Chapter 5
The Christmas holidays were a wonderful time for Hogwarts students — a chance to go home, see their families, and simply rest from school life far from the frozen, drafty castle.
"Except that going home isn't an option for me. Father won't exactly be thrilled to see me," I muttered, watching my companions leave without any particular distress, and then turning back toward the Gryffindor common room. A few genuinely interesting books on the application of Transfiguration in construction were waiting for me there.
Not that I'd have any immediate use for that knowledge. But once I'd discovered how easily skilled wizards could conjure a home from nothing, I simply couldn't let the subject alone. In my previous life, owning property had been the kind of goal that could consume an entire lifetime without ever being reached.
That was true in this world too, of course — but if a wizard were to quietly appropriate a bit of land, conceal it with the right charms and rituals, no one at the Ministry of Magic would raise an eyebrow. They'd even connect a private property to the Floo Network without a fuss, which was effectively the main factor in establishing a wizard's legal claim to a piece of land.
*And never mind how difficult it is for a single wizard to build himself something decent. All the necessary charms, rituals, and Transfiguration formulae are in the library, and I spent nearly three years as an architect — I know something about construction. If my own knowledge falls short, I can draw on the expertise of Muggle architects. The rest is just a matter of effort and time spent mastering the relevant spells. Which is still better than a mortgage and everything else that comes with ordinary life.*
I was lazily turning all of this over in my mind, holding onto the option — in the absolute worst case, if the situation with the Dark Lord spiraled entirely out of control — of simply retreating into reclusion. The wizarding world had no shortage of hermits.
"Well, why not? It's not the worst idea," I chuckled sarcastically, still finding it difficult to feel genuinely confident about the future. The damned lycanthropy complicated everything far too much, and I couldn't keep it hidden forever.
"What's wrong, Moony — lost your little friends and already losing your mind? Talking to yourself?" Snape came around the nearest corner with a nasty grin, his wand already in hand.
I'd actually been tracking his breathing before he appeared, but hadn't paid enough attention — I hadn't expected an ambush on the very first day of the Christmas holidays. And it was difficult to identify someone by breathing alone.
"Talking to your cactus is perfectly normal," I said, looking at him with an air of mild amusement that concealed a spike of genuine nerves. The way that little snake was holding his wand was decidedly threatening. "It's when it starts answering back that there's cause for concern. What do you want, Snape?"
"Oh, nothing much. I just want to settle accounts with one of the brave Marauders for a ruined robe. *Vomitare Viridis!*" He sent a pale streak of a nausea hex in my direction, not wanting to give me the chance to draw my own wand.
In that, though, he'd already waited too long — he'd given me time to see it coming. I didn't manage to get my wand out, admittedly, lacking any kind of quick-draw holster, but stepping aside from the incoming curse was well within my ability.
And when Snape began the next incantation, I didn't hesitate — I threw my bag directly at him, which interrupted his stance, broke his concentration, and bought me enough time to finally get my wand out.
"*Depulso*! *Brachiabindo*—" we both shouted at almost the same moment. "*Protego!*"
My Banishing Charm broke cleanly against his Shield Charm. But the Binding Curse punched through his Protego in return.
The spell came out weakened — instead of restraining the Slytherin entirely, the rope-like binding only coiled sharply around his right hand. But that was enough. The jolt of something seizing his wand arm interrupted whatever he'd been about to cast next, limiting his range of motion and shattering his concentration.
That was all I needed to end it.
"*Silencio.*" I applied the Silencing Charm steadily, stripping away his ability to cast anything further, and immediately followed it with another Binding Curse. Magical ropes surged around Snape and locked him in place, leaving him unable to take even a single step in any direction.
He tried to lunge away from me and managed only to fall, striking his head sharply against the wall. His face contorted into a silent grimace of pain as he crumpled to the floor.
*Well. That's a mess,* I observed, taking in the scene and already thinking about what to do with it. *The straightforward thing would be to leave him here. Wizards are tougher than Muggles — Snape won't freeze to death. But I don't particularly want to scuff my nearly new shoes on this idiot either…*
"So then, my aspiring avenger — do we go to the hospital wing, or should I head straight to McGonagall? I'm fairly confident she'll believe the story of a nasty little Slytherin attacking one lonely Gryffindor." The smile I gave him was genuine, if a little theatrical, and not especially kind.
The adrenaline that had hit me was doing no favors to my already-frayed nerves, and something in me quite badly wanted to make Snape's day worse. His expression of pure, concentrated hatred only pushed in the same direction. After all, what did it matter how I treated him now, when this hook-nosed grudge-holder was going to pursue revenge regardless of whatever I did?
