisted, her expression grave. "He was staring at Harry, muttering incantations without stopping!"
"Counter-curses and jinxes both require incantations, Hermione," Solim replied, his tone patient but firm. "It's far more logical that Professor Snape was attempting to counteract the magic, not cause it."
"But everyone knows how he feels about Harry!"
"Hermione, you are usually the most logical person I know. Why are you abandoning reason now?" Solim asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "Analyzing a situation requires objectivity, not personal bias."
He decided it was time for a lesson in critical thinking.
"First, do you believe Professor Snape is an idiot?" he began.
Hermione shook her head. She loathed the man, but she couldn't deny his intelligence.
"Since he is not an idiot," Solim continued, his words coming faster now, "would he attempt to murder a student in front of the entire school? In full view of hundreds of witnesses, including the staff?"
He didn't wait for an answer, his questions falling like rapid-fire spells.
"Even if he succeeded in making Potter fall, do you genuinely believe Harry would have died? That he would simply 'snap' and die on impact? With so many skilled witches and wizards watching? Professor Flitwick alone could have arrested his fall with a non-verbal Levitation Charm before he hit the ground."
"Even if he had hit the ground, that height likely wouldn't be instantly fatal. And as long as there was a single breath left in his body, Madam Pomfrey could have saved him in the hospital wing."
"If someone truly wanted Potter dead, there are a hundred more subtle ways to do it. A dark corridor. An 'accident' with a cursed object. Why choose the most public, most watched event of the term? Does that sound like the plan of a cunning wizard?"
"And this supposed culprit was just sitting there, staring intently and chanting, making no attempt to hide his actions? Come on, Hermione. After considering all that, do you still believe it was Snape?"
Hermione was silent, her face flushed. Solim's logical assault had dismantled her certainty, revealing the flimsy foundation of her assumption. The flaws were glaringly obvious in retrospect.
"Of course," Solim conceded, "it's possible someone was merely trying to sabotage the game. A foolish Slytherin prefect, perhaps." He glanced at Draco. "Have you heard any gossip?"
Draco shook his head, looking thoughtful. "No, but I can ask around."
"And if it wasn't just a prank?" Hermione asked, her worry returning. "What if someone genuinely wanted to harm him?"
"If someone wanted to harm Potter and chose this method," Solim said, locking eyes with her, "then their goal wasn't necessarily to kill him. It was to send a message. To show everyone that Harry is a target, to force the professors to be more vigilant."
"Then why not just tell a professor?" Hermione protested.
"Hermione," Solim said, his voice softening slightly, "you can reason that out for yourself. If you wish to walk far on the path of magic, you must learn to use your mind. A wizard who doesn't think is a dead wizard."
He dismissed the topic and moved on to checking their progress with the Disarming Charm. Draco was the most proficient, his spell sharp and fast. Neville, however, was painfully slow; his wand movement was hesitant, and the red jet that finally emerged was weak. In a real duel, he'd be disarmed before he finished the incantation.
"Too slow," Solim stated bluntly. "All of you are too slow. But that's to be expected for your first combat spell."
He explained that wizard duels were won by speed and precision. The only path to mastery was relentless, monotonous practice. Solim himself had practiced wand movements while walking, eating, and even in his sleep during his time at Scuol.
"In a real fight," he said, "if your spell hits your opponent's face before they've even finished raising their wand, it doesn't matter what spell you used. You've won. A Stunning Spell can drop the most powerful wizard if it lands. Your fragility is your greatest weakness."
"The Disarming Charm is your foundation. If you cannot master this, there is no point in wasting my time. My standard is simple: one second, non-verbally. It would be best if you could cast it wandlessly."
The three of them stared at him, utterly speechless.
"Draco," Solim said, gesturing him forward. "Your turn. Attack me with any spell you like. Neville, step back."
Draco took a deep breath, his face set in determination. He and Solim faced each other. Draco's hand twitched toward his wand—
It was over. Draco's wand was no longer in his hand.
Solim had merely made a subtle plucking motion with his fingers. Draco's wand had flown effortlessly into his grasp.
"Wandless. Non-verbal. Less than a second," Solim said calmly, tossing the wand back. "In a real duel, you would be on the ground."
"Would you like to see the consequences of losing your wand in a fight?" Solim asked, his voice low. He turned his back to them, sliding his school robes down to his waist.
The gasp from Hermione was audible. A horrific scar dominated the left side of his back, stretching from his shoulder blade down to his waist. The skin was a mass of twisted, pitch-black tissue, looking as if it had been charred and melted. The outline of his ribs was visible through the ruined flesh, and the border between the scar and healthy skin was a grotesque, waxy line.
Solim pulled his robes back up and turned to face them, his expression unreadable. "Remember the lesson. Hold on to your wands."
Draco was pale, his lips trembling. "What... what was that?"
Solim looked at Neville. "Did Uncle Hruber ever mention this?" Hruber was Neville's uncle who taught at Scuol.
Neville, unable to meet his gaze, simply nodded. His fear of Solim was rooted in the stories his uncle had told—stories that had earned Solim nicknames like "the little monster" among those who knew the truth.
"Then take the lesson to heart," Solim said, clapping his hands together, making them all jump. "Practice. There are no shortcuts. No amount of talent can replace endless, boring repetition. Do you think I reached this level by chance?"
Hermione finally lowered her hands from her mouth. "If we practice... can we really learn to cast like that? Even non-verbally?" She hesitated, then gestured weakly to his back. "And... if it's not too painful... can you tell us about... the scar?"
"There's no secret to it," Solim said, his gaze steady. "I was outnumbered. I lost my wand. They couldn't kill me because of the rules, so they left me with a... permanent reminder." He tapped his shoulder blade. "A mark to remember them by."
"But... can't it be healed?" Hermione asked, her healer's instinct kicking in. "St. Mungo's—"
"Some curses leave marks that cannot be erased," Solim interrupted, his voice final. "The damage from a well-cast Corrosion Charm is one of them. Now," he said, his tone shifting back to that of a tutor, "enough about my past. Your focus should be on your future. I've taught you all I can about the Disarming Charm. The rest is up to you. Hermione, keep Neville focused. Draco, I trust you understand the stakes."
Solim sat down and opened his own notes, half-reading, half-watching as the three of them began to practice with a new, feverish intensity. The sight of his scar had been a more potent motivator than any of his words could ever be.
They were young. They had time. And Solim was deeply curious to see how far they could go, now that they had been properly shaken from their complacency.