What to do in the dining room at Grimmauld Place when you're not exactly welcome in the local resistance club? Correct — read the books Dumbledore gave you. Naturally, I'd verify the information with Smethwyck afterwards just in case, but books remain books — they need reading.
Tonks joined me fairly quickly, though not in the role of fellow reader, more in the role of mother hen and thorn-in-the-side rolled into one.
"What are you doing?" asked this metamorphic madam, sitting down across the table from me.
"Reading," I answered apathetically.
"Ugh, how boring."
Such dialogues, a couple of lines each, took place literally every two minutes, even if the words differed each time.
"Say-a-ay," Tonks drawled, her hair shifting to a treacherously dark shade, "you're in an ancient house of an ancient family…"
Taking advantage of the pause in her thoughts and words, I couldn't resist noting:
"Yours, incidentally."
"…and you…" — she carried on with the thought, but caught herself immediately. "Oh, you little—!"
"Fairly substantial, actually," I shrugged, as though nothing had been said.
"Out of the goodness of my heart I was going to say that in a house like this one can practise magic, but now…" Tonks leaned forward, her hair turning blood-red — not the shade of anger, but of battle-eagerness. No discretion at all, or else deliberate provocation. "…Now you'll have to answer for your insolence."
"If you want to have a go, just say so," I smirked, tucking the book into my undetectable-extension bag. "Lead on, Black-lite."
But could one simply walk through Grimmauld Place without drawing any attention whatsoever? Absolutely not.
As it turned out, every conceivable and inconceivable "Order" meeting had already wrapped up, everyone had said what they wanted to say, and possibly what they hadn't wanted to say, and so our procession to the training hall — a spacious, open room where a great many protective wards flowed across the walls like fine whisky down the sides of a glass — was noticed by the rest. How many people decided to come watch a small training duel between two wizards? Quite a lot.
Of course, Tonks could hardly be called a "beginner" wizard, but neither could she be called an expert. At least, that's my impression. Yes, she'd completed Auror training, worked in the field for a good few years, and had, moreover, become a fully independent operative rather than a mere trainee — this I'd heard from her directly while she boasted about her accomplishments.
In the end, practically everyone joined us, even Dumbledore, who'd just finished talking to Harry about something. Only Mrs Weasley voiced her indignation regarding magic outside Hogwarts in general and duelling in particular.
"Oh, a duel," Dumbledore drawled happily, walking behind us. And, naturally, Harry trailed along in tow. "It's been a while since I've watched one, especially for training purposes. I recall in one such duel I even acquired a scar on my knee that bears a remarkable resemblance to a map of the London Underground…"
"You've done it again," Moody creaked, walking somewhat awkwardly beside Dumbledore, limping on his prosthetic leg. "Give you half a reason and you're straight onto that scar."
Amid this idle chatter, we made it to the training hall. Nothing particularly special about it — spacious, stone walls, no windows, magical lamps. Like the other halls I'd seen before, it was divided into a section for duellists or trainees, and a spectator section — sofas and armchairs there, small tables, living portraits, though only one currently held some wizard from around the sixteenth century.
While the spectators dispersed to their seats, Harry managed to catch Tonks's attention:
"Be careful with him."
"Don't worry, squirt," Tonks winked, moving with a playful gait to one side of the hall, and, turning to face me, raised her wand, ready for battle. "Well then, big man, shall we dance?"
Standing opposite her, in the best traditions of elvish pomp and haughtiness, I turned half-side to her, thrust my left hand into my pocket, and neatly summoned my wand into my right, making a bow-like gesture with that single wand.
"First move's yours, Auror."
"Cheeky," Tonks clicked her tongue and, smiling, swung her wand in a broad arc, sending a fairly powerful, fairly fast wordless Stupefy at me.
The hand holding my wand was pointed slightly downward, almost casually. A smooth but swift motion, brief, and the mass of the Stupefy spread flat across a solid Protego dome.
"I take it," I smirked, standing with a touch of hauteur, elvish in manner but composed, "greater cleverness is called for?"
"Don't want to hurt a Healer."
"Oh, but I'm not a Healer. Only a student."
With those words I loosed a quick Stupefy of my own, which Tonks dodged with some difficulty.
"Well, you asked for it," Tonks smirked, rather predatorily, her purple hair taking on a reddish tint.
With sharp, precise flicks of her wand, Tonks began sending one nonverbal spell after another at me, no wasted motion, not stepping from her spot.
Beams and bursts of spells flew from her side in a many-coloured stream — sometimes barely visible, nearly transparent, sometimes bright and bold. But all of them were relatively harmless, essentially modifications of what's taught at school.
I stood in place, adjusting my Protego on the fly, easily and effortlessly reshaping the shield's membrane to fit whatever spells came at me. Each of them shattered against the defence, dissolving, dispersing — even the combat variant of Incarcerous, where the rope doesn't appear until the moment the tiny sphere makes contact with the body, crumbled to nothing.
"You won't win by defending," Tonks paused for a moment.
