Funny how easily you can wrap a lie in the plain packaging of simple gossip and set a fabrication flying, like an owl-delivered letter that will find its recipient regardless. Even funnier is that an upper-year student, and a prefect at that, didn't even think to check the anonymous letter for any harmful magic, believing every word like a child who just entered the magical world for the first time.
Let's skip the part about the rather interesting potion the paper was infused with. A sharp aroma, with a hint of something resembling sulfur. Even the ink was half composed of this potion. The danger was that it didn't dry completely and changed its hue, emitting a faint smell of metal and acidity. But the Gryffindor, succumbing to emotion, noticed nothing. He took the bait, and my plan proceeded along the best possible scenario, though I had counted on a more thoughtful player and prepared more reliable options in case the letter didn't have the desired effect.
Two backup scenarios, weaker in terms of final effect but more reliable, weren't needed. Fortunately, fortune chose the most effective path. A fortunate one for me and my entire little army, which I now considered to be almost our entire Slytherin year.
There was only one truly dangerous moment. But I considered the possibility of him completely losing it as not that significant. Although, as practice showed, the potion strongly affected both the mind and the emotional state.
If the Gryffindor prefect had completely snapped, it could have ended with a Cutting Charm at point-blank range — and then no teachers would have managed to save Unsworth's neck, given how close Farmus was standing.
Now it remained to focus on the next stage. Tomorrow — a public duel to first blood. If we weren't schoolchildren, Farmus could have even challenged to a duel to the death, or rather a Personal Duel, where it's somewhat frowned upon to kill, but despite condemnation, it happened all too often. As it is, it's just a pitiful imitation of a personal duel under the strict supervision of teachers.
Here, even the reason isn't so significant, and upon the duel's conclusion, the loser must, in any case, admit their guilt and apologize.
Generally, this type of duel was the first in the classification of duels. An Honorable or Personal Duel — a response to a challenge for an insult or a matter of honor; usually unofficially limited to a 'non-lethal' goal (disparagement, humiliating defeat).
At the same time, in case of death, no one would do anything to you. Unless, of course, some Auror has a grudge against you and wants to dig into whether you were truly offended or just wanted to kill someone.
Such a vague situation where, on one hand, you can kill almost with impunity, and on the other, in case of a weak reason for the challenge and subsequent intentional killing, you could easily be sent to Azkaban for about five years. The wizarding world loves double standards. Five years in Azkaban for a killing during a duel is almost a resort compared to twenty for a regular murder, and on the lower levels at that.
I love these legal loopholes — for murder, you get twenty years; for a duel — five, if you survive. As if the difference in aesthetics makes death more respectable.
Interestingly, for killing a Muggle, you get the same five years in Azkaban, that is, the same as for killing a full-fledged wizard during a duel. And a killing during a duel counts as a mitigating circumstance during sentencing, i.e., as unintentional killing. It's amazing how cheaply life without magic is valued.
As with Muggles, killing Squibs or other sentient species, including even werewolves outside their beast form, gives a much shorter sentence. Though not as laughably short as with ordinary people. By the way, for killing a werewolf in beast form, you might not get any sentence at all — but all this, of course, here in Britain.
In France, for example, the law protects other sentient species, as well as werewolves and vampires, quite well. But in any case, life could be considered the cheapest, even compared to some goblin, who fought against us for a long time before becoming our bankers. And it's no surprise: wizards are inherently superior to ordinary people due to their ability to control a certain type of energy without tools… Well, except for the many who aren't much different from a Muggle without a wand.
I could muse about this for a long time — and, in fact, that's exactly what I was doing, lying in bed at night, looking at the ceiling and listening to my own thoughts, which flowed like a viscous potion.
Regarding the threat from ordinary people… Don't make me laugh. Such a threat cannot exist in principle, at least not now. It's not even about the crude ability to kill one's own kind… No, not at all. It's also not about numbers. The entire strength of wizards lies in mental magic, a branch that developed to a known level precisely thanks to breakthroughs around the time the Statute of Secrecy was adopted. That is, in the 17th century.
Before that, ordinary people, or rather the Inquisition, relying on the power of the Pope and wizards recruited in childhood, quite successfully repelled European wizards — even without firearms and atomic bombs.
Now, a few Muggle-repelling charms are enough to hide anything from the eyes of the ever-present common folk. If a hypothetical war were to start between those with magic and those without, it would end instantly. All it would take is a couple of wizards from that country skilled in mental magic — and the entire ruling elite would become loyal to wizards.
The conclusion is simple: we hide not to survive. The same Memory Charms repeatedly wipe people's memories clean. And to subjugate a prime minister, a president, a secret service director, or an ordinary worker by magic — anyone — makes no difference. Those in power know this perfectly well, and they are completely satisfied with magical guards hidden among regular security personnel. And whose people are they? Right, the Ministry of Magic's.
The Muggle government… they all turn a blind eye to any magical incidents, always accommodate wizards — otherwise, they face such subjugation through mental magic that even the Imperius Curse smokes nervously on the sidelines.
