determining contradictions
There was quiet, and there was darkness. The only thing Peter could feel was the chill of his own breath… and of something else?
He whipped around blindly, and somewhere in his mind’s eye he saw water surging towards him, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, he was too deep in—
He awoke with an inaudible gasp.
Peter shook his head ruefully. That nightmare still hadn’t gone away, then.
He’d hoped that after coming here it would…
What, exactly? Stop? What had Hogwarts to do with his nightmares?
It was because he’d always thought of Hogwarts as a fresh start for, well… everything, Peter realised. And that was a dangerous thing because it wasn’t true. Even if he managed to stay here during the winter holidays— and he would, no matter what it took —summer still loomed. Two whole months where he’d be with his grandmother again. And that was if he didn't give her reason to pull him out of Hogwarts.
He…
He didn’t know what to think.
Peter sighed, his hands running through his hair as he buried his head in them.
Okay…let’s just focus on the present for now.
He gingerly climbed out of his bed, noting that his roommates were still asleep, and decided to get fresh before there was a queue for the bathroom.
Half an hour later, Peter looked at himself in the mirror and found it difficult to look away.
Somehow, even though too much hadn’t changed with his appearance, he felt… different. Not him.
This Peter Pettigrew had his wavy blond hair set perfectly, courtesy of the paper-wrapped gift he’d found by his bedside table that older Slytherins were apparently obligated to give to their successors.
The gift had been enchanted cream for hair that helped keep it in place and bring lustre and softness to it. Peter was ironically reminded of the muggle hair gel the caretaker at home secretly used.
The note accompanying it had been short and simple:
Slytherins should know to be presentable. That was… the first thing I learned as I came here. If you don’t use something like this already, I suggest you start now.
You are in the house of snakes now, so I suggest you tread carefully. I wish you luck in it.
– L
Peter stared at it for a minute, before folding it carefully and keeping it in his more… personal section of his trunk. He didn’t know why, but it felt… special, in a way that he’d never felt before.
He didn’t acknowledge the internal whisper saying it was because he had never gotten anything from anyone before.
Because not only was that pitiable, he actually had— his parents had left him something, he was sure, it was just… in Grandmother’s custody. She’d told him she would give it to him whenever he proved ‘worthy enough’. Whatever that meant in her eyes.
That’s enough moping for a day! Peter said sharply to himself.
He was at Hogwarts now. Things would be better now. He’d make them better. He wouldn’t give them any reason to take him away. He’d make the most of his newfound freedom.
I’ll reach a place where no one can touch me, Peter promised himself, I’ll make it so Grandmother and anyone like her rue the day they tried to trap me.
Thus assured, he took a deep breath, and walked to the common room, taking in the scene as he sat.
He pulled out his Herbology textbook— it was their first class —and reread the chapter for the fifth time. Peter wondered if there was more material he could cover. Suddenly curious and a tad excited, he flipped to the last page, which, he noted with triumph, was listed with reference books. He’d have to persuade Grandmother to get him some of these for all the subjects. The most he’d been able to convince her to buy other than school books when they went to Diagon was Hogwarts: A History, The Grindelwald War: Every Event and Hero, and The Influential Wizard.
All very interesting reads, Peter thought fondly.
Still, if he wanted to be ahead in class, especially with all those purebloods who’d practically grown with such books as competition, he’d need those books. Peter felt confident that if he phrased it just right, he’d be able to get her to concede. Not being in front of her as he did it would make it far easier, too.
She wouldn’t be as disgusted.
Peter shook his head and was pulling out his timetable to check if he’d memorised it right when someone cleared their throat.
He looked up to meet the cold eyes of Amycus Carrow.
“Ah, Amycus!” He said genially, but internally he was panicking remembering the boy’s conversation with Bellatrix… Lestrange, he supposed? It seemed most likely that she would be from that family, although her behaviour had been slightly off from what Peter had been expecting.
“Heir Deventier.” Amycus said distastefully, “Or is it Peter Pettigrew? Your name on the sorting list certainly said so.”
Peter artfully raised an eyebrow. He was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get him to slip up, he was pretty sure.
“Exalted Houses don’t usually use the name of their House as their own,” Peter said with affected confusion, which he slowly let morph into slight offence, “What exactly are you implying, Mr. Carrow?”