"Attacking that badly won't win you anything either," I replied.
That remark evidently infuriated Tonks — her hair turned decidedly scarlet, and she started pelting me with all manner of spells while also beginning to move. Amusingly, over the course of her movements she was, almost imperceptibly, most likely instinctively, employing her metamorph abilities, subtly altering herself for smoother, more fluid and sharper transitions.
And me? What about me? I simply stood there in shields of varying orientation, instantly changing their purpose and constantly refreshing them, lazily waving my wand-hand. Yes, standard and combat-modified variants of Protego don't hold up well — one or two spells, depending on their strength, and in a bad case they break entirely, protecting against nothing — but I could hardly resort to the siege-grade Protego Totalus, from behind which one can only spit and make rude gestures at one's opponent.
The spectators, meanwhile… Well, I understood the presence of Moody, Black, Potter, Dumbledore, and the hulking Shacklebolt, but Mrs Weasley? Why Mr Weasley wasn't there was clear enough to me — he's no fighter, as far as I know, and all this business is thoroughly beneath his interest.
Listening closely, filtering out the sound of the spells and the noise of their disintegration against my shields, I began picking out what they were saying.
"Well, there we go," Mrs Weasley was lamenting. "Magic outside school again…"
"Oh, honestly, Molly?" Sirius protested, sprawled in an armchair watching our duel, if it could even be called that. "It'd be one thing if they were casting in secret — that I'd understand. But this? With this many well-rounded wizards about, you couldn't accidentally hurt yourself if you tried — let alone deliberately kill yourself!"
The topic was closed rather quickly, and Dumbledore started a new round of discussion with the question:
"Harry, my boy, what do you make of the duel?"
"One-sided," Harry answered confidently.
"Oh? And who's leading, if it's not a secret?"
"Hector," Potter answered, with the same confidence.
"Come off it," Sirius waved a hand, reaching for a glass that wasn't there. "Tch. Where's the schoolboy, and where's the Auror? He might be putting on a calm face, but you can plainly see he never leaves the defensive."
"You're wrong, Padfoot," Harry shook his head, still watching my defensive work closely. "I've seen Hector like this too many times. He's just letting Tonks have her fill of spellcasting, meanwhile studying the particulars of her style, her repertoire, her movements, her habits, and so on."
"You've got a mighty high opinion of this Granger, godson. Well, I believe in my niece."
"And I," Mrs Weasley planted her hands on her hips, "believe in the ban on magic outside school."
"So what are you doing here, then, Molly?" Sirius turned to the redheaded lady with a smirk, "if underage magic is so unbearable to you?"
"I want to see for myself that no harm comes of it."
Silence again, while I kept on defending against every one of Tonks's spells. The girl, incidentally, had well and truly worked herself up — constantly moving, repositioning, even Apparating a couple of times in hopes of striking from an unexpected angle. And she'd started putting more power into her spells, too, the spells themselves growing more dangerous. But there was no real inventiveness to them, somehow. Everything felt utilitarian, sparse, without imagination, without spark. An Auror is an Auror, after all — a member of a law-enforcement structure with a rigid hierarchy and standardised training. No comparison at all to Romanova. A hen's no bird, an Auror's no soldier.
"I agree," Dumbledore nodded, at which the recent discussion's participants — Black and Potter — perked up. "With Harry."
"Well, there you—wait, what?!" Sirius protested.
"If Mr Granger wished it, he could have ended this duel within the first two exchanges. Or with a single spell of his own, if he'd chosen to settle matters by force rather than by skill."
Dumbledore's perceptiveness has always been his unique gift, for as long as I can remember, whether as a Hogwarts student or in the guise of the Plague Doctor.
Watching Tonks, who'd whipped herself into a whirlwind of activity — leaping here and there, Apparating, blinking away in white smoke, sending a great many spells at me meant for single targets, including a good dozen that were arguably borderline Dark — I decided it was time to bring this performance to a close, or rather, to smoothly steer proceedings toward the endgame of the piece entitled "Spontaneous Duel."
Tonks doesn't Apparate at random. Before Apparating, she generates a stream of spells and charms meant to inevitably draw my attention, say, to my left, while she herself Apparates to the right, into what's practically my blind spot. Apparating behind someone and acting immediately is difficult, because basic Apparition — and especially its simplified combat variant — moves you while keeping you oriented in the same direction you were facing at the moment of Apparition. And if you Apparate behind an opponent that way, then from your perspective the opponent ends up behind you as well — which wastes time.
Dropping out of my defence for split seconds a couple of times, I sent simple offensive spells at Tonks, not even bothering to consider their effect — it didn't matter. Tonks read this exactly as I intended — as an attempt to shift to a counter-attack. She deflected my half-hearted attack deftly, then instantly unleashed a burst of stunner, flash of light, and slippery floor, all aimed to my right, and Apparated.
My magical sensitivity, combined with a precise feel for space, told me the coordinates of Tonks's Apparition exit point, and without a second's delay I hurled a runic circle of seven symbols into that area, without even turning to face it.
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