Bab 15: Chapter Fourteen
There was a certain sense of euphoria in discovering that for once, certain kinds of magic came naturally to me. There also was a certain sense of defeat, as the tubas seemed to herald it with my shaking of shoulders. I twitched my wand, and a clarinet would speak up. I moved a finger of my left hand, and the trombone would answer. The spell made one the leader of an invisible orchestra, but it didn't help you in realizing where every single instrument was, or how to work with them.
The flutes would sometimes go off-key for no reason. The pianist seemed to have a will of its own.
I stared at the empty Room of Requirement, half wondering if perhaps I should concentrate on other, more damaging spells. As things went, though, I felt at ease. Swishing the wand produced music, and while terribly off-key, and anything but genuinely interesting, it was still something to keep my mind off my troubles with the future of this world.
"Da-da-da-dum," I tapped my wand against the air, moving my left hand in unison. The drums echoed, a clarinet took the cue to squeak out a few tunes. "Violins only," I said, spinning the tip of my wand and receiving a warbled nonsense from the invisible violinists.
"Everyone together," I said in the end, delivering one final wave of the wand for the entire orchestra to answer in tandem. I finished the spell, and shook my head. It had come easily, but practice would make it perfect. Until then, there was a Quidditch match incoming. Was it the one where Harry risked his life? Well, since everyone would be present, then...Hermione would stumble onto Quirrell by chance, if she sat at her usual place.
Already, I had to sacrifice my free time to watch a stupid Quidditch match. My seats would need to be close to the professors' stands, which meant I'd have to go there in time to catch the best seats.
"It's Gryffindor against Slytherin," someone muttered on that fateful day, "Slytherin's going to win."
I hummed, nonchalantly. My eyes zeroed in on my target, Professor Quirrell, while Hermione was instead seated with the Gryffindors that had come to assist. Since the match was the first of the season, everyone wanted to be present. I sighed as I took one of the worst seats possible to watch the game, but one of the best to intervene the moment Quirrell tried anything.
The match began, Harry Potter's form losing itself amidst the other players. The wind was kind-of chilly, the November month not one of the bests to have outdoor sports events, but apparently it would be too much to ask for a dome to keep everyone warm now, would it?
"Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor seeker!" the commentator spoke, "Which could happen to anyone, really!" some chuckled at the remarks, the commentator actually doing a nice job at making the game interesting to watch. Minutes went by, my eyes zeroing in on Harry Potter, waiting for the moment his broomstick would stop obeying him. The rails of canon were still safe, nothing had broken them yet.
And indeed, the broomstick suddenly lurched from beneath Harry Potter's body, as if held by a will of its own. The immediately violent lurches turned softer a few seconds later, but my body was already on the move.
I could see Snape whisper the counter-curse, and I could see Quirrell whisper the curse. Nobody else had noticed them. Nobody else but me to begin with.
Everyone's eyes were on Harry Potter trying his hardest not to die. He wouldn't even die from such a height, just get some broken bones. Seriously, Voldemort could have done so much more with an Avada Kedavra in the middle of the night rather than a curse, but this wasn't Lord Voldemort, this was Quirrell. The squeamish, stuttering Quirrell who tried to use roundabout ways to get things done, and would end up defeated by a trio of eleven year old without even a stupid dog by their side.
Thus, for the simple man who made a shitty choice, the simplest solution would work.
If Hermione had managed to make Quirrell tumble by mistake, then why wouldn't I get the same result? Clearly, as I actually went behind him and slammed my elbow into his back, he tumbled down with surprising ease. I then removed myself from the crowd as fast as possible, mixing in with the other students suddenly holding their breath at Harry Potter's abrupt descent. He landed without injury, but I was busier returning to my spot in the crowd.
I had not moved an inch from my spot, for my spot was I, and I was my spot. Clearly, I had no reason to intercept and knock down professor Quirrell because I was a good Ravenclaw, and good Ravenclaws do not push down their Voldemort-possessed professors.
Gryffindor won the cup, Harry having nearly swallowed the golden snitch he was supposed to capture, and as they cherished the day and triumphantly, I returned to my practice in the silence of the Room of Requirements.
As things went by, I reckoned the biggest problem would be ensuring Quirrell's destruction. Perhaps I could ask Harry to give a high-five to the professor? My wand twitched in my hand as I smiled in the general direction of the glittering green sparks. The poor mannequin's straw began to burn, and I swung a Flipendo its way to make it spin and douse out the flames.
Strangely enough, sparks, flames and anything flashy did come more easily to the wand than the rest.
"Next spell on the list," I grumbled as I flipped my Defense against the Dark Arts book, "Is the Fumos one."
A spiral of the wand, a spoken word, and thick smoke should have left the tip of my wand. In my circumstance, the hot smoke smelled more like ashes. "Oi now," I grunted as I swished the wand right and left, the smoke still pouring out. "Oi!" I grunted as I swung it up and down. Much to my surprise, I had expected the spell not to start, or at least not keep going off like this once it became clear I had failed it.
Instead spoke kept pouring out, quickly filling the room in a kind-of London-like atmosphere, if with smoke and ashes.
Strangely enough, the smoke was still breathable.
"Notice to self," I muttered in the middle of the smoke cloud, trying my hardest to peer through it, "First read how to stop the spell, then practice the spell," I tried to flick through the spell's description and pages, but in the middle of this ashen mist, it was ludicrous to as much as try. Well, the spell would eventually end. At the very least, I could get some practice done in poor atmospheric conditions?
I had to look at the bright side.
"Just in case," I whispered, "if I'm not wrong...the dog, the Lumos Solem, then the Accio, the Chessboard, the Troll and...the logical potion puzzle?" I could get through the dog with a bit of practice on the orchestral spell, and the Lumos would not need much practice to further improve. The Troll could be dealt with using a Wingardium Leviosa, but the Accio and the Chessboard were both things that would need to be learned.
Perhaps I could get one of those cheesy three-move winners from some international chess championship or something of the sort. I doubted that whichever professor had planned the chessboard had actually accounted for those incredibly smart, cunning, devious and quite quick victories if the opponent wasn't a master-class chess-master in his own rights.
"Why am I thinking about going through the gauntlet of the Philosopher Stone?" I muttered in the depths of the mist. "I don't want the Philosopher Stone. I don't want to go on the crazy train."
Silence, and the sparkling every now and the of some flickers of ash, was all the answer I got.
I coughed in my closed fist, and chuckled as I lifted my wand.
"Symphonia Cantatio," the ashen mist seemed to twirl in front of my eyes, ethereal forms manifesting in a sort of ghastly orchestral composition. Normally invisible, their outlines were visible now thanks to the smoke.
I raised my right wand and my left hand together, and the orchestral instruments stood at the ready.
"And one," I brought both hands down, "And two," I brought them back up, "And three..."
One of the violins sharply shrieked, as if killing a pig.
And they said that magical music was without mistakes...
...rather, magical music was a mistake waiting to happen.
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