There. The switch from his first to his last name would let him know he was treading thin ice. And offending someone of the same supposed standing, Peter knew, was not something any child of Ancient or Noble families would feel free to do. He knew from personal experience. That lesson with his Grandmother had been decidedly unpleasant.
Amycus backtracked gracefully enough, “I am implying nothing, friend. Merely inquiring into what you preferred to be called; and please, do honor me by addressing me as Amycus once more.”
“Peter is fine,” Peter said after a pause. Merlin, but he needed more time to think about this. Conversations like these were setting him up for the kind of life he'd live for seven years. But he'd gotten little sleep, and his mind was refusing to cooperate!
“Would you mind sharing with me the reason for the elevation of your House to Exalted?” Amycus said casually, “I admit I’m interested.”
“My father led the forefront of the Grindelwald War before his death,” Peter said, paraphrasing it from The Grindelwald War: Every Event and Hero, which he’d stayed most of the night to try and finish. Normally when a book was bought for him, he finished it that very day, but this one had been huge. And he didn’t want to skip anything because any page he glossed over might have his father’s name on it.
But after the train introduction and what he heard at the feast? Peter had spent the better part of the night desperately trying to complete it in hopes that he’d find some information that may be of use to him.
He hadn't been able to finish it, but he'd gotten some information, at least.
There was something both relaxed and tense in Amycus' features at that. Peter thought it was a combination of pleasure of the fact that Peter was 'legit,' as he had so eloquently put it to Lestrange, and tension over the fact that he could have just antagonized Peter and screwed himself over with his parents.
Ruddy Slytherins and this game of playing pretence. Peter thought scathingly, then blinked at his own venom. Where had that come from?
It was probably his burgeoning headache.
"Um… Peter?" Amycus said.
"Yes?" Peter said distractedly, "Oh. I apologise. I have a somewhat nasty headache today."
"Oh, that's fine. I was just asking if you'd like me to accompany you to breakfast?"
"No, that's fine," Peter said, "I'll leave for the Great Hall a little later, I think."
"Make sure to not get lost," Amycus said, before offering a polite bow and leaving.
How quickly his attitude changes, when he thinks you're 'worthy enough' of respect. Or decency.
It reminded Peter bitterly of his Grandmother. She was just li—No, actually, this was worse! His Grandmother, at least, didn't consider people not human enough if they didn’t meet certain standards of 'blood,'.
Frustrated with himself and the world in general, Peter just reclined on the couch.
It occurred to him, in a twinge of pain surely sent as punishment from somewhere, that this was practically how he spent every day at Pettigrew Place.
Hogwarts wasn't proving to be very different.
Or maybe it was just him.
He should have kicked and screamed at the Hat to not send him to Slytherin, because really, while there was nothing wrong with the house itself, he couldn't handle more of this bigot wishy-washy nonsense and strange, sharp games.
He didn't want to.
So what had possessed him, when the Hat had tentatively offered Gryffindor and he'd balked? What had gotten into him, that he'd forgotten he wanted to heal?
How was he supposed to heal in a place like this?
Peter stared up at the ceiling like it would give him his answers, and only found it indifferent.
He wondered how long it would take before he could become like that wall. He wondered if he wanted to.
He didn't know.
Most students had left by now. Shaking himself out of his existential crisis, he stowed his book in his bag and left the common room.
He quietly followed one of the older years and found the Great Hall with no trouble, making sure to remember the passage for future trips. He could just ask, but Peter was pretty sure they'd take it as him owing them one for it, and being indebted to someone was the last thing he needed. He'd probably need to follow them for the next few trips to commit it permanently to memory, but that was preferable.
Peter scanned the Slytherin Table for a brief second, making note of where Severus and Regulus sat.
They were about as far away as they could be within the first-year section of the table. Peter hid a smile.
Really, it was so like him to make acquaintances who hated each other.
It's not that bad. They could have hated me instead.
Given he knew Severus better than Regulus Black, Peter elected to sit by him. The fact that Regulus was seated rather uncomfortably close to the Carrows had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.
"Good morning," Peter said as he took a seat, flashing Severus a smile.
"Good morning," Severus replied quietly. He looked rather down, Peter thought.
"Is everything fine?" Peter said, making sure to keep his voice low.
"Why wouldn't it be, Peter?" He said sharply.
Peter raised his eyebrows, "Because you're like sunshine today."
Severus grumbled and, out of all things on the table, picked out some bread and claimed a couple of slices.
