CHAPTER 44

The protection of the mind serves to prevent one from becoming overwhelmed by emotions; however, any self-respecting wizard understands that the incorporeal manifestations of the undead primarily affect not only the mind but also the soul, which constitutes their source of sustenance in various forms.

Directing my wand towards the hovering, tattered black robe, I mentally lamented the presence of this creature, as it threatened to compromise the entirety of my experiment with its dark magic.

"There is no Sirius Black here," I stated to the slowly advancing entity, while simultaneously beginning to conjure a magical construct designed to counter such beings. It was not without reason that I recalled him during my journey from Hogsmeade, particularly in the company of Professor McGonagall.

The Dementor, it appeared, was not swayed by my assertion and opted to probe my soul, presumably to ascertain whether Black was indeed present. Perhaps it was merely dulled by its hunger? I cautiously retreated behind the tree beneath which I had been conducting my experiment. The Dementor continued its approach. What else did the bestiary indicate? I was reluctant to damage the property of our Ministry. It is difficult to accept that Dementors are considered property; it seems improbable that wizards, who prohibit dark magic and employ neutral magic in their daily lives, could have created such entities.

Light is known to repel such creatures. Even ordinary sunlight can suffice, and a powerful, focused magical light—even when generated from neutral energy—is even more effective. The essence of the matter is that light produced by a spell utilizing neutral energy constitutes a physical manifestation, and such manifestations inherently carry traces of energy corresponding to that manifestation.

After careful consideration, I resolved not to destroy the creature but rather to intimidate it. How does the local textbook phrase it? Lumos Maxima?

"Lumos Maxima," I articulated, executing the appropriate gesture and verbal incantation.

A blinding cone of brilliant light erupted from the tip of my wand. The Dementor emitted a long, anguished howl, shielding itself with its hands as it retreated. Suddenly, the howl was replaced by an incongruous gurgling sound. Continuing to direct the light towards the location of the Dementor, I cautiously withdrew. The intensity of the light rendered it difficult for me to discern the situation. After retreating approximately ten meters, I dispelled the spell, preparing to flee to the bridge and subsequently to the castle, but I turned back at the last moment. My eyebrows shot up in astonishment—the Dementor was actively attempting to disentangle a small ball of vines that had ensnared its ethereal form.

As much as I wished to witness the outcome of this peculiar incident, I deemed it prudent to vacate the scene and hastened towards the castle.

However, Dumbledore had indicated that Dementors were stationed near the approaches to the castle. It would be logical to assume that they would not be positioned along the paths utilized by students en route to Care of Magical Creatures lessons, but nearby—why not? It seemed the Headmaster had not fully articulated his thoughts, and I had not anticipated the worst. Yet, Susan had casually informed me of the patrol routes, and it appeared that there should not be any in this vicinity.

Upon returning to the castle, I paused to catch my breath, leaning against the entrance wall. Encounters with creatures such as Dementors are not commonplace. Moreover, one cannot simply destroy them—they are someone else's property. I am not of an age to engage in conflicts with the authorities, even in self-defense.

"Are you skipping classes?" inquired a grumbling caretaker clad in an antiquated suit, approaching from the side.

This elderly man presented an unappealing demeanor, evoking a sentiment akin to that of certain wizards I had observed in the Leaky Cauldron—those who might be considered the homeless of the wizarding world. However, with Filch, the situation was somewhat different. His attire, though exceedingly old, was relatively neat. The issue, as I perceived it, lay in his aged and somewhat distorted visage, adorned with sparse stubble, an irate expression, and unkempt, thinning hair that fell to his shoulders.

"No, sir. I currently have no classes," I replied, maintaining a courteous tone.

"No classes," Filch muttered, mimicking my words as he passed by. "Just wandering about, tracking dirt from one place to another…"

The disapproving gaze of the caretaker, who had commenced cleaning without the use of magic, was decidedly unpleasant, prompting me to proceed to the Great Hall.

A few students occupied the house tables, engaged in various activities. I had never visited this space outside of mealtimes, so I was somewhat taken aback by the liveliness. It resembled a university hall, or something akin to it. The forty or so individuals present were typical students enjoying a lengthy break or a gap between classes—chatting animatedly, experimenting with various magical devices, reading, or taking notes. A couple were even engaged in a game of wizard chess.

I did not observe any of my acquaintances, but I did spot Daphne seated at the Slytherin table alongside Parkinson, a striking girl with a bob of black hair. There were several others at their table, both younger and older, yet they all remained within their respective "age groups," animatedly discussing various topics. As one of my friends once remarked, "I see the goal; I see no obstacles."

My determined approach towards Daphne was abruptly interrupted at the table by a significantly older boy. He possessed a respectable appearance, as did the majority of Slytherins. However, it seemed that along with the well-groomed and tidy appearance of the green and silver uniform, an air of arrogance was also included.

"Where are you rushing to?" he inquired.

I raised an eyebrow, regarding the young man with confusion.

"We are not represented."

