It was finally the end of May. Only a few days remained until the end of our first year. I couldn't wait to return to the manor; I had big plans for the summer, ones that would help me on my path to power.
We were once again at breakfast in the Great Hall. It felt as though the entire school had gathered today to ensure everyone arrived on time—there were as many of us here as there had been at the Welcoming Feast in September. It was certainly unusual, as people usually came and went as they pleased—some before the start, some in the middle, and others almost at the very end of breakfast.
We were accustomed to being among the first at breakfast, but today? Today, everyone was here. What was even stranger was that I could feel the eyes of my "friends," Alexander Mulciber and Augustus Rookwood, on me. In truth, they had been avoiding me like the plague since our conflict in the classroom. That was why it was so odd that they were staring at me so blatantly that I couldn't help but notice. Did they perhaps have information about the murder of Alexander's uncle? But why only now? Even more peculiar was that Alexander gave me a subtle nod before leaving.
Not even a minute had passed when a flock of owls descended into the Hall with the Daily Prophet. They were dropping copies to almost every second person—no wonder, given how cheap the subscription was. After a moment, I received my copy as well, and that was when I understood why he had been looking at me and why he had nodded. Photos of both his uncle and father "glowed" right there on the front page.
BLOODY SECRETS AT ST. MUNGO'S: WHY HAVE THE AURORS REMAINED SILENT SO LONG?
By Rita Skeeter
For several long days, the wizarding world was fed nothing but vaguely phrased reports of "sudden passings" and "family tragedies." Today, however, after the Ministry of Magic finally released strictly guarded files under the pressure of circumstances, we can at last reveal the chilling truth. Gregor Mulciber, a man whose name inspired respect in certain circles and deep resentment in others, did not die peacefully in private. He perished in agony right in the middle of a corridor on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, betrayed by his own blood and perhaps his own past.
The official Auror report, which they managed to hide from the public, speaks clearly: a ritual curse with a delayed effect. To a layman, this is a term from dark textbooks; to Gregor Mulciber, it was a death sentence. According to our information, the unfortunate man choked on his own blood before the eyes of terrified bystanders, while Healers, paralyzed by the power of Dark Arts, could only watch helplessly on the fourth floor, which is usually reserved for the most complicated cases.
The question remains, however, whether Mulciber was merely a random victim or part of something much more sinister. Shortly before this incident, Vespera Rosier was also attacked. Although Vespera survived the assault, one cannot ignore the chilling connection—both share a common past at Durmstrang, a school where the Dark Arts are not only tolerated but practically worshipped. Is someone targeting the alumni of this northern institution? Is this the beginning of a systematic hunt for those who once studied in the freezing shadows of the north?
Gregor was certainly no saint, though his "transgressions" speak more of an absence of character than of any true sophistication. Let us recall his pathetic involvement in illegal gnome-blitz betting or the repeated allegations of threats and physical assault against those who refused to do his bidding. If you wonder why such a character did not spend his final years in an Azkaban cell, the answer is simple: the gold of the Mulciber line still carries more weight with certain officials than the law. It seems, however, that even the fullest purses could not stop the ritual curse that found him in the very heart of the hospital.
Who then stood behind this sophisticated attack? The list of enemies of the Mulciber family is extensive and reaches deep into history. Was it revenge for old sins, or an attempt to silence someone before they could puff out the last cloud of smoke from their cigar?
His brother, Alexander Mulciber, refused to comment on the matter. His silence, however, is more eloquent than a thousand words. Alexander, whose name is linked in Ministry archives to the dark times and service to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, once swore in court that he had acted under the influence of the Imperius Curse. Whether you believe this version of a lost will or consider it a convenient fairy tale for naive Aurors, the fact remains that the fear within the Mulciber family is palpable. Is Alexander's silence a sign of grief, or panic that the ritual curse will soon find its way to another "former" servant?
While the Aurors have released information regarding the manner of death, they are unable to say anything about the perpetrator. Perhaps because the trail is far too terrifying and incomprehensible even for them. While the law gropes in the dark, the killer may be hiding right among us, waiting for the next student from the north.
I had to laugh when I reached the passage about Gregor betting on gnome matches. It was bloody hilarious and, at the same time, significantly better than if it had been dogs. In typical fashion, Rita also mentioned old Mulciber, but I didn't like that my aunt's name was included as well.
It looked like young Mulciber knew about this article before I could even read it. Did he know it would be in the Daily Prophet? Undoubtedly. When we last "spoke," his family wasn't against me getting rid of Gregor. Was that nod a sign of approval? Hmm, nothing but questions.
Excited whispers and occasional laughter echoed through the Hall. Clearly, the passage about the gnomes hadn't amused only me.
"What do we have first today?" I asked boredly.
"Double Defense with Stutterer," Agnes answered, without taking her eyes off her copy of the newspaper.
"Luckily, we'll be rid of him next year," Theo murmured with a faint hope in his voice. "I hope they send someone with at least a shred of talent."