Peter frowned, before really looking at the boy.
He… didn't seem healthy at all, actually.
His skin lacked the fat that most children had, instead clinging to his bones more than they ought. It was hard to tell with his robes covering everything but his face, but if you were looking for it…
Severus looked underfed. And Peter was beginning to worry.
"How about we go to Madam Pomfrey after classes?" Peter said bluntly. He doubted Severus would appreciate him circling around the point.
His face reddened, "What—"
"You look like you need it," Peter said in a tone that brooked no argument, then let his voice soften, "Besides, if you go about looking like this, our 'Slytherin friends' are going to start making assumptions about you, and believe me, you don't want to see how they'll start treating you."
Weaknessis not acceptable here. Not in the open. Definitely not if you're not a pureblood whose parents have old money.
Severus' grip on his place tightened.
"I made a mistake coming here, didn't I?" He said, voice barely above a whisper, "I shouldn't have— I should have said something, done something, said no Slytherin—"
Something caught in Peter's throat. That was exactly what he'd been thinking not too long ago.
But somehow, when Severus said it, the right words came to mind.
"You can't let some people mess up an entire house for you," Peter said, just as quietly, "We are Slytherin House, too. We choose what it becomes," He met Severus's eyes as he reached out for a dish across them, "We choose what we make it."
Severus did not look at him after that, lost in his own thoughts, idly picking at his food.
Peter realised with a sick feeling that he'd probably been very shocked and excited at the feast last night and likely overeaten all the rich foods. He'd likely felt unwell afterward, speaking volumes of his attitude to it now.
Peter took some bread and layered some marmalade over it before folding it in half.
He tapped Severus' arm and grinned infectiously at him, eliciting a small smile.
"Here's to the most humble eaters at the table," Peter said with a wink.
Severus lifted his own bread, and they did a 'cheers' motion before having a bite.
Across the table, Regulus smiled.
Ten minutes later, they were all in line for Herbology with the Hufflepuffs in front of Greenhouse 1.
Professor Pomona Sprout (Peter smiled at the ironic name) went over the general safety precautions while dealing with plants of a magical nature, a topic in which Peter raised his hand for all questions asked (he got the chance to answer two, both correct).
She then went further into the different kinds of soil and how each was beneficial for different kinds of plants. Peter was pleasantly surprised— a lot of it was not stuff from the textbook. That meant he could go overboard with studying it and still not get bored in class. In Herbology, anyway. Perhaps it was from those reference books, or simply from years of experience.
Overall, despite the Slytherin's disgusted looks towards the Hufflepuffs, who looked rather uncharmed being around such hostile company, as Peter stepped into the Transfiguration classroom he thought the class had gone rather well.
So, naturally, that was when something had to go wrong.
McGonagall was a fine teacher (she mentioned at some point that Dumbledore often came to class to lend a hand); she had gone into the limitations, dangers, and general uses of Transfiguration all in the first ten minutes, and in such a way that people had no trouble understanding why they'd have their wand snapped in half and be kicked out of Hogwarts if they were caught experimenting or pranking with it.
That part was fine.
The trouble came when she handed them each a matchstick to turn into a needle.
"Acusfors!" Peter incanted. The match seamlessly transfigured into a needle, before giving a shudder and reverting to its original form, only splintered.
Bile rose up against his throat, and his hands started shaking.
"P-Professor?" Peter managed, "May I go to the restroom?"
McGonagall looked at him for a moment before nodding.
Peter managed to walk evenly until he left the classroom, after which he ran— more like stumbled —across the corridors looking for the bathroom on that floor.
Just when he thought he couldn't keep it in, he found it.
He went into the nearest stall and retched. Surprisingly, not much came out, though the color was slightly strange.
The shaking hadn't gone, though.
He slumped against a wall, staring at his hands.
What had gone wrong?
Had he panicked? Peter didn't understand.
Is-Is this like my magic problem at home? Peter thought hysterically.
Why—?
His eyes closed, and he tried to ignore the tears that had started sliding down his cheeks without permission.
So much for a fresh start.
He could see his Grandmother laughing at him.
You couldn't be a good child, and you can't even be a proper wizard.
You can never escape this, because the problem lies in you.
***
Aanya ran her thumb over the spello-tape. Her bunk at Hogwarts had been nothing but impressive, but she'd wanted to give it a small, personal touch.