For a fleeting moment, confusion flickered in the boy's eyes, but it quickly dissipated.

"There is no room at this table for the likes of you," he declared haughtily, though without overt aggression.

"Is this prohibited by school regulations?" I asked.

"No, what are you suggesting?" the stranger grinned. "The rules are irrelevant to this matter."

"In that case, I shall not detain you any longer," I nodded respectfully and attempted to circumvent the young man, but he shifted to the side, obstructing my path once more.

"Did I not make myself sufficiently clear? You cannot approach this table."

I had observed on multiple occasions how representatives from other houses interacted amicably with Slytherins, yet something told me that those same representatives were not Muggle-born.

"What is not prohibited is permitted," I stated.

"I don't…"

"Then stop me."

For a brief moment, he regarded me with his gray eyes, after which he began to scan the area for support.

"Well then, what is all this for?" he asked.

I attempted to maneuver around him again, and this time he did not impede my progress, allowing me to reach the girls, who had noticed my approach.

"Ladies, I trust this space is not occupied?" I inquired.

Daphne sighed despondently, while Parkinson nearly leapt from her seat, as if she intended to create a scene. In essence, that feigned displeasure was precisely what was being conveyed.

"Well, well!" she exclaimed indignantly, raising her hands to the ceiling in a theatrical manner. "Now even our table is graced by Mudbloods. Where is Draco when he is so desperately needed?"

Although her voice was subdued, the intonation resembled that of someone shouting. I merely smiled as I took a seat opposite the girls.

"Did we assert that it was unoccupied?" Daphne tilted her head slightly to the side.

"Parkinson indicated that it was 'at the table,' thus I sat down to ensure your friend would not be unfounded."

The girls snorted dismissively, and Parkinson resumed her seat.

"And what brings you to our table?" Daphne inquired.

"Boredom and a business proposal," I replied.

"How intriguing," Daphne smiled slyly, and even Parkinson feigned interest, pretending not to look in my direction. "The latter, not the former. We are quite familiar with boredom ourselves and maintain a close relationship with it."

"Oh, it is quite simple," I leaned forward at the table, maintaining decorum and refraining from resting my elbows upon it—after all, how can one sit at a dining table with elbows on the surface? "I must submit all the material I have learned in Potions to Professor Snape by the end of this term."

"Pfft," Parkinson could not suppress a remark, turning her head towards me with a sarcastic smile. "So that is where your demise lies, Mudblood?"

"I do not anticipate failure," I replied with a smile, which only served to further displease her. "However, I do not expect to achieve the highest score, nor will I acquire the necessary experience. The longer my ignorance in this subject persists, the more detrimental it will be."

"Let us say," Daphne nodded. "I comprehend your point. But is it not a bit too smooth in your reasoning?"

"Consider it for yourself. Snape clearly harbors a dislike for Harry Potter and his companions, including my sister. Being a stranger to me, he immediately associated me with them for three years, giving rise to a multitude of potential reasons for conflict. If I were to approach him and propose, 'Let us engage in some extra lessons?' how far and how swiftly would the professor dismiss me?"

"Instantly," Parkinson grinned once more. "And as far as possible."

"There," I nodded in Daphne's direction. "You possess an undeniable advantage, at least in your affiliation with his house. Of course, you can practice without the professor's supervision, but incurring his displeasure seems to me a most unwise course of action."

"You are correct in that regard."

"Lessons could be conducted during the evening sessions with the professor. Consequently, I would successfully practice and submit the material to him, and you, Greengrass, would gain a competent colleague for the ensuing years, thereby significantly enhancing the quality of your potions."

"However, you are overlooking one crucial factor. You require ingredients for practice," Daphne leaned forward slightly. "The professor will never provide us with his. Moreover, without ingredients, he will dismiss us even before we reach his office."

"Your suggestions?"

"You are the initiator of this idea; you shall bear the cost. I will arrange the lessons."

"Excellent. Two sets of ingredients for the first and second years?"

"Yes."

"Well, it is a pleasure conducting business with you, my lady," I nodded and rose from the table.

"Pfft…" Parkinson snorted again, "…Mudblood…"

"That does not work with me, Parkinson," I smiled at the girl. "You would do better to continue your efforts with Malfoy while he remains susceptible to it."

Pansy—if my memory serves me correctly—regarded me with a measure of surprise, but I proceeded to my own house table, despite the sparse attendance—dinner would soon be served, after all.

Upon noticing Cedric at our table, lost in thought and entirely alone as he chased a solitary mushroom around his plate with a fork, I took a seat beside him.

"Hello."

"Huh? Oh, hello, Hector," the prefect immediately cast aside his gloomy contemplation and smiled in a somewhat affected manner. "Did something occur?"

"Yes and no. Pray tell, what does a wizard require at Hogwarts?"

"Hm? An intriguing question," Cedric set aside his fork, turning partially towards me. "More specifically?"

"Well, what types of goods would be in demand here? A student resides here, and from time to time, the thought arises: 'If only there were… here.'"