Chapter 22: Fairy Justice

I expected that in the morning I'd be summoned to the headmistress or the first-year dean — who, by the way, still hadn't been appointed. But things turned out much more mundane. Instead, they came to apologize to me. Not all of them, of course — Delacour didn't show up, only his four accomplices.

Why didn't I turn them all in to the teachers myself? It wouldn't have solved anything. Sure, they'd be punished, but then they'd just get angrier. What's the point? Where can you go from a submarine?

"Um, hi, can we talk to you for a second?" They approached me after the first lesson, which happened to be potions. The class was taught by Bettina Manichi, a middle-aged Italian woman. She was pleasantly plump, ran her class well, and didn't allow any mischief. I can't say much more about her — no better or worse than the others.

"Wasn't that enough for you?" I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation.

"No… well, we'd like to apologize." Even I was surprised by that. "You had a duel, and we interfered. All at once, too. We just saw Jean fall and thought you did something to him."

"So you got scared for your friend. No, I just reflected his own spell back at him. If that's all, then apology accepted. But if you attack me again, you won't get off so easily. Clear?"

It must have looked pretty funny — a first-year lecturing third-years.

"Yes, thank you, and sorry again."

"What about Delacour? Doesn't he want to apologize?"

"No," one of them grimaced. "He even wanted to go complain, but we didn't support him. You could have done anything to us then, but you didn't."

"Tell your Jean I don't want enmity, but if he comes at me, he has only himself to blame," I said, and left.

The guys had acted badly, but at least they had the conscience to admit it.

***

[ September 15, 1971. ]

Two weeks passed. Delacour and I pretended the other didn't exist. That's what a life-changing night in a classroom does to a person. I suspect what really scared him was the helplessness of the situation, not my victory itself.

During this time, I kept studying, training at night, and teaching the fairy to read and write — we'd already reached the middle of the alphabet. I also put together a training program for myself.

My goal remained the same: to unite the Sumerian school of magic with the modern one. For that, I needed to study both Sumerian and modern runes, numerology, ritualism, and the principles of constructing wand charms.

How does the creation of wand charms actually work? First, you use a mathematical matrix to set the parameters of the future spell: speed and color of the beam, duration, area and target, effect, and other characteristics. Then you pick a suitable rune, which becomes the basis for the wand movement, and a verbal component — preferably in Latin, so you don't accidentally say it, and so it's clear what you're trying to do.

Then comes the debugging period, where you smooth out flaws in execution. Often, the initial rune is nothing like the final result. But that's just the basics — the calculations get much more complex. That's why I was stuffing my head with theory. Hard in training — more limbs will remain whole in practice.

***

And then came the event that ended the cold war between Delacour and me. No, we didn't become friends, but at least he stopped looking at me like a wolf. I didn't care, but it was unpleasant, thanks to empathy.

"Stop, what are you doing! It hurts them!" I heard girls' voices — Apolline's among them. A small crowd had gathered around a boy I recognized — the same one who'd asked me to give him my fairy.

When I got closer, for the first time, I wanted to hit a child. He was tearing the wings off chirping fairies from a cage and throwing them, writhing in pain, back inside.

"I do what I want! These are my fairies, my parents bought them for me!" the little pig squealed. Some people were barely restraining themselves from cursing him. Here, Jean surprised me.

"Boy, put them back, okay? How about I buy them from you?" Had his brains finally kicked in? Or was he just showing off for Apolline?

"No! It's their own fault for not obeying me and trying to fly away. Without wings, they can't do that!"

Delacour was about to draw his wand, but his friends held him back. It was unpleasant for me to watch, too. Fairy wings are a magical reagent for potions, but fairies shed them naturally as they mature — there's no point in killing them for it.

And the problem wasn't even that he was technically right — by magical law, a wizard can do anything with his pets. The real problem was what this sadist would grow into.

I quietly whispered a spell in Sumerian and watched in astral sight as an invisible link formed between the torturer and his new victim.

"Ahhh, it hurts! Ahhh, mama, mama!" When he tried to tear off another fairy's wing, he suddenly fell to the floor, shrieking in pain like a madman. I'd just temporarily connected their feelings. What the fairy felt, he felt too.

Little sadists usually don't understand the pain they cause. He threw the fairy to the ground and got another dose of pain, then lost consciousness. Soon, teachers came and took him to the hospital wing, and I approached the fairies.

***

"Can you help them?" Apolline asked.