She stared at the picture for a moment, smiling.
Her mum and dad smiled back at her, the latter even giving a jaunty wave. She raised her hand in echo.
"I love you both," she whispered to them.
They couldn't reply through the picture— Hogwarts had a restriction against students carrying talking pictures —but she understood them all the same.
We love you too, Aanya.
The photo had truly been a brilliant idea of her mother's. Usually, semi-sentient photos where you could talk to the subject of the portrait was only possible after the death of the subject. Until then, if you wanted a moving picture, it worked a bit like a video on repeat. Her mother, however, had found a way to use them as a means of communication with the living subject! A bit like twin link mirrors, except this was not Gringotts produced and regulated, and so would be much more easily available.
Her mother had apparently even simplified the arithmetic equations behind it drastically. Aanya desperately wanted to understand it, but it was a bit beyond her. She'd started to learn arithmancy anyway.
The product was just getting ready for the market, but she'd been given one in advance so that she'd be able to contact them. With only one-way audio, but contact them still.
Aanya didn't feel very comfortable about owning an owl. The responsibility would be a bit heavy on her on top of everything else, she suspected.
If she really needed to use one, the school had some for just that purpose, so there was no need to bother.
There was a call from the common room downstairs.
She looked at her parents excitedly, "I'm going to start my first day at school now! Wish me luck!"
They winked at her and her mother blew her a kiss, and Aanya found herself smiling uncontrollably.
She was at Hogwarts! Finally, finally, after months of excited and nervous waiting, Hogwarts!
She tried not to tap dance on her way down the stairs.
The Ravenclaw first-years formed a line (as they would for the coming week) to be led by alternating prefects to the Great Hall.
Aanya noted the way there even as she gaped at the beauty of the corridor architecture, and that too, she thought ironically as she arrived, paled at the 'Great' Hall's magnificence.
The decor was very different from what she was used to seeing in India. The magical pre-primary school there was almost entirely made of stunning wood, with the furnishings often embellished with Aflium. Hogwarts had next to nothing of it, Aanya realised with some surprise. She'd not seen the weed-coloured metal anywhere in the castle so far.
Did they not need to regulate ambient magic? Then again, Aanya supposed, the wands would help with the channeling such that wizards here wouldn't need regulators.
She ignored the voice that said it hadn't worked well in her case, given the Protego she'd cast in the train and everybody's shock over it.
What was concerning was that her parents' plan didn't seem to be working. When she'd cast the shield, she'd done it wandlessly. Without. The. Damn. Wand. She hadn't used it, and that meant that this roundabout way of trying to get her magic used to trying to channel through something else could just as easily not work if it could directly circumvent the wand.
But it could be that everyone's surprise was more over the spell than the fact that she'd cast it wandlessly. Aanya wondered if they even knew that she had— she'd been holding her wand at the time —perhaps they just naturally assumed she'd used her wand.
The shock, she could sort of understand, because from what she'd understood, wizards in Britain did not have a pre-primary school for magic. It was just home-schooling, and tutors if you could afford it. And they most decidedly did not practise wandless magic, either before or in Hogwarts.
The whole point of it in India, she knew, was to make sure you did not need to rely on a vessel for magic, but learn to channel it from within yourself.
Of course, that hadn't really turned out well for Aanya either, but well…
She knew her parents had sent her away partly because they thought Britain's techniques and education of channeling magic would do her good, and partly because of the War at home. She knew that.
But somehow still… she felt like she'd given up by coming here.
Aanya shook her head. Hogwarts was said to be one of the best magical schools in the world! This would only be a great opportunity for her. And hadn't she been bursting with excitement just minutes ago? She shouldn't forget that. She was very fortunate.
So engrossed was she in her thoughts, that Aanya hadn't even realised she'd pulled back a chair and taken a seat at the table until a girl by her side was tapping her on her shoulder.
She met her eyes, and the girl gave an amused smile.
"I see now why they made that rule," the girl said, gesturing to the food, "No one on this table would eat the food if there wasn't a rule."
Aanya flushed as she looked around at the table, deciding what to pick.
She'd been worried, yesterday, given that she was a Jain out of the country and the food might not be according to her dietary restrictions.
She'd looked to the table, and seen South Indian food fitting her needs. She'd felt like running to the kitchen and hugging the house-elves she'd read about.
