The Combat Magic classroom was furnished in the most spartan manner possible. No intimidating posters or diagrams, no specimens, only desks, a large dark chalkboard, the teacher's table, and black chandeliers beneath the vault of the ceiling.
We sixth-years went inside fairly quickly and began seating ourselves wherever, and only with the last of us, Potter and Weasley, did the professor enter, heading for the table at a brisk stride. While we got out our textbooks, notebooks, parchments, and other things under the professor's stern and none-too-pleased gaze — some doing so rather hastily — I listened in on the feel of the energies around us. And not without reason, as it turned out: from the professor's left hand came a familiar magic, like Snape's or Mr Malfoy's, or that of other Death Eaters, as the group of the Dark Lord's followers is called. Curious. And theoretically dangerous.
"Attention," the professor said drily, sweeping her gaze over everyone. "How lovely, students from the Houses sitting all mixed together."
The professor's lips twitched into a smirk, and Daphne and I, sitting at the same desk virtually at the epicentre of this inter-House mingling, exchanged a brief glance.
"Contrary to my wishes, I have been appointed to you here at Hogwarts as a teacher of… Combat Magic," now the professor's face showed slight contempt, though not everyone would have caught it. "So, for form's sake, I welcome you to the advanced course in the subject formerly known as Defence Against the Dark Arts. The aims of the course before me are perfectly clear — to give you the knowledge to successfully pass your NEWT in the subject. But that's only part of it, albeit a large part. For once, useful changes and additions have been made to the course."
The professor flicked her wand, and not-the-tidiest text appeared on the board in white chalk, and I couldn't help noticing Draco, gone considerably pale and extremely surprised, staring wide-eyed either at the professor or at her unusual black wand, which looked more like a slightly curved claw.
The information on the board about the Combat Magic syllabus for sixth and seventh years could be divided into two columns — preparation directly for the NEWT in accordance with the requirements of that programme, and a second column, marked as the basics of conducting magical engagements.
Some students, at the sight of the items in the second column, began actively whispering, which was no surprise — combat magic had always beckoned, yet no one had ever wished to personally witness their spell tearing a person to pieces.
"The magical world conceals within it a multitude of threats," the professor continued, beginning to pace back and forth before the rows of desks, floridly waving her wand by her head. "However, it is not some werewolves, Dementors, manticores, and certainly not all manner of small fry that are its chief source. The most insidious, cunning, powerful, and dangerous source of threat always has been, is, and will be the wizard himself."
The youngsters muttered and shifted, and I merely smirked.
"It is precisely another wizard who is the most serious threat. Yes, this wizard may be a pathetic nonentity," the professor waved off her wand-holding hand in some caricatured gesture, "and may know one or two serious spells, but the spells may be precisely the kind meant to harm or kill you. And you may be as excellent a potioneer or transfigurer as you like, you may know thousands of spells, brandishing your books and your understanding, but a single spell may prove enough to make you dead. A good start?"
The professor smirked rather predatorily, which sent shivers through many, judging by their flinches.
"Magical combat — and any other kind — is not a noble duel, of the sort: 'Pray, sir,'" the professor permitted herself a slight bit of mimicry, playing with her voice, "'draw your wand, for I do intend, on the count of three, to apply a terrible, terrible spell to you.'"
Someone even smiled at the impromptu bit.
"There'll be none of that. If they attack, they won't fight one on one. They'll strike with whatever force they have. Silently. Without challenges or warnings. No one will seek out the complicated route to disable you, disarm you, take you prisoner, unless that's the task at hand. So, in this Combat Magic course you will learn to survive. To learn to understand when it's just some absurd scuffle for some purpose or other, and when you can take part without risking your life, and when you need to clear out as fast as possible. To that end you'll be studying not so much spells as techniques. And we'll begin with nonverbal magic."
The youngsters perked up, though, judging by Potter's and Weasley's faces, and some others', the very concept of "clearing out fast" wasn't to their liking at all.
"Now then, children," the professor surveyed the class with a smirk, "who can tell me why we even need nonverbal spellcasting?"
No one was in a hurry to answer, though Hermione raised her hand.
"Does no one really have any thoughts? What a pity. You," the professor nodded at Hermione. "Got something to say?"
"Hermione Granger…" my little sister was about to introduce herself, having been taught the necessity of doing precisely that first.
"I didn't ask your name, but let's say. I'm listening," the professor, clearly out of habit, let her pride break through, lifting her head a touch higher.
