The first year had come to an end. Now, looking back, I saw how much I had managed to accomplish.
In the beginning, I was almost an ordinary first-year student — a Malfoy, sure, but still just another kid in a robe. Now things were different. In Slytherin, I had managed to gather a strong circle around me. Avery and Cassius were my inner circle: friends with whom I could scheme, joke, or seriously discuss future plans. Graham wasn't as close, but he had become a reliable and obedient assistant: he enjoyed being near me and sincerely respected me.
The other Slytherin first-years also tried to stay close, showed respect, and preferred not to argue directly. And if they did, they did so cautiously, understanding that an open conflict would end very badly for them. Alistair Yarwood had already become an example of that: having lost some of his followers and friends, he was essentially stripped of any chance to compete with me. Let him try again in our second year, but he no longer posed any threat to my authority.
Blackmore had also ended up in my circle, though I couldn't trust him as much as I trusted Marcus. He initially had his own group of guys around him — Flint, Simon, and others — but now, by drawing Dexter closer to me, I gained control over his circle as well.
With the girls, things were no less interesting. Amanda, the unofficial leader, maintained a friendly relationship with me, and her influence over the others only strengthened my position. Even Knox, her eternal rival, treated me favorably. We weren't close friends, but she understood that I was not someone to pick a fight with.
All in all, it meant I had truly become the leader of the Slytherin first-years. Not an absolute one, obeyed without question, but one whose opinion was listened to and around whom people gathered. If I asked someone to fetch a book from the library or grab a snack from the Great Hall, most would do it without objection. My plan had worked: in this sandbox, I had managed to demonstrate leadership qualities.
My physical condition hadn't lagged behind, either. I hadn't skipped my morning exercises for a single day. I could now comfortably hold a plank for three to four minutes, and a little longer if I gritted my teeth. After that, I would immediately do push-ups: sixty in a row, even if the last ones were done with trembling arms and heavy breathing. For a twelve-year-old boy, that was a more than respectable result. I didn't weigh much, which made it easier, but I still felt my body had grown stronger.
My progress in magic was even more noticeable. In a year, I had expanded my arsenal to thirty-seven spells — yes, I was counting. More than half I could cast non-verbally, and some even without wand movements. For a first-year, that was an almost incredible level.
Yes, I still hadn't found the Room of Requirement, though I had looked. But that was just a matter of time. On the other hand, I had tied Blackmore to myself, strengthened my friendship with Avery and Cassius, and together with them created the foundation for a future circle.
Sometimes I caught myself thinking that I could have taken the Marauder's Map from Filch. With my meta-knowledge, I knew where the twins had stolen it from. But I didn't. For now, it was superfluous, and I wanted to feel the atmosphere, to explore the castle on my own, walking with friends and soaking in the magical ambiance. It was more important for me to explore the castle this way — with friends, step by step — and in that, I wasn't mistaken. The castle revealed itself to us differently than if I had taken the map and relied on it blindly. Of course, knowing the location of every inhabitant of the castle could have helped me a lot, but I was managing without it for now. I still had six years to take it at the right moment, when it would truly become necessary.
I had also strengthened my mind. The forgetfulness that had plagued me at first had become almost unnoticeable, leaving behind only a slight absent-mindedness — and even that was borderline normal.
The year had been successful. Small steps had formed a great path. Slytherin had won the Cup, I had finished my first year with top grades, begun to comprehend the magical arts, and much more. In terms of personal power, however, it was still modest. I couldn't knock out dragons with a flick, nor surpass Dark Lords and great wizards; after all, I was living in the real world, not some second-rate fanfiction. At the very least, I had grown stronger in both body and magic. I had taken the first steps toward my own goals. Fortunately, I had those goals.
But this was only the beginning.
Ahead lay the summer. And I already knew how I would fill it. We had a training room at home, and I planned to use it every day, just like the library, from which I needed to extract the maximum during the two-month holidays. Ideally, I should ask my parents to hire a dueling tutor. I could create a training program for myself, but a mentor would offer more: experience, new combinations, an understanding of combat tactics. However, I also knew how to train alone — a full year at Hogwarts had proven that. I'm just afraid my parents might not grant my request yet, but I will try.
But no matter what, this summer I would become stronger. Stronger in magic, in body, and in the ability to lead others. And upon returning to Hogwarts, I would no longer be just a first-year, but the best version of myself that I had striven for all year.
***
The July heat hung over the manor grounds. The stone walls slowly radiated warmth, and it seemed even the air sparked with tension. Mr. Rowland Krieger, my dueling tutor, appeared, as always, right on the dot: nine o'clock sharp. No delays, no excuses. It's convenient to have the Tempus Charm in one's arsenal, though it requires a link to a timepiece, otherwise it won't work. But now I always knew the exact time.
