The plan… of course, I'm a veritable mastodon of plans. How else could I explain my confidence in this little intrigue…
Perhaps it's just a calculation based on others' stupidity and the ability to talk my way out? Maybe — yes, or maybe not. I'll never know the precise answer. I simply thought up the necessary sequence of actions and tried to account for all threats. Of course, it wasn't easy — there were plenty of reasons for that — but was all my effort in vain? From the first day of school, I did everything to achieve this result, which, overall, was realized even faster than I had calculated for myself.
I needed a web. I wove it: with gaps, with thin threads, but I'm still a young spider, and around me — so many snakes and tarantulas that it's scary at times. Next, I called other spiders — less experienced, due to their youth, but together we wove a stronger net, of course, under my guidance. Now, by the second year, we could hunt flies. If needed, we could even take on a more mature spider.
The flies were eager to get caught, but to gain freedom and weave the web further, I had to remove other, rival spiders. And how to strike two prefects from different houses with a single intricate plot to show what a simple second-year is capable of? Well, maybe not so simple, but a second-year nonetheless!
"Plan" is a grand word, considering I was going to use it against sixteen- to seventeen-year-old guys, but it was necessary. I could come up with hundreds of reasons, but it all wasn't important. I saw an opportunity — and that's what matters. Petty grievances against these two? They existed, but they weren't the main driving force. During the council meeting, I gave the participants many arguments in favor of my design; but what I concealed was that, besides external reasons, there was also a plain childish resentment towards those who wouldn't let me feel like the king of Slytherin.
I could have dragged it out for years — but I'm not the Draco from my "future knowledge." I want to have enough influence in the school right now, in my second year, so that at my whim…
At that moment, a performance began in the Great Hall, which was supposed to play out exactly as written.
***
POV. Jacob Farmus
The letter landed right in the bowl of oatmeal. The owl didn't even wait for the Gryffindor prefect to reach out — dropped it precisely into the food and flew off, as if casting off a curse.
Yes, indeed, his luck had been bad for over a week, and this streak of misfortune began with that tirade from Malfoy, whom he couldn't even challenge to a duel to make him answer for his insolent words. After all, just a second-year — no one would approve such an unequal duel, even a practice one, let alone a duel to first blood. Instead, he was defeated by the Head of the Dueling Club, Nymphadora Tonks. Farmus was only surprised that she was from Hufflepuff and not Gryffindor, where such a fierce witch truly belonged, in his opinion.
Jake didn't understand where the rumors had started. He was, after all, the prefect of the best house at Hogwarts, in his opinion. He had even managed to subdue the snakes, and that same Unsworth, his classmate and current Slytherin prefect, didn't even dare touch Gryffindors, specifically him and his friends, at least, and all thanks to Jake.
And that's without mentioning that he was on the Quidditch team and in the Dueling Club simultaneously. Jacob could also boast that he had no shortage of attention from Gryffindor girls, and in general, he was a decent guy who had been friends with the older kids since the early years, and now he was an upper-year student himself. After all, not everyone gets the prefect position, but everything had been going downhill the past week.
Here and there, whispers spread, claiming he had decided to take revenge on Malfoy for those words, to stage an attack in the corridor, to bully him, to humiliate him. And that was only part of the rumors spreading throughout the school. Vile, unpleasant rumors that offended the lion's pride. Despite Malfoy's slipperiness, Farmus certainly wouldn't stoop to bullying a second-year. At least, that's what he told his friends, but the others, especially students from other houses, had started looking at him strangely. As if he'd committed a crime. And even if he had bullied Malfoy — so what? But he hadn't even done it. The thing is, there were even more unpleasant rumors, about misusing the prefects' bathroom, and though that was true, how on earth did anyone find out!? He'd hidden those rendezvous there, with various girls, quite well.
