We left the opening and headed further down the corridor.
"What was that anyway?"
Hmm. Well, technically, in the second-year textbooks there is a similar spell for single targets, designed to throw off the aggression of various swamp spirits and ghosts.
"DADA, second year. You should have covered it."
"Mmm… That's unlikely…" Justin shook his head as we hurriedly left the skirmish site. "Our teacher was terrible."
"Really? Hmm… Come to think of it, among Hermione's textbooks I didn't see DADA for the second year. But I saw a series of novels by a certain Lockhart. Not bad adventure novels. Except there's too much narcissism."
"Exactly. He taught DADA. A terrible teacher. Then it turned out that he appropriated the described feats for himself."
"So what?" I was surprised. "They're just books."
"But he passed them off as real. Even received awards for them."
"In that case, it is indeed an unworthy act. It's one thing—for the sake of literature. Another—for personal glory and profit."
When we almost reached the common room, Justin inquired:
"Will the Slytherins be okay?"
"I don't know."
"Uh?"
Stopping by the barrels, one of which is the entrance to the House common room, I looked at my comrade.
"From my actions—nothing. But someone might help them spoil their own health. If they find them before they wake up."
"They are, of course, not the best people…" Justin knocked on one of the barrels, and the passage opened. "But I don't exactly wish them harm."
"But they wish it on you. And me. And the likes of us."
"That hurts. By the way…" Justin stopped in the very passage, lowering his voice to a whisper. "…what if they ask us?"
"Speak as it is. The pure truth, but sort of cutting out the unnecessary."
"Ah, got it. My father told me about such things."
We finally entered the common room. I would like to say that everything was as usual, but no. There was clearly some kind of meeting going on. And our Head of House, Pomona Sprout, was here too. It seems she wears muffled clothes not only in classes, a fully wrapped dark brown robe and a hat from under which curled graying locks stick out.
Our appearance did not go unnoticed. The Head turned around, and her expression was benevolent but stern.
"Ah, Mr. Granger, Mr. Finch-Fletchley, you are the ones I was looking for."
"And we were looking for you, Professor," I immediately took matters into my own hands.
"Tell me on the way, let's go."
The Head briskly walked towards us, or rather—to the exit, well, and we followed her. As soon as we left the common room, I continued the conversation.
"Four students from Slytherin are lying at the entrance to the Owlery tower. We didn't know what to do and hurriedly headed to the common room—in case the Prefects, you, or someone who knows how to find… another 'someone' were here. Someone more competent."
Intentionally speaking simpler than usual, I showed slight confusion regarding the situation.
"And where are we going?" asked Justin. "Don't we need to provide help to the guys?"
"The Headmaster asked to bring you, gentlemen," the Head replied kindly, continuing to walk ahead of us. "But now I at least have guesses about the reasons for this. And why didn't you do anything yourselves? Left them lying there?"
"We didn't know what to do," I shrugged, though only Justin saw it. "It seems to me that in such a case one shouldn't touch anyone with hands or magic without diagnostics. You can lie down next to them or make the victim even worse."
"A correct assumption," the Head nodded. "It's a pity that such thoughts are rarely guided by. But can I be sure of you? Whatever happened to those guys, you didn't do it?"
"Undoubtedly, Professor Sprout," I nodded to the woman who turned for a moment.
Justin performed a similar maneuver, except silently. Silently we covered the entire remaining way up, to the entrance to the Headmaster's office. A very interesting entrance, I must note, because a high niche with a huge magical gargoyle statue, which moves aside and opens a passage to a spiral staircase when the correct password is pronounced, is quite unusual for these places. Yes, there are many passages in Hogwarts that I heard about or have already walked with others, but the gargoyle remains at the top of scale and complexity for now—this is not bowing to a portrait, not tickling a painted pear, not knocking on a barrel and other dances with a tambourine.
In the slight twilight, flooded with mystical blue light, the Headmaster's office looked extremely entertaining—that's exactly what a person unfamiliar with the quirks of old wizards would say. Time after time, from shard to shard—everywhere this manner of filling everything with beautiful, atmospheric, mysterious, and absolutely useless at both first and second glance, magical junk was traced. Usually, it's good if every fifth thing can bring real benefit. But, be that as it may, everything was indeed atmospheric—both antique furniture and incomprehensible spinning or hovering things. And the huge antique globe between two armchairs standing by the stairs up—above all praise! I want the same for myself. Just because, and that's it! After all, I am a kind of old man myself.
