These three heroes, having sworn their oath of brotherhood, though it did not shake the heavens or move the gods, had branded the words "live and die together" into their hearts.
Harry clasped his hands. "Big Sister and Brother, you both know that a wisp of Voldemort's soul, the one who murdered my parents, still clings to life, his whereabouts unknown."
"That thieving scoundrel is as slippery as an eel in oil and more cunning than a thousand-year-old fox. It is difficult for this one to slay him alone. Are you, Big Sister and Brother, willing to aid me?"
Ron and Hermione both knew of his blood oath—"if I do not kill Voldemort, I am not worthy of being a man"—and had not forgotten it when they took their own vow of life and death.
Ron said seriously, "Harry, if you want to kill You-Know-Who, then I will clear the Death Eaters in his path!"
A young lad is quick to boast, making bold claims for the sake of honor. Ron's words were filled with heroism, and Hermione, caught up in the moment, felt hot blood surge in her chest. She blurted out:
"If you and Ron hadn't come to save me, I might have died in that lavatory. I owe you both my life."
The moment she said it, she regretted it, her ears burning.
Why did I say something like that?!
"Ahem, what I mean is... that troll was let in by You-Know-Who, so I also have a score to settle with him."
Seeing them both willing to face death, Harry was overjoyed. He poured the wine, saying:
"It was this one's mistake. I underestimated the blood-righteousness of my Big Sister and Brother. I must drink three cups in penalty."
After downing three more bowls of wine, Harry said, "Though you are not cowards who fear death, you must still train your bodies to have steel sinews and iron bones."
Hermione was confused. "Harry, we're wizards. Fighting with magic is what we do best."
Harry took a drink and smiled. "I remember in the dungeon classroom, Professor Flitwick told this one: a wizard's duel is a battle of magical power and stamina. If you must say which is more important, it is stamina."
"If your magic is exhausted, you can still fight with your fists. But if your stamina is gone, it doesn't matter how much magic you have, it will be useless."
These words were hard-won wisdom from Flitwick's many years in the dueling arena. Every word was a pearl.
Furthermore, the professors at the school all taught in a gradual progression, starting with minor skills. To learn truly powerful magic, one had to wait until the third year.
With a year to go, it was better to forge steel sinews and iron bones, which was far more useful than silencing charms or lumos.
Ron and Hermione knew Harry's words were golden. They also envied his own powerful build, and both nodded.
From that day on, the two of them rose at dawn and rested only late at night, drilled daily by Harry.
At first, Ron stuck his chest out, posing as a tough guy. But after three or five days, he felt as if his tendons had been pulled and his bones stripped. His arms were limp, his legs trembled, and before half an hour of training had passed, he would be panting like a broken bellows.
Though he couldn't stand the hardship, Mrs. Weasley was thrilled to see him out of bed and no longer idle. She watched him even more closely than Harry did.
She wielded her spatula like a drill sergeant's whip, smacking him whenever he slacked off, until he was slick with sweat and fragrant with exertion.
Hermione lacked physical strength. Even if she ground her teeth, after a few rounds she would feel her limbs ache, her spirit willing but her flesh weak.
However, her mind was sharp. She watched Harry demonstrate his lethal techniques and memorized every move.
She trained until she was soaked in sweat by day, and mentally rehearsed the moves at night. She actually managed to learn seven or eight parts of his ruthless, close-quarters fighting style, hiding several deadly killing moves up her sleeve.
After a month of this torment, the two were transformed, having built fine muscle and forged good bones.
Ron's arms were much thicker. Though not as brawny as Harry's, they now had real weight. One could see the muscles knotted at his shoulders and neck.
Hermione, who had always been refined, now had a hint of wildness. With her robe off, one could see her snow-white, well-toned physique. Her abdomen was lightly defined, soft as spring water at rest, but hard as hidden iron when tensed.
One afternoon, Mrs. Weasley called out, and Ron and Hermione, panting like dogs, followed Harry inside.
She smiled. "My three little knights, the Hogwarts owls just arrived with your letters. They're on the sofa."
With that, she waved her wand, sending steaks flying onto everyone's plates, before she and Arthur went back to rummaging through cabinets, looking for stray Knuts and Sickles.
"Remember to get ready, we're going to Diagon Alley this afternoon to buy your school supplies. Oh, the things we have to buy this year are so expensive."
Arthur grumbled, "Actually, it's only that Lockhart's books that are so expensive."
"Arthur, you can't slander him just because he's more successful than you. His books are worth every Galleon."
"Please, Molly—I mean, you should know, that's all just his own hype."
As the couple argued, Harry went to the sofa and picked up his letter.
He unrolled the parchment booklist: Travels with Trolls, Voyages with Vampires, Wanderings with Werewolves... all for Defense Against theDark Arts, and twice as many as last year.
He looked at the author's name: Gilderoy Lockhart was written on every single one.
Harry was amazed. "What an extravagant hero! Does he truly possess such great skill in vanquishing demons?"
Hermione, chewing a large bite of steak, mumbled, "Maybe. They're not bad, if you read them as stories."
She had once been unable to sleep after reading Travels with Trolls and had admired Lockhart. But ever since Halloween, when she saw Harry cleave a troll's head, she hadn't given Lockhart's books a second glance.
Fred and George both grinned. "Your Majesty, the Lion King, please believe your loyal guards: this powdered-faced fellow is definitely a treacherous courtier."
Ron also advised, "Don't believe him, Harry. The guy is just too flashy."
"Can you imagine he even wrote Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests?"
"That's like Professor Dumbledore knowing a hundred ways to make Cockroach Clusters."
The young ones were all skeptics, but Mrs. Weasley put her hands on her hips. "Oh, you know everything, do you, Mr. Ron?"
"Would you please tell me who else in this house has ever cleared out household pests besides me?"
"How would I not know if Lockhart's methods work or not!"
Harry knew Mrs. Weasley was a diligent woman who managed every aspect of the house.
If she said Lockhart's methods worked, he must have some real skill.
Harry thought: Is he truly an extravagant hero? He has mastered the high arts, but also understands the side-door techniques.
Why doesn't this one go and meet him, and ask him how to capture that scoundrel Voldemort's soul?
And so it was, he could vanquish trolls and werewolves above; he could exterminate bugs and clean hearths below. The scarred lad had a question about destroying a soul; Lockhart was known as an encyclopedia. But did Lockhart truly know the answer? You must listen to the next chapter.
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