"Bereit?" (Ready?) — he tossed out shortly, tapping his silver wand against his palm a couple of times. He did this movement every time, as if checking his weapon before a fight.
"Ja," (Yes,) — I replied, trying not to show how dry my throat was.
I hadn't even finished my wand motion when my Flipendo was already flying into the wall, as if I'd thrown a stone at it. The tutor masterfully redirected spells.
"Schneller, Malfoy! Schneller!" (Faster, Malfoy! Faster!)
I went on the offensive with a combination. A non-verbal Petrificus Totalus, then an Impedimenta — a jinx of obstruction. But he moved with such precision that it seemed he was a couple of seconds ahead of my thoughts. He moved his body like a snake, dodging the barrage of spells. Sometimes, very rarely, he used Protego or a similar defensive charm, but often he limited himself to a small area of deployment, literally catching spells on his wand.
In such moments, I had the opportunity to go all out without fear of a counterattack, and I accelerated to the maximum. A red burst of a Banishing Charm was followed by another, and then a green, spark-hissing projectile flew into the mix. Though this basic Verdimillious couldn't pierce the shield, I didn't need it to.
"Schwach. Glaubst du, Geschwindigkeit ersetzt Kraft?" (Weak. Do you think speed replaces power?)
In response, I switched to a pre-planned move: Another green spark projectile hid two Stunning Spells in quick succession. After all, non-verbal magic gives a serious boost to casting speed.
He didn't even blink — simply slashed with a Diffindo. The sickle-shaped cutting charm split the spark projectile in half, revealing my 'gifts' prematurely. Mr. Krieger easily dodged, and a simple, non-verbal Petrificus Totalus flew towards me.
I twisted my torso slightly, trying to sidestep and move my body out of the line of attack, but at that moment, a small flock of birds, conjured by the Avis charm half a minute ago — which I hadn't even noticed — swarmed me. I had to postpone the final stages of my plan and defend myself.
The flaps of my robe parted, my shoulder burned with a thin scratch from a Diffindo that had grazed me. This wasn't a demonstration, but a warning through the conjured birds: if I had stepped slightly to the right, I would have walked right into the cutting charm, hidden outside my field of vision. The tutor wasn't afraid to wound me slightly, but he kept the duel completely under control. I wouldn't lose a limb, but the lesson was clear.
"Das ist ein Duell, kein Jahrmarkt. Reiß dich zusammen!" (This is a duel, not a fairground. Pull yourself together!) — he said coldly.
I gritted my teeth and surged forward. Closing the distance — since I had nothing to oppose him with at range. While running, spells constantly shot from my wand, simply preventing the tutor from responding, at least in this training duel where he was more playing with me than fighting. If we had a real duel, I'd be dead in 1-2 seconds. But that's because I'm a child who was hired a dueling tutor.
The tutor, of course, didn't let me get close. Several spells shot from his wand in a fraction of a second. Protego held against the first volley, but the shield couldn't withstand it: a Banishing Charm hit my chest, followed by a non-verbal Rictusempra finishing me off. I collapsed onto the stone floor of the Malfoy Manor training room and, writhing from unbearable tickling, laughed, begging for mercy.
Somehow getting up, I looked at the approaching tutor.
Rowland Krieger — a name known in dueling circles since the nineties. In 1981, he took second place at the European Championship in Leipzig, losing only to a Hungarian master. In 1983, he again reached the semi-finals and took third place. His record includes three third-place and two second-place finishes in European dueling championships. So he regularly reached the finals, but never became champion.
He was known for an aggressive fighting style: minimal incantations, maximum non-verbal casting, and constant pressure on the opponent.
Tall, with broad shoulders, a lush chestnut mustache, and typical German features. But the main detail of his appearance was the scar stretching from his cheekbone to his ear. For training, he invariably wore a simple black robe fastened up to the neck, and had a habit of adjusting his left cuff before starting an exercise — as if checking that the fabric didn't restrict his movements.
He spoke quickly, in a sharp German, and never raised his voice — but it seemed the opposite: his intonations already held enough harshness. Every movement radiated experience: his steps were measured, as if the very word "confusion" didn't exist for him; his wand movements were maximally economical, and the wand itself always seemed half a step ahead of the opponent's intention.
"Gut. Jetzt hast du richtig angefangen. Aber das ist immer noch kein Kampf, nur Gelächter und Spiele. Ganz und gar nicht ein echtes Duell." (Good. Now you started correctly. But it's still not a fight, just laughter and games. Not a real Duel at all.)
"Für ein Spiel zielen Sie etwas zu … accurately,"(For a game, you aim a bit too... accurately) — I exhaled the second part of the sentence in English, failing to find the German words.