The Headmaster, grey-haired and bearded as before, sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on it. Opposite him stood Professor Snape, and a little further, near the armchairs, but not daring to sit down, stood the recently encountered Slytherins. They had an unpresentable look, and in this appearance, everyone would recognize the long-suffering victims of hooligan lawlessness.
"Oh, Pomona, come in…" the Headmaster with a neutral expression waved his hand in an inviting gesture.
"Headmaster," Justin and I nodded and walked forward with our Head of House, standing next to her.
"Now that everyone is gathered," the Headmaster folded his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. "We can sort out what happened. Severus, be so kind…"
"My students, Headmaster, claim that they were attacked near the entrance to the Owlery tower," Professor Snape spoke in an even and insinuating tone. "Attacked and brutally bewitched with dangerous spells, brought to an unconscious state, beaten in parting."
"Is that so, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore looked over his glasses at the blond standing still next to his comrades.
"Yes, Headmaster."
"And who could have done such a thing?"
"Granger together with Finch-Fletchley," Malfoy looked askance at us, and offense and indignation resonated in his voice.
"Mr. Granger, Mr. Finch-Fletchley," the Headmaster turned to us. "Is this true?"
"Allow me," I took a step forward, and as soon as the Headmaster nodded, continued: "Mr. Finch-Fletchley showed me the way to the Owlery so that I could send a letter to my relatives. We successfully coped with this task. As soon as we left the tower and found ourselves in the corridor, we saw unconscious, battered students from Slytherin lying there."
As soon as I paused to catch my breath, the dissatisfied Malfoy immediately expressed his opinion:
"Blatant lie."
"By no means," I shook my head. "We saw the guys. It is unknown what exactly happened, whether they have magical or physical injuries, and judging by the wands in their hands, some incident took place. I don't know how to provide first aid in such cases, just as I don't know diagnostic spells to find out exactly what is damaged. Do you, Justin?"
"No. I don't know either."
"Without saying a word, we hurriedly went to the nearest place where theoretically one could meet a competent wizard or someone who knows how to find this wizard. To the House common room. There we met the Head of House, Madam Sprout, and here we are."
The faces of the Slytherins did not hide their indignation.
"Well," the Headmaster leaned back in his bulky chair, looking more like an armchair, "it seems Hufflepuff students are telling the truth…"
"Check their wands…" Malfoy issued with restrained indignation, and clearly wanted to continue, but Professor Snape cut him off with a single gesture.
"Show restraint, Malfoy," Snape said dryly. "However…"
The Professor looked at us, at our Head of House, and then—at the Headmaster.
"Mr. Malfoy's suggestion is not devoid of rationality," Snape turned in our direction and wanted to menacingly overcome the dividing distance, but it didn't work out.
"Let me decide," Madam Sprout spoke deceptively affectionately, "whether my students' wands will be subjected to inspection or not."
"Is that allowed?" I didn't have to fake surprise. I didn't have to act, but exaggerating, and very strongly—yes. It seems I subconsciously considered the very possibility of this, but the confirmation just received plays an important role in a wizard's life.
"Hmph…" Malfoy snorted mockingly, and the other Slytherins clearly cheered up, looking at us condescendingly. Pure triumph was read in these glances.
No one answered me, so I spoke again:
"If it helps sort out the misunderstanding…" I took the wand out of the homemade holster on my forearm and offered it handle first. "For inspection."
"Indeed," Justin immediately bustled, taking out his and offering it in my manner.
"It seems, Pomona," the Headmaster smiled slightly into his beard, "the children themselves do not mind."
"In that case, I don't mind either," nodded our Head of House, taking a step to the side and letting Professor Snape pass to us.
Snape. An amusing sentient. All his manners and behavior are literally saturated with "displeasure" with everything around, but he took the wand in his hands extremely respectfully. Not to me—to the wand. One can immediately feel that this wizard is very partial to magic. Moving his hand over my wand, the Professor took it more comfortably, and slowly, separating words, and most importantly, as I noticed, clearly pronouncing them in the manner of Latin and without any English accent, uttered:
"Priori Incantatem."
Fog burst out of the wand, forming into images of objects to which I applied training spells yesterday. Snape looked clearly dissatisfied, and the Slytherins were puzzled. Next came the turn of Justin's wand. The images were slightly more precise but also related to the curriculum. Snape returned our wands to us with a dissatisfied expression on his face.