„If only you knew that narcissistic idiot Lockhart is waiting for us," I thought ironically.
Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to send Madam Bones an owl with a small warning. Saving myself and the school from that catastrophe would be a public service.
"According to Flint, there's only a twenty percent chance we'll get someone competent," Draco joined the debate, meticulously arranging his cutlery. "Supposedly, that curse takes care of every candidate. The smart ones would rather go to the Ministry than risk their necks at Hogwarts."
I raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you and Marcus Flint so chummy? What did he want from you?"
"We talked last week," Draco replied importantly. "I want to join the team. He's the captain, so I went straight to the source."
"And what did you find out?" I asked, watching him.
Draco looked cautiously to his left and right to see if anyone unauthorized was listening. Only when he was sure we were safe did he lower his voice.
"Well, currently the Quidditch team is full... But Flint told me that new trials are held every year if someone more capable is found. And he also pointed out that if the Slytherin team received some new, top-of-the-line brooms... it would help candidates quite a bit in the eyes of the leadership," Draco answered timidly. He lowered his gaze slightly, and the tips of his ears turned visibly pink.
Theo burst out laughing in amusement. "So?" he blurted out through his laughter. "Have you written to your father yet?"
Draco opened his mouth as if to object, but then closed it again.
I decided to step in. "I don't think Draco needs to write to his father, because he'll earn that spot with talent." I reached across the table and gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Higgs looks like he's losing interest in Quidditch and is visibly slower. Flint is a typical Slytherin—he'd appreciate free brooms, but as a proper captain, he primarily wants to win. If you're better, which I don't doubt, you'll get that spot. Your own broom is enough, Draco."
Draco looked up and met my eyes. I could sense hope coming from him, so I gave him an appreciative nod.
"I have no doubt in you. You'll train over the summer and become a Seeker. You definitely don't need to buy your way into the team," I added, glancing sternly at Theo.
"Right, you're right. You'll manage without your father," Theo immediately pivoted, offering his support. Agnes merely smiled gently, but she didn't join the debate and continued leafing through the Daily Prophet. Tobias, traditionally, didn't care—he was focused only on his food. I thought to myself that I'd have to invent that fat-burning potion as soon as possible, otherwise, he'd risk a heart attack in a few years.
Suddenly, the doors to the Hall burst open with a crash. A Hufflepuff prefect ran inside, gasping for breath, and immediately began shouting toward the staff table: "Professors! Professors! Hagrid's hut is on fire!"
The teachers immediately began rising from the staff table. Dumbledore placed his wand to his throat and announced with an amplified voice: "Prefects, lead the students to their common rooms! Classes are canceled for today!" As soon as he finished speaking, he exchanged a grave look with Snape, who gave a curt nod.
Fortunately, no one in the Hall screamed. Everyone remained surprisingly calm, and so, under the guidance of Prefect Farley, we headed back to the dungeons. It was quite a shame that all the girls at Hogwarts had to wear robes... This way, I could only appreciate her pretty face. But whatever. The fact that school was off today suited me perfectly.
As soon as we entered the common room, Agnes suggested, "Chess?"
Theo immediately groaned, while Draco looked like he might accept the challenge. After Agnes, he was probably the best among us at chess. I, however, had no intention of sitting idly in the common room, so I just shook my head.
"I'm going to our room. I feel like training."
"I'm coming with you," Draco added immediately. Tobias and Theo both nodded in agreement.
"Well, I won't play by myself. I'm coming too," Agnes concluded.
I walked three times in front of the blank wall, visualizing every detail in my mind.
When the door finally appeared, I didn't hesitate and stepped inside, with the others following curiously. The room was traditionally spacious but, this time, functionally divided. On the left side was a fitness zone—a classic training square, two pairs of wraps, boxing gloves, and a heavy bag. To the right were mannequins for spell practice, with an area large enough for live duels.
Right in the center stood an elevated pedestal, upon which I planned to place the record player and finally play Nirvana. And those extra gloves? They were there in case someone else felt like learning to box and clearing their head in a way other than magic. While the others looked around the new room with interest, I headed for the pedestal. I pulled the wrapped record player and a Nirvana record from my pocket. I quickly unwrapped it—it looked like a fully automatic, magically powered machine.
As soon as I carefully placed the record on the center spindle, the needle rose on its own and descended onto the beginning of the groove. The first notes began to echo through the room. There was a volume control knob on the side of the player, so I cranked it all the way to the right. As soon as the guitar began to cut through the air, the others nearly jumped.
Theodore reflexively covered his ears, but after a few seconds, he slowly lowered his hands, fascinated by the rawness of the vocals. Draco just stared at the record player with his mouth open, as if the device had just spat out some forbidden curse.
Load up on guns, bring your friendsIt's fun to lose and to pretendShe's over-bored, and self-assuredOh no, I know a dirty word
"What kind of ritual chant is this?" Draco blurted out after a moment, trying to shout over the drums.
"It's not a ritual, Draco. It's Nirvana," I replied with an enthusiastic grin. "Finally, some proper music!"