The tutor didn't even react. He held his wand with two fingers, as if saying, "Go on, try, hit me."
I clenched my teeth and with a sharp wand movement, sent a spell at him: Incendio flew first. Right after the ball of fire heading towards the target, I sent a Diffindo. Flashes of spells accompanied every swish of my wand, but the outcome was predictable: with two light flicks of his wand, the tutor deflected the spells into the walls of the training room. Both without result, and I was left with nothing again.
"So besser. Aber du musst listig und klug sein. Schüler... ihr alle wollt die Mauer einreißen. Ein Duellant sucht den Riss. Und jetzt fangen wir nochmal an." (Better. But you must be cunning and smart. A student... you all want to break the wall. A duelist looks for a crack. And now we start again.)
I swallowed, gripping my wand tighter. It became clear from the first days of training that I couldn't break through his defenses with simple spells. The tutor could block almost any beam-based spell, and where he couldn't, he dodged, put up a shield, or destroyed the spell mid-flight. His shield held everything: fireballs, cutting charms, combinations of Banishing and Stunning Spells. In my arsenal, I had nothing truly lethal against his Protego. Though... I think it's not a simple Protego, but something like Protego Duo or Trio, or perhaps something even stronger.
Even if I did hit him, it would be of little use — he read my intentions, shifting his defense beforehand. But the worst was something else: his skill in spell redirection. He batted away charms as if swatting flies.
Spell redirection is monstrously demanding of a wizard's skill and control, but if a wizard can pull it off, it becomes not only an absolute defense against most beam spells but also a last chance, say, to deflect or redirect in the desired direction.
Since I was inferior in all parameters, I needed to use the teacher's advice. I needed to be cunning.
I raised my wand and unleashed a barrage of Banishing Charms on him. Red impulses of spells shot out one after another, almost like machine-gun fire. I had never shown such rapid-fire before. The spells found their target, crashing against the tutor's shield or his raised wand, with which he batted everything away into the walls, causing only a faint magical crackle — after all, the walls in the training room were designed for full-fledged destructive magic. But I wasn't looking there anymore — with a wave of my wand, I lifted a heavy bench from against the wall.
You can't just bat that away. At this point, I could lift even a cabinet with Wingardium Leviosa, let alone a bench. Pouring more power into it, I sent it into a swift flight. By this time, Krieger had already dealt with the barrage of spells.
The professional duelist raised an eyebrow slightly but didn't flinch. Instantly, he slowed the bench, which stopped powerless almost in front of the tutor's face.
Simultaneously with the first Flipendo, before throwing the bench, I had also sent several Incendio spells upwards, under the ceiling, hoping to catch him off guard. Several, because calculating the exact landing spot was extremely difficult. I decided not to rely on a miracle and started burying him with quantity, sending various spells directly at the tutor.
He had to simultaneously deal with the bench, the spells starting to fall from above, and the barrage of spells I was currently showering him with.
For a moment, I thought I had won. Or at least grazed him — which would already be considered my victory. But my dreams were shattered: the next moment, that very bench came whistling towards me. Its speed was such that I only managed to knock it away with a precise Flipendo at the last moment.
And immediately after, I had to block my own Incendio spells with my shield. How he managed that — I never understood.
The flaring lights cascaded over the surface of my Protego, and I could only think: HOW!?
But I didn't have time to figure it out. I was sent flying along with the shield, as if from a ramming blow. The tutor not only emerged without a scratch but also managed to defeat me with my own attacks.
"Nicht schlecht." (Not bad.) — he said, his lips twisting sparingly into a semblance of a smile.
I tried to get up. But that was a mistake.
The tutor's wand twitched for a moment, and another spell hit me.
"Baubillious!"
White lightning tore through the air, blinding with its bright light. The impact in my chest felt like being poked with a red-hot rod. I dropped the wand I had miraculously held onto, my breath caught. And my whole body felt as if it had been pricked with needles.
The next spell was Incarcerous. Ropes shot out from the air by themselves, wrapping around my arms and torso, squeezing painfully. I collapsed to my knees, grinding my teeth.
Krieger came closer, looking down at me.
"Gut durchdacht," (Well thought out,) — he said in German. Then he added in English, not without German words: "But you are playing against einen Meister, Junge. And your cunning is still vorhersehbar. And you lack experience."
His English was far from perfect, but that's precisely why I was glad for the opportunity to practice German — with a native speaker. The more languages you know, the more you are worth as a person.
He snapped his fingers, and the ropes disappeared as if they had never been.
"Steh auf. Wir wiederholen." (Get up. We repeat.)
I got up, feeling the burning in my chest from the lightning and the fury at my own helplessness. But giving up would be stupid. Every defeat is a lesson.
And I didn't plan to lose forever.