Aanya served herself a lot of Idlis, and the Chatni proved quite delectable. Seriously, the elves were amazing cooks.
She'd have to acclimate herself to Britain's menu, of course, so she didn't hesitate in trying out the new things on the table, but she'd rather not spend time adjusting to food on her first day.
She noticed the scarred boy from yesterday some ways off her seat and tilted her head in question. He saw her looking at him and gave a reassuring shake of his head.
Well, at least he doesn't look unwell today, Aanya thought. His greenish pallor had been pretty concerning.
She went back to her food at another nudge by the girl beside her.
Slowly, as she ate, Aanya got to know her. Her name was Pierta, and she liked gardening. And books. Lots of books. Mainly fiction, at which Aanya raised an eyebrow. She'd always been fond of non-fiction and really couldn't understand the obsession with the former. If the stories weren't true, what could you learn from them?
Pierta took one look at her expression and solemnly swore to make her read some 'awesome fiction books'.
Aanya couldn't hide a smile at that.
"Alright, first-years!" Prefect Villegas said with a distinct Spanish accent, "We'll be forming two lines now— one for those of you who have left their bags in the dormitory, guided by Prefect Walter, and the other, led by me, straight to the Defense Classroom. And please, bring your bags and satchels with you next time. Walter and I have classes too, you know."
There were apologetic chuckles at that.
Aanya, having gotten hers— a feather-light charmed black backpack with all her needs for the day packed— quietly joined the line forming behind Prefect Villegas.
It was only halfway through the journey that she noticed the boy line up behind her. It took a moment longer for her to realise that he was the only person she'd talked to besides Pierta in Ravenclaw, and she didn't know his name.
She'd ask later.
The Ravenclaws took their seats in the big expanse of the defense room. There was a long black metal stage before the seats that rose by row, behind which the teacher's desk sat sleekly. Professor Rosier, who was standing by it, looked at them all with interest as they took their seats.
There were still some five minutes to class, so Aanya just took a seat in the front row and waited. She'd read the first chapter far too many times, and bringing her wand out of its holster without the teacher's prompting might not be advisable.
The other batch of Ravenclaws that had gone to their dorms to collect their belongings arrived a minute before time, panting heavily for all that when they’d entered the class, they seemed to have been walking at a slow, even pace. Professor Rosier's lips tugged upwards.
Aanya wondered just where the Gryffindors were at.
At the exact tick of the clock that signaled the start of the class, the Professor walked a few steps closer to the students and palmed his wand.
"What is your greatest weapon?" He inquired, seemingly open to anyone answering.
Aanya raised her hand. She was not picked.
A strawberry blonde boy rose from his seat and said, "His head, sir?"
"Are you asking me, Mr…?"
The boy flushed, "Mr. Taylor, sir. And no."
"Then you would be correct, Mr. Taylor." Professor Rosier grinned, "I suppose it was poor of me to expect Ravenclaws to give any other answer,"
Everybody blinked. Then the laughter started.
Aanya raised her hand again.
Rosier crooked a brow, "Yes, Miss...?"
"Kashyap," Aanya swallowed, "Mr. Taylor's answer is sound, but if you wish for a more particular answer I'd say our greatest weapon is creativity."
Rosier inclined his head, "Another respectable opinion. But there was another layer to this question I posed in front of you. A Gryffindor may have said grit, a Slytherin may have said cunning, or resourcefulness, perhaps, a Hufflepuff, resilience. Do you see it now?"
Aanya didn't, though she thought she was close.
A couple of hands were raised, the scarred boy from earlier being one of them.
Professor Rosier nodded his head at him, and the boy rose.
"Remus Lupin, sir. I think you are talking about individual strengths," He said, "That everyone has their own strengths, which serve as their greatest weapon." Something about his voice told her he didn't truly believe it.
"Well put, Mr. Lupin. And yes, that is what I meant."
"This class is Defense Against the Dark Arts," Rosier said, his earlier amusement gone from his voice, "And in times such as these, it will be your most important guide. For those of you who do not know me— I am Evan Rosier, apprenticed under Master Tehama from the Defense Guild, and your Defense Professor for the year."
For the year? Aanya wondered, What does he mean by that?
"Almost all your homework in this class will be assigned reading and spell practice, which will be later broached in the next class once more," He continued, "And to the best of my ability, I shall try to keep your assessments practical. We are learning to fight against dark creatures— and most of all, dark wizards — not to just write ten inches on the topic."