With each day, these rumors grew more horrifying details: some were already whispering that the Gryffindor prefect would teach Malfoy and his friends a lesson right in the corridor. And there was also a rumor that he hated all Slytherins… the latter Farmus didn't consider a bad rumor, because over the years of rivalry, he had filled with hatred for the house of snakes.
What to do about the rumors was decidedly unclear. If only he knew who had spread all these rumors — then he could smear that smart-aleck across the floor, but no one knew.
It wasn't that Jake was losing anything because of it, but his pride was wounded, and every laugh was perceived as being at his expense. It all grated on his nerves, and with each day, he became more aggressive and twitchy. And after all this, he received the letter.
He wanted to simply tear the letter up, but Jake restrained himself.
The envelope was plain, without a crest or seal, but the paper was expensive, smooth. The ink, at first glance, seemed fresh and smelled metallic. Jacob brushed a drop of porridge off it and carefully unfolded it. Inside — a few lines written in a beautiful, even hand.
The paper itself smelled of ink and something sour, as if some nasty potion from the Potions classroom. Jacob himself didn't know why he noticed that, but then quickly forgot, focusing on the content of the letter.
A few lines, written in an even, deliberately neat hand, which the fifth-year immediately recognized as the work of a Quick-Quotes Quill: the letters were too uniform, lined up in a row, like the work of a typewriter, not a human.
Be careful, friend. Slytherin Benedict Unsworth is spreading terrible rumors about you, claiming you intend to put second-year Arcturus Malfoy in his place. But that's only the surface. He's spreading rumors that behind your words lie not empty threats, but a systematic habit: you belittle children from your own house, you revel in your position; you intimidate, blackmail, and present yourself as the best. He's spread even dirtier rumors. I don't know if it's true, but the source is from within Slytherin itself. I cannot tolerate injustice, so I decided to warn a good person and an excellent prefect.
— One who dislikes treachery.
There was no signature. At the bottom, only a tiny, carefully drawn rune — "Δ."
At first, he simply frowned, then his jaw tensed, and his fingers involuntarily clenched the sheet so that folds appeared on it. His cheeks flushed.
It was Unsworth. Of course, Jake already suspected him, but now he was certain. That smug Slytherin slug, who thinks he's practically Snape's deputy!? Countless times Jacob had put him in his place. Each time more painfully for this pompous turkey.
He raised his gaze and let it sweep across the hall. The Slytherins, as always, sat at their table, behaving with restrained coolness, but with that mocking confidence that always irritated Jacob. But among the entire table, Farmus immediately singled out Unsworth — he sat with his back to the wall, saying something quietly to his own, smirking. And then he started laughing.
For a moment, it seemed to Jacob that he looked in his direction and laughed even harder. On purpose! He definitely did it on purpose!
His heart pounded so hard it seemed everyone could hear the loud rhythm. A spoon clinked against the bowl. He reread the letter. And again.
The hall's buzz didn't cease, but for him, everything seemed to grow muffled. The air thickened. He saw the Slytherins at their table laughing, whispering about something.
"Rumors, then. About me. About a decent Gryffindor, respected by his house, unlike that slug, who isn't even respected by second-years. Rumors about me, who from morning till night chases the younger ones to keep order, to keep the house in line, while other prefects laze about. I'll kill the bastard!" Farmus thought, his fists clenching tighter and tighter.
"Everything alright, Jake?" asked the girl beside him.
"Yes. Just… need to put someone in their place." His voice came out even, but his clenched fingers were already digging into his skin so hard the ink imprinted on his hand.
"Unsworth? That slug of Mordred, walking around with a perpetually tired face? Sitting as if the world belonged to him. Smiling, saying something to his crowd. Laughing. Thinks it's funny!? What gives him the right!? I'll destroy him, break him in half! And make him apologize to me so the whole school sees!"
Jacob was truly angry. This wasn't their first clash. From the very start of their schooling, they had become those two representatives of the rival houses from their year who fueled the enmity between them. The Slytherin prefect had acted arrogantly from the early years — always with a touch of patronizing politeness that annoyed Jacob even more than direct insults. And now — this letter and these rumors. Apparently, Jake hadn't beaten all the nonsense out of that slug: if after so many years of dominance in their conflict, the Slytherin dared to pull such a dirty trick.