Hello, hello, hello, how low?Hello, hello, hello, how low?Hello, hello, hello, how low?Hello, hello, hello...
Kurt Cobain was absolutely tearing it up, and the blood in my veins was boiling for a proper workout. This was exactly why I wanted the bag here—to punch out all that accumulated stress. I threw off my robes, and while the others listened to the lyrics in fascination, I began to warm up.
With the lights out, it's less dangerousHere we are now, entertain usI feel stupid and contagiousHere we are now, entertain us...
The music hadn't even finished, and I, halfway through my warm-up, quickly began wrapping my hands. I bounced forward, backward, left, and right. I swiveled my torso to the rhythm of Kurt's singing and enjoyed it more than I had in a long time. Try not hearing quality music for a few years—I felt literally like I was in heaven.
Hey, Yay!
I pulled on the gloves immediately, completely ignoring the others. If I forgot where I was for a moment, I might have thought I was back in my own world. My nostalgia was only broken by the lack of the smell of sweaty gloves; these were brand new, conjured by the room's magic exactly to my needs.
I'm worse at what I do bestAnd for this gift, I feel blessedOur little group has always beenAnd always will until the end…
I moved to the bag and slowly started to pick up the pace. Jab, cross, slip. Jab, cross, left hook. Jab, lead uppercut, left hook, right high kick. Switching to a southpaw stance—jab, cross, uppercut.
Hey, Yay!
The music spurred me on, and I gradually increased both the intensity and speed of my strikes. I poured in combinations of straight punches, hooks, uppercuts, elbows, knees, and kicks. I fired off series that were vivid in my memory, enjoying it as if I were on drugs.
And I forget just why I tasteOh, yeah, I guess it makes me smileI found it hard, it's hard to findOh, well, whatever, never mind
I felt the eyes of the others on me. The music hadn't even ended, but they were watching with bated breath as I leaned into the bag. In the room, to the rhythm of the drums, only the sharp snapping of my strikes and the muffled, short breaths accompanying every single blow could be heard.
Hello, hello, hello, how low?Hello, hello, hello, how low?Hello, hello, hello, how low?Hello, hello, hello...
If I remembered correctly, the first song was supposed to be just over five minutes, but I was already sweating like a pig. I hadn't been on a bag yet in this world, so my cardio was taking a real hit, even though I ran and exercised faithfully...
With the lights out, it's less dangerousHere we are now, entertain usI feel stupid and contagiousHere we are now, entertain usA mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido
With the conclusion of the vocals, I stopped for a moment, my lungs burning and my chest heaving heavily.
A denial, a denialA denial, a denialA denial, a denialA denial, a denialA denial!
"What are you standing around for? Get to work!" I called out to my friends through my ragged breath.
Everyone except Draco moved to the mannequins for spell practice. I raised an eyebrow at him, and after a moment of hesitation, he spoke: "Will you teach me that too?"
I stared at him in surprise. I certainly hadn't expected such a refined boy to be interested in Muay Thai, but... why not. I nodded.
I quickly pulled off my gloves and gestured for him to come closer. "First, we have to support your wrist so you don't break it, and protect your knuckles so they don't get chafed in the gloves when you hit."
"Watch how I wrap them for you. Next time, you'll be doing it yourself," I commanded him and began to tie the wraps thoroughly and quickly. They were short—only two and a half meters—so I was finished almost immediately.
I handed him the gloves, and we walked to the bag. In Bloom was just starting to play when he threw his first punch. Surprisingly, his left jab was clever, and he had the right stance; he was used to moving from duels. "Copy me, cousin," I ordered and began giving slow, light combinations. With every movement, I exhaled ostentatiously so he would understand how to work with oxygen and not lose his breath after a minute.
Sell the kids for foodWeather changes moodsSpring is here againReproductive glands
And so, to the unceasing sounds of Nirvana, we all trained together. I had a feeling that if Dumbledore knew about our hard drill of combat spells combined with Muggle combat sports, he'd probably have a heart attack.
He would certainly start considering me a threat not to be underestimated. I was sure that with such a combination of physical conditioning and magical power, every one of my companions would be an extremely dangerous wizard in the future.
***
Author's note:
I don't know about you guys, but I really like this chapter. (Definitely not just because of Nirvana! :D)
Btw, whose POV would you like to see next? Please let me know in the comments so I can include them in the poll!
***
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The shadows are shifting, and the story goes much deeper... If you can't wait for the next update, Advanced Chapters are already waiting for you.
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Upcoming Chapters – Already Written(13):
52. More Than Just a Name
53. The Rat's Final Kiss
54. Deus Vult
55. The Underworld Gambit
56. The Boy Who Sponsored
57. The End of the Year
58. VR: The Warrior of Durmstrang
59. The Mind of a Rosier
60. The Lioness and the Black Blood
61. A Rosier, Not a Goyle
62. The Babel Charm and the Emperor's Dagger
63. Business and Bloodshed
64. Cruelty for Cruelty
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