"It seems, my dears," the Headmaster looked demonstratively pleased. "Mr. Granger and Mr. Finch-Fletchley turned out to be innocent."
"But…" Malfoy wanted to be indignant, but was again interrupted by Professor Snape's gesture.
"Perhaps, purely theoretically," the Potions Master's voice was calm. "These students used wandless magic."
"Severus, don't be silly," Madam Sprout waved it off. "You, a strong, experienced, and talented wizard. Can you use much without a wand?"
"Enough," he replied succinctly.
"I am flattered," I smiled modestly, "that, given my life history, you suspect me of such mastery."
"Tsk…" Snape turned to the smirking Headmaster.
"Perhaps," with a share of modesty, I glanced at Dumbledore. "It is worth checking the other guys' wands? To dispel doubts?"
Professor Snape clearly wanted to object.
"Excellent idea," the Headmaster didn't let Snape get a word in. "That way we can find out the approximate appearance of the culprit of this terrible, blatant outrage."
Reluctantly, Snape obeyed, and approaching his students, silently held out his hand. It seems he keeps his blockheads in tight reins. At least the guys didn't even have a thought to contradict the Professor, although there was a desire.
"Priori Incantatem," the spell sounded again, and again we saw haze from the wand.
The image of the person to whom the Stupefy spell was applied was tangibly blurred, but even so, one of the big guys, Malfoy's comrades, was recognizable in it. The procedure was repeated several times, and each attempt revealed various attacking spells.
I caught myself thinking that the word "attacking," applied to those spells, caused a barely suppressed smirk. But no matter how funny and ridiculous these spells were, their type still remains attacking and, in principle, the elf's memory agrees with this—attacking magic does not always have to cause concomitant destruction and grand special effects. Sometimes a light prick is enough to bring down a mountain. And they cope successfully with the goal set before the spells.
The Slytherins generally did not understand how this was possible, and their faces sincerely expressed this misunderstanding. And me? Well, deceived kids, rejoicing. Although, what kids are they? Look, in one of the shards there are memories of how at this age, thirteen years old, one was already working hard, and could even manage to start a family. Here, as they say, everything depends on the point of view and habitat.
"So we, my dears," smiling, the Headmaster got up from the chair, "found out how it all was. But punishment should be issued for such deception. Don't you think so, Severus?"
"I will determine the punishment for my students myself, with your permission," the Professor replied dryly.
"No, no, Severus," Madam Sprout shook her head with a smile. "We all know how you 'punish' students of your House. And such an attitude towards my students is unacceptable. Minus ten points from each, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, and Mr. Nott. And…"
"For such outstanding Slytherins," Snape looked at Madam Sprout. "I have special cauldrons. And a week of detention with me."
"It is good that we sorted everything out," Dumbledore folded his hands behind his back. "You may be free, it is late."
"Follow me!" Snape threw shortly, sharply heading for the exit, his robes billowing behind him. The Slytherins briskly rushed to leave the office after their Head of House.
"Just thunder," I said in an almost inaudible whisper when Malfoy drew level with me.
"Good night, Headmaster," Madam Sprout nodded to Dumbledore with a smile, and we nodded too.
"And to you," the Headmaster nodded in response, heading somewhere deep into his office.
When we left this amusing place and headed along the corridors following our clearly cheered-up Head of House, she, Madam Sprout, decided to talk about much more mundane issues.
"Mr. Granger, Hector. You don't mind if I use your first name?"
"Not at all."
"How is school, Hector? How are the kids? How are the subjects?"
In general, albeit without much desire, I began to talk about purely positive moments. If I were younger, more foolish, without shards of someone else's memory, I might have found something to be offended by, something to dislike. But even the understanding that children are quite cruel, and teenagers differ little from them, did not worry me much—it is unlikely they will be able to "out-nightmare" the memory of shards, in which there is more than enough of various horrors both magical and in terms of actions. And as I have already learned, thanks to the same shards—there is a time for everything. Now, in this life of mine, it is time for, so to speak, "Entertaining Hogwarts" with its magic, fun, and hobbies.
In the common room, when we returned, there were quite a few students, and everyone began to question both Justin and me, and Madam Sprout, with undisguised anxiety about the reasons for the summons to the Headmaster, if anything happened, and all that. This is even a little pleasant. But, as the Headmaster said, it is late, and a schedule is an important factor in the successful growing up of a young organism, that is, me.