"Then again, such knowledge is also important, for how will you recognize a dark creature or curse coming your way? And so, I have split your Defense lessons into two: Theory, and Duelling. You'll notice the latter marked as a different class in your timetable." He paused, a smile creeping back onto his face, "I had the ingenious idea of combining as many defense classes with other houses as possible, so you'll have dueling classes with all three houses together, giving me four times the time with all of you. The theory, however, I would prefer to teach separately for my convenience."
The young Ravenclaws were grinning.
"So, with all of that said, we begin our first class. Can I assume you know the three basic signs of poisonous creatures?"
And so it went.
Aanya was picked to answer three of twenty questions, which she answered to the Professor's full satisfaction.
Question after question, and Aanya listened with rapt attention as students from different countries or Britain tutoring or homeschooling shone in their own unique array of information.
She really liked this style of teaching. Professor Rosier would ask a seemingly innocuous question, with just as seemingly simple answers, and have the volunteering children answer it one by one. If you wished to say something but it was already put forth, he explained during their exchanges, you would put your hand down. He would be trying to diversify the students he asked questions to anyway. Only after the children had run out of things to say, he'd offer his own, fascinating knowledge on the topic. It was more often than not backed with experience.
"Aptly put, Mr. Callas. Now, can someone tell me what is dark magic?"
That attracted even more rapt attention. It was his first question with an answer none of them were quite sure of.
But Professor Rosier had encouraged you to answer if you had an idea of it too. That was, he had said, how you learned.
Pierta got the question. "Dark Magic is magic used with intent to harm," she said.
"Close," He said, "Dark Magic is a term that lay wizards often have multiple definitions for, and most of those are, frankly, nonsensical. In the eyes of the Ministry of Magic and most governments, Dark Magic is considered Magic involved in any violent act on the body, mind, or soul of any sentient being without lawful permission to do so. It doesn't really matter what spell you use. If you didn't act in defence, you and your spell— in that context —are dark. Some spells are, of course, considered darker than others, given their use is hard to imagine in anything other than violence. There are even a few considered indisputably dark— the Unforgivables, for instance —because the mindset required to cast them automatically marks you of a dark nature."
He paused, and everyone took a few moments to digest this. Aanya raised her hand.
"Does the same go for dark objects and creatures?"
"Quite so, Miss Kashyap. If used for a harmful or violent purpose, an object is considered dark in that context, and again, there are some rare ones that by nature are violent or harmful, and so are put definitively in the 'dark' category," He flicked his wand, and golden dust appeared from its tip, scattering in the air until it formed the image of a Rhinoceros— no, an Erumpent — above him.
"For creatures, there is a little difference. An Erumpent, for instance, is a very dangerous creature with a four X classification, and yet it is not considered dark given the fact that it does not intend to harm unless it feels threatened, and is not subjectable to control by wizards, who may use it for evil. So you tell me, what would be considered a dark creature, and why?"
"A… Basilisk," Aanya said thoughtfully, "Because one who speaks the Serpent's Tongue can control it for ill."
"Indeed. Could you list a few more?"
"A Manticore, because it possesses intelligence and still hunts us. Same for Acromantulas, I suppose," She'd read this, she knew, but still she frowned.
"You suppose?" Rosier said, eyebrows raised. He knew she knew.
"I just don’t get this one bit, sir. Yes, they are sentient and still hunt us, but they do not do so out of any urge for violence, as is the descriptor for Dark Magic. They do it because we are simply part of their diet. In fact, Manticores and Acromantulas do not even actively seek us out. According to Hogwarts: A History, we have some in our Forbidden Forest, and there has only ever been one incident when a student came to harm because of them, and that too because they wandered right into their den."
"Well, I'm pretty sure if the pigs and chickens on the receiving end could call us dark, they would, Miss Kashyap," Rosier said dryly, arousing some chuckles, "But yes, I do see your point. Unfortunately, our Ministry sees something that may harm them, and immediately brands it as evil. It is why they let things like anti-werewolf laws pass, after all."
Aanya nodded, somewhat disappointed, though she didn't know because of what. Maybe she just hadn't expected that answer.
Remus, on the other hand, had stiffened visibly.
"Mr. Lupin?" Professor Rosier said idly, "Is there anything you wish to share with us?"