The main problem is that it's impossible to reach an agreement with all magical governments. Therefore, any interference in the minds of elites from other countries will be quickly stopped — people with real power are always guarded by one to several wizards, and not just any, but experienced Aurors or their equivalents. That's why a dozen enthusiasts or even an entire magical country cannot break the Statute.
This picture seems extremely depressing to me. We, wizards, have driven ourselves into a corner, spending colossal resources on maintaining the Statute of Secrecy and losing most of the planet in the process. At the same time, from a rational standpoint, we are one species, so I didn't even consider radical steps. There is a difference between us, but I felt it more distinctly than others. And therefore, for me, Homo magicus and Homo sapiens were different, but not in mind, meaning they had equal rights to live on the same planet. The only question is, I didn't want such a pitiful fate for us wizards.
If I told anyone my thoughts, people would think I was a follower of Grindelwald's ideas. But no. My position differed fundamentally — in everything, even in possible implementation.
Oh, and I've drifted far in my thoughts. I hate it when, like this, at three in the morning, thoughts rush through my head, and all you need is to sleep — because you have to get up early tomorrow. Why now? Although I know the answer.
Lately, I've spent too much time refining further steps and coordinating actions. As a result, there was no time left for my own thoughts — so now I'm thinking about everything and nothing. And it all started because, casting Petrificus Totalus on myself before sleep, I habitually turned inward to work on my mind.
For now, I didn't need to build artificial defenses: if someone could bypass the natural ones, my primitive construct wouldn't hold a malevolent intruder for long anyway. So, I focused on sorting memories. I was meticulously arranging everything on shelves, forming a vast network of interconnected crystals filled with memories. The more I sorted, the more interesting the picture became. I felt my memory sharpening, thoughts flowing faster, and long-forgotten things… even what seemed erased forever — resurfaced. However, this didn't concern the memories of "that" me. But I did remember something I had forgotten during the peak of the problem with the two sets of memories.
It's so good that the issue of merging, though not completely resolved, is no longer critical and dangerous… Good that I risked delving into mental magic back then.
So, I remembered Peeves. Or rather, the other day I encountered that scoundrel throwing spiders from above onto the heads of passing students. The spell I learned against ectoplasm — and partly against ghosts and poltergeists — scared him off quite well, and he disappeared somewhere. I, in turn, received thanks from first-years who couldn't get into a classroom because of his laughter and falling spiders.
Apparently, the demonic image I encountered last Samhain surfaced in my head. And after all, it's almost the end of October. Sorting through the memory of that day, I finally managed to remember that even back then, I wanted to ask the Bloody Baron about Peeves. Of all the ghosts, only Peeves feared or respected him, so the Baron must have known something.
The Bloody Baron frightened many, even our Slytherins. The blood on his clothes remained just as terrifying, even in ghostly form — the blood of those hundreds of people, the blood of the one he loved, and his own. And nothing, not even death, washed away these stains. And the chains were a sign of his repentance… they rattled and dragged the bloody figure, endlessly reminding him of his sins. Terrible deeds committed in life had haunted him for a whole millennium. And what did he hide that even Peeves feared him?
Eternal repentance is the worst form of immortality. Much worse than death. I understood that among us, the living, there are no fewer such "barons" — it's just that their chains are invisible and only jingle in their heads.
Of course, he was frightening. But for some reason, I could talk to him. My hands didn't tremble when I looked closely at the blood covering part of his face and clothes. Strange to realize, but even if I were very scared, my hands still wouldn't tremble. They never tremble — not from fear, not from an anxious situation. Except maybe after a good workout, they betrayingly shake when there's no strength left even for a wand flick.
And I still do push-ups and planks in the mornings, and stretch before training. I can't imagine what would happen to an ordinary wizard if they used as many spells in a day as I do. And I often manage without wand movements.
Sometimes I go so deep into the mind's thicket that I forget where the stream of consciousness started. But one thing remained clear: tomorrow, and the days after, would bring many tasks. And I was already busy with studies, constant training, intrigues… Now weekly meetings and the plan's execution were added to that. Probably the most complex of the intrigues I've conducted so far. Though my experience is still a bit lacking, and there's not much to be proud of. But everything was about to change. I intended not just to replace useless and harmful figures but to show my power to the right people. And also, when everything succeeded, I would gain several debtors among the upper years — that was the original calculation when devising the plan, as I had thoroughly learned about the internal workings of the upper years and had enticed the right people with promised benefits.
The plan was extremely complex and even a bit risky, which is why I spent a lot of effort on it. And by Samhain, I would need to perform the next ritual in Wasat's chain of rituals. Mother would most likely take me home for its duration. Or, if I could study it properly and perform the ritual myself, I'd stay at school — of course, having obtained everything necessary, including detailed instructions. It's good that Grandmother foresaw everything… And it's not good that she also foresaw Sirius's release.