"The opponent doesn't know in advance which spell you intend to cast," Hermione answered boldly and confidently. "This gives you a tiny advantage in time."
"Charming," the professor smirked. "If I'd wanted a quote from the textbook, I'd have opened the textbook. I need to see understanding of what's been said. Second attempt?"
Hermione frowned, thinking quickly.
"When an opponent pronounces a spell, you hear it. Most spells have a unique verbal formula. Having heard the beginning, you can already guess what's about to happen, and on that basis come up with… come up with countermeasures."
"Come up with?" the professor tilted her head to one side.
"Yes, Professor."
"Sounds right, but your mistake lies in the very essence of understanding the process."
What both the professor and Hermione had said caused confusion among the students, since it did sound right. I understood where the problem lay, and perhaps others did too — there, Malfoy was shaking his head sadly.
"But surely…"
The professor, who'd been twirling her wand in her hands near her head, lightning-quick pointed it slightly off to the side of Hermione — I saw and understood it, but there are certain habits that are hard to fight and that I'd drilled. My little sister was, in essence, standing right beside me, and so my wand simply slid into my hand of its own accord. The professor, in a fraction of a second, pronounced:
"Stupefy."
The extremely fast, almost instantaneous beam nearly flew past Hermione, who from inexperience hadn't even had time to flinch, but it struck the Protego shield I'd silently put up — it barely reached, since the shield does, after all, form around the wand.
"Come up with much?" the professor smirked, returning her wand-hand to its starting position, continuing to twirl it merrily in the air, and shifting her gaze to me. "Most commendable speed, but you oughtn't spoil the pedagogical process and the demonstration. All the more so since I was aiming to the side, not at her."
"I know, Professor," I nodded, putting away my wand under the gaze of slightly surprised students, since I demonstrated the speed of my spellcasting exceedingly rarely. "Just a habit."
"I'll repeat the question," the professor was again looking at Hermione, who'd pulled herself together. "Come up with much?"
"No, Professor."
"The answer is in the words of this one here," the professor nodded in my direction, "this student."
"Habit?" Hermione understood it all at once.
"Yes. Sit down. Let me explain for those who understood nothing. In spellcasting the word sounds before the beam, or other effect, appears. Earlier by fractions of a second, but earlier. It is precisely these fractions of a second that grant extra time. But time not for thinking — the thinking should have been done earlier. These moments allow some habit of yours to manifest. Without deliberation. Without warming up."
From her face and the contained expression it was evident this was personal experience, not just some postulate read or heard somewhere.
"If you hear 'Bombarda' nearby, then you mustn't go swivelling your head around, thinking, 'Oh, who's casting Bombarda there?'" — notes of sardonic mockery, a parody of someone, lent her words, on top of seriousness, also notes of humour — "but put up a defence or drop, so they don't blow you up or shred you with the blast fragments. And do it earlier than even the realisation that someone somewhere is casting."
The professor walked through the class and stood by her table, looking us all over.
"There's a Mordred's multitude of such nuances. So you'll be drilling those too. But, back to nonverbal magic. Be that as it may, verbal spellcasting in skilled hands is little worse than nonverbal, but worse nonetheless. And so, command of nonverbal magic, or at least a minimal set of spells, is an excellent advantage. Incidentally, skills in nonverbal spellcasting are mandatory for passing the NEWT. If anyone's troubled by marks rather than the skills to survive. And now…"
The professor smirked.
"You will pair up and take turns attempting to apply a nonverbal spell and nonverbal casting of a charm. Yes?"
The professor looked at Padma, who had timidly raised her hand.
"Won't you tell us the method? And what if someone doesn't know the Shield Charm?"
"Doesn't know it?" the professor's face expressed a certain shock, simultaneously with a smirk, which in combination looked rather funny and absurd. "And what are you even doing here if you don't know the Shield Charm? That's fifth-year material on a mandatory basis, and many master the spell much earlier. You don't know it?"
"I know it, just, in case someone doesn't…"
Oh, sure. As if. Only the Slytherins, excepting Daphne and Draco, hadn't come to our gatherings of Anonymous DADA Enthusiasts, and Protego was drilled well enough to perform it on every first attempt. In a calm setting, at least.
"And as for methods, there is no single method. There's only one thing — cast and keep trying. Every wizard has his own doxies in his head," the professor smirked and touched her temple with the tip of her wand. "And what makes one wizard cast nonverbally may turn out to be useless for another."