Everything inside him was boiling.
He didn't wait. He rose, pushing back his chair, and stepped forward. The hall noticed almost immediately: how could they not, the Gryffindor prefect heading towards the Slytherin table. The buzz of voices grew quieter. Many began to watch closely; well, those who noticed.
"Fine. Let them watch. Let them know that Jacob Farmus doesn't tolerate his name being dragged through the mud by such spineless creatures."
Farmus walked full of anger, but his gaze was hard as stone, and his nostrils flared with rage. At the Slytherin table, he stopped directly opposite Unsworth, who, of course, seeing his actively approaching rival, turned his attention to him.
"UNSWORTH!" Instead of a cold tone, a roar erupted. "Have you completely lost your mind!?"
The other slowly raised his eyes in surprise, for he didn't even realize into what… abyss he had fallen.
"Oh, the Gryffindor prefect decided to visit us? What an honor." His voice was soft and lazy, which only added fuel to the fire.
"Enough with the sarcasm, slug," Farmus cut him off. "You know perfectly well why I'm here."
The Slytherin raised an eyebrow slightly.
"No, enlighten me."
"Stop playing innocent. I know you're spreading rumors about me. That I intend to attack second-year Malfoy. That I abuse my power, that I pressure the younger ones. Do you realize what you're doing!? Thought I wouldn't find out? Thought you'd get away with it!?" With each word, the Gryffindor's tone rose, gradually turning into a shout. The Slytherin's monotonous calm became even more striking in contrast.
The smile on Unsworth's face trembled slightly but didn't disappear. He slowly stood up.
"I think," Unsworth drawled, "that someone is very skillfully pulling your strings. You believe every word brought to you. Rumors, you say? Curious. And who told you this, Farmus? Perhaps one of your friends? Or maybe one of those who decided to watch two prefects clash in the middle of breakfast?"
The hall fell silent. Even the first-years stopped eating.
"He's not denying it! So, I'm right," thought the clouded mind of the lion prefect.
Unsworth began to speak calmly, though no — his voice trembled:
"Or maybe these aren't just rumors? And if they are rumors, then…" He stepped closer, and a caustic note appeared in his voice. "Doesn't all this seem strange to you?"
"Enough with this nonsense and trying to distract me!" roared the Gryffindor, grabbing his wand.
At that moment, Professor Flitwick was about to intervene, but seeing no immediate danger, waited for McGonagall's reaction. The students quietly watched the event, which would be discussed for a long time.
"You'd better think about the circus you're creating here, and the fact that the professors and the whole school are watching you."
Jacob's back mind realized where he was and what he was doing, but his emotions had slipped out of control. A whistling note of irritation caught in Jacob's throat: "If it weren't for them…" But for a fraction of a second, a thought seemed to creep into his head: "What if I blow this snake's head off with a Bombarda, then what? Who would be with me? With them? Ooh, the vile slug would understand that all his intrigues are meaningless against explosive force."
Raise the wand a little higher and shout one word — and an end to all this circus. A sharp and thoughtless lunge, but that would mean a direct ticket to Azkaban and losing everything he had achieved as a half-blood, and if his mother hadn't been a Muggle-born… many things could have been different, especially considering who his father was.
"I, Jacob Farmus, challenge you to a duel to first blood. You have tarnished my reputation and name with filthy rumors."
For a second, the hall fell completely silent. Only a bench creaked somewhere in the corner. Several Slytherins exchanged glances; some Gryffindors rose from their seats, ready to intervene.
Farmus stood with white-knuckled fingers, awaiting consent. In his right hand lay the wand that a couple of seconds earlier had nearly become the cause of death for one overly insolent Slytherin.