*Terrible thoughts. Very terrible thoughts,* I told myself, and shook my head, choosing not to become the exact kind of mindless teenager I'd been looking down on.
So instead of anything further, I simply dragged Snape to the hospital wing. The injury wasn't particularly serious, but a cut on the forehead wasn't going to close on its own — it needed magic, which meant the hospital wing visit was unavoidable.
Our school's resident medic, however, did not accept my most honest and sincere expression, and summoned McGonagall regardless. The result was ten points removed from both Gryffindor and Slytherin, and a week of detentions assigned to both of us. Snape got Argus Filch, our school caretaker. I got McGonagall herself — which, if anything, was arguably the worse outcome.
"Understand me correctly, Mr. Lupin. I believe it was Mr. Snape who initiated this altercation, choosing to seek revenge at a moment when your companions were absent. But even so, Hogwarts's rules are the same for everyone. For the fight, and for casting spells in the corridors, I am obligated to discipline you as severely as the situation warrants," the Deputy Headmistress told me, leaving me with some regret about the choice I'd made.
*I should have just left Snape on the floor. He's too proud to go complaining to anyone after losing a duel, and I would have avoided a week of detentions,* I thought, cursing my recent attacker with considerably more feeling than I was showing on the outside. *And I had just settled in to spend the entire Christmas holiday on construction spells and Transfiguration practice. Now I'm going to have to give up at least part of that.*
The irritation faded quickly enough, though, and I returned to my usual rhythm. McGonagall's detentions turned out not to be the ordeal I'd anticipated. They were, honestly, closer to supplemental Transfiguration practice than actual punishment. What did it matter that instead of attempting large-scale independent work, I was helping our Head of House decorate the castle for Christmas? That was its own kind of interesting experience.
I also managed to extract some useful explanations from the professor on subjects I'd been thinking about. Having spent several years as an architect and walked through more than a few construction sites in my time, I had a reasonably concrete sense of what building a house actually required — which meant my questions were specific and detailed rather than vague.
McGonagall responded well to that approach. She did note that I was getting ahead of myself tackling such complex areas of Transfiguration at my level, but she produced a reading list nonetheless. More than that — knowing exactly what spells were in the books she'd recommended, she went and spoke to Flitwick about me, asking the half-goblin to supervise my attempts at the simpler ones.
This didn't exactly delight the Charms professor, who was, technically, also on holiday — but he didn't refuse, and scheduled several extra sessions during the Christmas break.
"This is what I get for being industrious," I laughed at the situation, easily accepting the sympathetic looks from fellow Gryffindors who had clearly misread the circumstances.
There weren't many of us left in the castle — no more than twenty students across the entire house. Most of those who'd stayed were fifth and seventh years preparing for their Ministry examinations. A fair few of them turned up to Flitwick's supplemental session alongside me, which made it fairly clear that McGonagall's request to the Charms professor hadn't been particularly spontaneous.
She'd known perfectly well that Flitwick was already running voluntary sessions for fifth and seventh years preparing for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. She'd simply arranged to attach me to those sessions, presumably so that I didn't manage to accidentally remove a limb from myself in the course of unsupervised experimentation.
*Well. That kind of concern is worth acknowledging. Since I started training in mental magic, I've been ending up in the hospital wing less often from magical experiments — but Flitwick's supervision came at a useful time regardless.*
I made a note of it, and noted too that my memory itself had been pleasing me lately with its improved sharpness. Several forms of meditation, a handful of fairly specialized spells, and the gradually accumulated experience of working deliberately with my own mind had produced a noticeable — if expected — result. My memory had gotten better. Not to the level of the rare individuals who can glance at a page and retain it permanently.
But I was no longer forgetting a Potions textbook I'd read several months ago, either. Which had made studying considerably easier and pushed me to keep practicing mental magic — not that I was short on enthusiasm for it.
The honest truth was that I was still genuinely terrified someone might discover what I knew about the possible future. Which was why I approached mental magic training with absolute dedication, sometimes sinking into the depths of my own mind three times in a single day, working to reinforce the mental defenses that had only just begun to take shape.
In the morning. Before sleep. During my runs through the castle. Resting in the Gryffindor common room. I used every available moment to practice, and over time it had begun to pay off — though acquaintances had started catching me in the vague, slightly unfocused state that came with light meditation, which reliably produced jokes at my expense.
*Let them laugh. Let them,* I thought without particular heat, anticipating Christmas lazily and resting in the Gryffindor common room after another session with McGonagall. *We'll see who's laughing later — when I'm instinctively reading the surface of someone's thoughts the moment our eyes meet.*
Though that was advanced Legilimency, and I was still working through the beginner stages, focused primarily on defending my own mind. There would be time for the rest.