In the end we all got up from our seats, the professor with one careless but demonstrative gesture pushed all the desks against the walls and windows, freeing up space in the classroom, and we quickly paired off. I stood with a pale but very serious Draco, Daphne with Pansy, Hermione with Parvati, Padma's sister… In short, no one was left without a partner — lucky, an even number of students.
Drilling everything with Malfoy was easy and simple, we possessed such skills ourselves. What was amusing was that Malfoy didn't want to outdo me, to show off or anything — he simply showed what he saw fit, carried out the set task, and the most amusing thing was that he stood so as to keep the professor in his field of vision.
Daphne and Pansy were making progress too, but I noticed that if Daphne hadn't cast easily with a smirk, Pansy wouldn't have shown she could cast nonverbally either. And Daphne? Daphne is still delighting in the fact that since receiving my bracelet, her progress in wand magic has been galloping ahead.
Over time, many began to manage the set task, but some had difficulties — Weasley, for example. Or there, Zacharias kept putting up Protego but couldn't produce a single simple attacking spell. Although, what "attack" could there be when what's being deployed is various Jelly-Legs, Sticking, Tickling, and other curses and hexes of that level?
The professor simply stood, watching everyone at once, holding each in the sights of her sharp gaze. Arms folded under her chest and beating out a rhythm with her wand into the void, into the air, she looked utterly exasperated with everything — beginning with the fact that we weren't carrying out the set task at once, and ending with the very fact of her presence here.
"How long is this going to take!" the professor exclaimed indignantly, which made everyone abruptly cease their attempts.
The professor moved purposefully towards Weasley.
"What are you straining and reddening for? Do you want to burst, or finally conjure something after all?"
"I'm trying," Ron puffed up.
"Then you're trying badly. I can see from your face that all you're thinking about is, 'Ooh, just watch me conjure now!'"
"Erm… No."
"The redhead's answer. Along with the gesture, pronounce the spell in your mind, maybe at least that'll help you. Try again. There, the others have already managed it."
The redhead took offence and frowned, as though someone had trodden on a sore corn, but he overcame himself, getting support from Potter and an approving nod, concentrated, and began not just to strain in silence, jabbing his wand towards Potter, but to make more deliberate flicks, building up the amplitude.
"You've got a wand in your hands, not a fan, for goodness' sake!" the professor exclaimed indignantly. "Stop waving it about mindlessly…"
Hermione came over to me, since the general training was over.
"He always waves when it isn't working," she sighed with a faint sort of sadness. "It's been like that with him since first year, and he still waves."
Ron strained, but in the end, when the professor clearly wanted to hit him with something already, just so as not to see him — her eye was even twitching — the redhead conquered himself and produced a nonverbal Slugulus Eructo, safely and rather sharply deflected back by Potter.
"Buh-ehh…"
A little behind me stood Malfoy with Crabbe and Goyle — they'd follow him anywhere — and at the sight of the first slug Ron belched up, he said one phrase quietly:
"Tch… A nonentity he was, and a nonentity he's stayed…"
It was said very, very quietly, barely audible even to me.
"How lovely," the professor cooed with feigned tenderness. "Seemingly a success, yet still a failure. But well done, unknown redheaded boy. Finite."
"Thanks…" Ron coughed, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his robe. "I think…"
"Professor," Potter took a step forward, lending Ron his shoulder. "Will you only be teaching us to defend ourselves?"
"Of course…"
Carefully concealed antipathy flashed for an instant in this woman's gaze.
"And what if we have to fight back? Not simply flee, but defend ourselves?"
"That is, you want to be able to actually fight… Mister… Potter?"
"Of course," he nodded importantly.
"And who exactly does Mister Potter wish to fight?"
"Voldemort."
That name from Potter's lips practically provoked a flash of indignation in the professor, but she restrained herself and barely changed expression. Barely, for hardness came through in the features of that very face.
"Yes?" the smirk crept back onto the professor's face. "That is, you… you all want to fight the Dark Lord and his forces? Numerous, by the way."
"Yes," Potter answered resolutely, a little surprised. And what had he expected? Denial?
Though he no doubt thinks, on account of Snape's words at the feast on the first of September, that since the Ministry has turned its attention to education, but not in the way it did with Umbridge, then surely they'll be denying their failure, expressed in his return. Well, not so.
"Who am I to stop you?" the professor simply turned and walked off to her table. "He who seeks death shall find it."
Sitting down at the table, the professor flicked her quirky black wand, and the desks stood back in their places.
"Sit down and write down the homework…"
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