He sharply exhaled upon receiving a positive answer, turned, and decided to leave the Great Hall. He felt the gazes burning his back. He was seething inside, but along with the anger grew a sense of anxiety, and there was a nasty taste of metal and acidity in his throat.
He glanced at the letter, still clenched in his fist, and remembered that ink doesn't wash off hands easily.
Only he never guessed that the rune at the bottom wasn't a random mark — rather, the signature of the playwright who had only just begun his play. And why the ink gave the paper such a strange smell…
***
The dusty classroom smelled of that very dust, old paper, and the spells that today relentlessly hit the walls as I once again managed to redirect another attack. The whistling projectiles of spells raised dust, and sun rays… there were none, because we're nearing the end of October, and in Britain at this time of year, there's a deficit of sun. But there was rain! As on every Mordred day, but there's something about it…
Empty benches stood in disarray, and only the cleared half of the classroom was alive — in it, basic offensive spells "thundered," from repelling ones to something more injurious like Incendio.
I stepped sideways, raising a shield, and a bluish film flashed momentarily, protecting me from another combination of Blackmore's spells. Almost immediately after, Cassius's attack flew from the other side — and I had to sharply dodge the line of attack and deflect a couple. The wand in my hand flitted about as never before, but every movement had been thought out by me in advance.
After that, I successfully deflected two Stunning Spells in a row, one into the ceiling, the other into the wall. A little to the right, and the sender would have gotten his spell back, but instead, the blue mass flew and hit the wall with a crunch.
"Take it easy, Arcturus," Avery lazily remarked from one of the desks, dangling a leg and swinging it. "We're, of course, practicing in a deserted classroom, but if the ceiling collapses, no one will be happy."
"Then they'll blame Peeves, and that's good," I grumbled, blocking a new beam from Blackmore. Cassius and Dexter were getting better and better at fighting me as a pair, not giving me a second to rest. If during the first such training sessions, two against one, I could at least somehow hold a conversation with Avery, now it was fraught with losing, and I didn't like to lose, even in practice.
Blackmore and Cassius were trying in an almost adult manner. Coordination had appeared in their movements. The strikes came almost without pauses and sometimes synergized, covering each other's gaps. Surprisingly, they had learned to feel each other: sometimes one defended the partner, sometimes the other, or one purely covered them while the other only attacked.
"And still," Avery continued, lazily rolling onto his other side, "the second stage succeeded. Though it took longer than you planned. A week and a half, not one."
I dodged another spell and somehow put up a defense against an incoming mass of fire.
"But everything went according to plan," I tossed out shortly.
Cassius smirked and threw a short Immobulus, from which I had to defend with Protego — and then it began. They sharply switched to offense, not giving me a window to break out of defense and counterattack. They had simply driven me into a defensive stance.
"Well, almost," he repeated, looking at me through the protective dome, "if you don't count the fact that a couple of Slytherins decided to interfere in our affairs… a couple of sixth-years, Arcturus!"
"That was within the plan."
I smirked at my own answer and stepped aside, raising my wand and, with a light circular motion, broke my own spell by simply overloading it, but the attempt to direct all that wave of tangible energy at my two opponents didn't yield a tangible effect. Too small a wave of magic only managed to weaken the spells flying at me, and even then — just slightly. It was simply interesting to see the effect of such a trick.
Meanwhile, Avery continued his musings as if he weren't sitting on a desk but in an Auror headquarters in an investigator's position.
"A week and a half of rumors, three dozen staged conversations, seven rewritten letters, and one rare and not exactly permitted within school walls potion. Even for us — not bad."
I parried another volley and began a full-fledged attack, managing to attack two targets so densely that they themselves were soon driven into defense, but not for long — time was up. We had two minutes of rest and another round.
"Were there difficulties with the potion?"
"Big ones," Avery drawled, raising a finger and preparing to begin his lamenting tale.
"But you got it," Cassius noted, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Of course. But so that you feel my pain, I will now tell you in detail what difficulties there were on the path to obtaining this vial of potion…"