Aanya's eyes snapped to Remus. He looked pale. Was he unwell again?
"No, Professor," the boy managed.
"Well then, onto the next question…"
The bell rang through the classroom, signifying the end of the class.
"Ah, well," Rosier said, "That concludes the end of our first lesson, young Ravenclaws. I shall be holding a test in your next class, although I shall not say on what. See if you can do anything to prepare better, will you?"
There was both uneasiness and nervous excitement at that. A line was once more forming at the exit, now to be led by a rather harried Prefect Walter (he had run all the way from the Transfiguration Classroom to reach on time). Aanya tugged her backpack strands and was about to join when—
"Miss Kashyap?"
She stilled for a moment before turning around.
"Professor?"
He smiled, though Aanya thought there was something off about his eyes. It took her a moment to realise they looked calculating.
" Mr. Walter," He said to the Prefect, ignoring her for a second, "You may lead the class wherever they are due next. I wish to have a word with Miss Kashyap."
She could tell Walter looked troubled, though for a different reason entirely, "But sir, it's a protocol for every first-year to have an escort the first week. How is she going to come to Charms class alone? She doesn't even know the classroom."
"If it soothes your worries, Mr.Walter, I can fill in and see to it that she reaches her class safely," His lips curled.
Walter gave a nod before directing the students out.
Aanya stood there, more than a little confused. But for whatever reason, her instincts were tingling. The whole situation screamed wrong, and she didn't even know why. There shouldn't be anything wrong, he had just asked her to stay back— but why? whispered another voice from within her, What does he want?
She ruthlessly squashed it.
Rosier had his back to the teacher's desk, almost leaning against it, when he said casually, "Do you duel, Miss Kashyap?"
She blinked.
"A lot of purebloods receive their wand earlier than they are legally allowed here in Britain," Rosier said, "They learn the basic spells at home, giving them an easier first year at Hogwarts than muggleborns and halfbloods. They take this as proof of blood superiority." He scoffed.
"I hear it is intriguingly different in India," He said, "You learn wandless magic from the start, in an attempt to not 'link' magic to a channeling device in a way that it cannot work easily without it. This should, by all that we hear here in Britain, restrict you from learning much, as wandless magic is notoriously difficult. And yet, I have heard that your lot progresses to dueling before they are even eligible for Hogwarts!"
Aanya couldn't pin down the exact emotion in his voice, but this was making her distinctly uneasy.
Rosier moved to his desk, picked up a quill, and murmured a few words to it. The quill began writing something on the parchment already lying out on the table. He turned and faced her once more.
"The Protego you cast on the train," He surveyed her expression, "— yes, I do know about that, Miss Kashyap —was wandless, wasn't it? It doesn't make sense that you push such a powerful spell through a wand in a moment where you felt threatened when your magic is used to casting it without one." He took a step closer, "What I don't understand is this: Why would you come to Britain? Why would you want to bind your magic to something when you are capable of using it in its raw power?"
There was a chill running down her spine.
"Why did you leave?" Rosier asked her.
"Respectfully, Professor, that's none of your business."
"No?" Rosier crooked an eyebrow, "Not even though you may have accidental bursts of wandless magic while adjusting in my dueling class, where instinct will kick in no matter how hard you try? Not even though a lot of the spells you may cast will either be obscure or ones that your classmates have not yet learned the defense against?"
Aanya shook her head, baffled, "What are you talking about? All the spells I've learned can be canceled by a Protego—" her eyes widened.
The first-years didn’t know how to cast a protego.
"Tell me, Miss Kashyap," Rosier said idly, "Have you ever even heard of the Contego shield?"
Aanya remembered reading about it from her defence book, then trying it out in excitement. She remembered frowning at the result and its limitations and deciding to use Protego when it came down to it.
"I have."
"How useful did you find it?" He pressed.
"Moderate, I suppose," She didn't know what she was supposed to say.
"There is no need to be modest. It does not reflect on you being particularly powerful— only on our stupid curriculum —if you say that the shield is quite useless against anything more powerful than a simple Somnium."
"I… don't get it. What are you trying to say, Professor?" Aanya said. She didn't know why she was feeling scared, "What do you want from me?"