No, by canon, he will remain a fugitive, and the Ministry won't declare him head of the house in any case. But the goblins, as well as other magical banks — they quite… and in other countries, he could be officially recognized. And why does he need recognition when he'll get all the wealth of the oldest and darkest house? A seat in the Wizengamot? Well… I don't know, perhaps to restore the family business to its former turnover, but he and his descendants for dozens of generations forward would have enough of the gold that exists now.
And if Dumbledore is as clever and cunning as in some fanfictions and learns of such a will… maybe Sirius will be officially recognized as innocent. And I'd have to share… oh, how I don't want to.
And on top of all that, now I also need to talk to the Bloody Baron. Preferably in a way that helps me figure out what's going on with Peeves and how dangerous he is in such a state. Otherwise, I won't be able to sleep peacefully… Just like now.
No matter how much I scold myself, sleep still won't come… And how can it, when I'm pondering things extremely important to me? Maybe I should try reverse psychology.
Just don't fall asleep… Just don't fall asleep! Don't sleep… You mustn't sleep… — I repeated to myself, and within a couple of minutes, my eyes were already starting to close. But one timid thought — "it worked" — and suddenly my nose itched… And back to square one. At least I scratched my nose… I hate this!
In the end, I cast Petrificus Totalus on myself to not move and somehow fell asleep, counting from one to a hundred and back.
***
The fireplace in the Slytherin common room smoldered lazily, spitting out rare sparks into the viscous air. The Slytherin prefect sat in an armchair as if he'd forgotten how to stand — elbows on knees, fingers intertwined, and his gaze seemed to search for something in the fire. It was past midnight, but sleep wouldn't come. Not tonight.
He was replaying the events of the past day again, like cards, trying to grasp any pattern. It all started with that ill-fated letter a couple of days ago, the day before the duel challenge. Right at breakfast, he received an envelope without an address or signature. Just parchment. It wasn't charmed, and the paper was clean, without scent or any jinxes — he checked immediately, because the snakes from his house love such tricks. And yet, the letter was strange. Someone, supposedly from Gryffindor, wrote to him that Farmus was planning to frame him. That he would accuse him of something, challenge him to a duel, and disgrace him before the whole school, simultaneously clearing his own name of the unpleasant rumors that only the lazy hadn't heard about in recent weeks.
Unsworth laughed maliciously at the time. He thought it was another joke — perhaps from first-years. Or a nasty trick by Gryffindors — but they, likely, lacked both the brains and cunning. And now he sat, looked into the fire, and understood: he wished it had truly been a joke.
He exhaled quietly. Even if there was truth in the letter… it all looked suspicious. First, he had no friends among Gryffs. Second, Farmus was indeed angry. And the rumors… Had he heard of them even a month ago? Probably not. And everything looked as if someone had skillfully pushed both, adding a spoonful of gunpowder to the common fire.
"Who arranged all this?" he thought, staring into the fire. Farmus could be hot-tempered, but he wasn't an idiot. So, someone pulled the strings. Maybe that very unknown author, who wasn't a Gryffindor at all? But someone… much more cunning.
The flame flared brighter, reflecting in his eyes. The situation threatened to turn into a catastrophe. Tomorrow — a duel. A damned public duel. In front of everyone. And he couldn't remember the last time he defeated Farmus in a fair fight… maybe in second year. After all, he was far from a fighter. He enjoyed cunning, manipulation, but not open combat, while the Gryffindor was just looking for a chance to measure strength.
If he lost, he could forget about the engagement with the Selwyns. And this wasn't just a matter of honor… No! It was a chance for his entire family. They had lost much to get the opportunity to be related to the Selwyns. The thing is, the girl's father was seeking a worthy and ambitious husband for his daughter, and she flatly refused all candidates who were older and, perhaps, worthier than Unsworth at least by birth. In the end, the loving father decided it was time to put an end to the objections, and on the horizon appeared a classmate of his daughter's, from a good family of long-time partners — though not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Plus, this year Unsworth became a prefect, as did Sophia herself, and both were classmates.
By winter, the families were supposed to formalize the engagement, and this only became possible because Unsworth had proven himself — intelligence, ambition, composure. The elder Selwyn valued precisely that, and he was tired of his daughter's rebellion. And Sophia… Sophia treated him politely, reservedly, even coldly. As a partner by arrangement, not by choice of heart. And yet, in this coldness, there was a certain honesty. Unlike her, Unsworth had long harbored tender feelings for the girl, quite uncharacteristic for a snake like him.
"She expects me to break my word, to chicken out," Unsworth grimaced slightly.
It was now, when every detail mattered, when the slightest stain on his reputation could ruin everything, that this oaf Farmus suddenly decided to challenge him to a duel. Or was helped to do so. If he had refused then — he could have buried his hopes for the engagement forever; the girl would have done her best to present him to her father as a worthless worm, given any reason.
He rose, stepped closer to the fireplace, leaned a palm on the marble mantle.
"If I lose tomorrow — it's over. So, I must win. At any cost. And then I'll figure out who arranged this."
He clenched his fist.
"A Slytherin," he whispered to himself, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Someone from our own. Someone who knows too well where to press."
Deep down, the guy was only afraid… afraid that she had arranged it all.