He seemed to realise he was troubling her because his voice became gentler and he further increased the considerable distance between them, "Let me put it this way: I believe you left India because you are having troubles with harnessing raw magic without it blowing up in someone's face. I believe your parents thought Britain's system of using wands and linking our magic to them instead of using aura regulators— which we do not have in abundance — to regulate the amount of wild magic might prove more beneficial to you. Their concerns are, frankly, misplaced. When you first showed signs of such troubles, they should not have thought of Britain as the better option." Rosier swallowed, "Wandless Magic is a gift, you understand? If you are having trouble with it, it is simply because it is difficult to master, not because of any particular problem intrinsic to you."
The air seemed to have vanished from the room, so Aanya felt like she was living in and breathing in a vacuum.
"So…" Her throat felt dry.
"If you are open to it, Miss Kashyap, I am willing to teach you how to harness raw magic correctly, and with the right amount of control," Rosier said, "I was known to have near prodigious levels of control over my magic in my childhood— before I even got my wand —and like I said, we purebloods get our wands early. But after receiving it, I could feel my magic being curbed slowly as time passed, so much so that it became difficult to produce seemingly simple wandless spells."
Thoughts warred within her.
But that's what I want.
Do I? Or is that just my fear speaking?
Since when was I one to give up?
"With much practice, I came closer to what I once was, until my Third Year," Here he smiled, "Your magical core— the thing that allows you to harness the ambient magic around you— grows when you turn thirteen, and so did mine. A stronger core sped things up for me, I admit, and I came out more powerful."
The frown was back on his face, "But it wouldn't have happened without the right guidance, which I was fortunate to have. There was also the fact that I started early to gain back what I once had. Adult wizards spend years mastering one wandless spell, and only then does it come naturally to them."
"And you are the right guidance?" Aanya said. Joking seemed to be the only relief right now.
Rosier's lips twitched upwards, "You wound me, Miss Kashyap. More seriously, I'd like to say I am the best you have right now, should you wish to pursue this."
"What about Dumbledore?" She said, if only to see his reaction to it.
Rosier grimaced, "My point stands."
"You don't like Dumbledore?"
"Well, let's say the Headmaster and I have a complicated relationship and leave it at that. He… was the one who mentored me."
Aanya stared at him, "So he was the 'right guidance' for you, but wouldn't be for me?"
"Like I said, we have a complicated relationship. He isn't a bad mentor, I suppose, but saying that is against the current pitch I'm making," He smirked.
Aanya eyed him exasperatedly, "You were a Slytherin, weren't you?"
"A Hufflepuff, actually," He said.
Aanya choked, "No way."
The then Heir of House Rosier? And he hadn’t been murdered in cold blood?
Rosier said nothing. He seemed to be waiting for a response.
When she stayed silent, stuck in a war of thoughts inside her head, he took a step back.
"Miss Kashyap, time is ticking. I, fortunately, currently have a free period. You do not."
She inhaled sharply. She was missing Charms!
"You're making me miss class!" She hissed at him, not really caring that he was a Professor.
"No, dear, you are making yourself miss a class."
"Excuse me? You were the one who held me back in here. Couldn't this have waited until after classes?"
Rosier smirked, "No, because unfortunately, I will be out of school for the remainder of the day after my last class."
"Then why not at Lunch?"
"Miss Kashyap, an answer first?"
Aanya looked at him for a moment.
"I need some time."
Rosier inclined his head, "So long as it's a day before your second dueling class, I'm fine."
"Why second?"
"The first, Miss Kashyap, is one hour of entirely physical exercise," Rosier grinned, "Actual magic starts in the second class. Make sure to not 'accidentally' tell your friends that, or nobody will show up."
She couldn't help it, she laughed, "Okay, sir. The day before the second class, huh? Sunday, then."
"Try not to leave it to the last minute, that decision of yours," Rosier said dryly, "And consider what it means, and what may change, will you? I do not want any regrets."
"Of course, sir." She paused, "Now can I please get to class??"
Rosier smiled genuinely at that. He turned around in a swift movement and touched the quill that was scratching away at the parchment on the table, and it stilled. He sprinkled some drying sand on the parchment before shaking it off.
He rolled up the parchment and held it out to her.
"These are the notes of what has been covered in the class so far," Rosier said.
"...Thank you," she said.
"Now let's go. You do still have," he checked his magical watch, "twenty minutes left. Time's wasting. And you don't have my remarkable tricks to get you the notes given during the time we take to get there."
She snorted good-naturedly and followed him out of the classroom.
Professor Flitwick was not going to be happy.