"I'll try," I said.

Waving my wand, I pronounced the charm I'd invented — "Paracelsus" — and released minor healing from one of five quartz rings. It's a pity I have to swap out the ring to change charms, but these are so useful, it's worth it.

The little fairy with broken limbs and a torn wing glowed, bones crunching as they set, and recovered. My Pixie immediately flew to her and started chirping, whom I'd been holding back so she wouldn't fall into the sadist's hands.

Pixie — that's what I named my fairy, since she always makes the sound "Pee." My sense of aesthetics wouldn't let me call her "Peepee."

Casting the charm on five more injured fairies, I felt a bit dizzy and sat down — Sumerian charms take more energy. But the effect is better, too; in the medical wing, they might have helped, but not so quickly. If they'd have helped at all.

Six healed little ones flew out of the open cage with Pixie and started circling me, showering me with golden dust.

"You're the one who made him writhe in pain, aren't you?" Delacour approached, but I said nothing — too many people around.

"Sorry about last time, and… thanks for helping them."

"You don't seem like an animal lover," I said.

"I can be wrong, but I don't torment those who can't fight back."

"What about me?"

"Well, you fought back. I just wanted you to stay away from the girl I love."

"Alright, apologies accepted," I said, shaking his hand. He surprised me — who would have thought he was hiding an animal lover inside.

"Thank you," he replied.

***

"Hi, Arthur." As soon as I entered the room, my plump roommate René Richard called out.

"The prefect was looking for you — said the headmistress wants you in the medical wing."

"Did he say what for?" I asked.

"No," he replied, then added, "Is it just me, or do you have more fairies?"

"It's just you," I smiled, watching the rescued fairies fawning over me.

The medical wing was in the basement of the central wing. I was met by a large, clean room with the specific smell of potions. Near one of the beds were several people, including a doctor. I'd thought I'd be called to the headmistress this morning — who would have thought it would actually happen, but for a different reason?

"I don't know what was wrong with him, Madame Maxime. The boy experienced severe pain shock, but then it suddenly stopped. Moreover, I found no injuries," the doctor in round glasses reported to the giantess.

"Cruciatus?" she suggested.

"No, definitely not," he replied. "More like phantom pains."

"Is he alright?" Olympe asked.

"Yes, I gave him an anesthetic potion, so you can talk to him," the doctor said, then noticed me. "Hello, boy, did something happen?"

"I don't know, I was told Madame Headmistress was looking for me," I replied.

"Mister Marlow, I presume?" the woman, over two meters tall, asked.

"Yes. May I know why I was called?"

"Of course. We're trying to understand what happened to Mister Tortor. Witnesses say you took his fairies and healed them, so you're the main suspect."

"So you suspect I harmed my classmate just because I healed fairies? That's rather strange."

"There simply are no other suspects. Your love for fairies is well known, and you had a motive, which your actions confirm," she shrugged, but then softened. "Don't worry, nothing terrible happened. Maybe it was just a spontaneous magical outburst? Such things happen."

Oh, so the headmistress herself wants to help me? She's probably not happy that some animal abuser tortured intelligent magical creatures. Especially since, physically, no one except the fairies was hurt. She just wants to handle this formally, so there won't be complaints later.

"Yes, I felt anger! It just came out of me, I couldn't hold it back…" Came out as a spell, yeah.

"Don't worry, little one," she hugged me. "There's nothing terrible about this, such things happen."

"So you won't punish him?" the young sadist woke up. "He's to blame for everything! And he stole my fairies!"

"Your fairies had torn wings, and mine are whole," I reminded him.

"Mine have numbers carved on their backs." What a monster. "Madame Maxime, look, he's a thief!"

The woman winced, but caught the fairies with a charm and, examining their backs, smiled.

"These aren't your fairies, Mister Tortor. Their backs are clean and unmarked," she said, releasing the little ones. "Mister Marlow, you may go. I hope you'll control yourself better in the future?"

"Of course, as long as no one tortures innocents," I replied, hinting that if it happened again, I wouldn't just sit by. My empathy simply wouldn't allow it.

***

"Apolline, don't you want to tell me something?" I asked, surrounded by a flock of fairies when I returned from the hospital wing.

"About what?" she looked surprised.

"Why would a seemingly normal guy suddenly go crazy with love and challenge me to a duel?" I asked, not letting her off the hook.

"He challenged you? The scoundrel, I'll show him!" Apolline replied, feigning righteous anger, but…

"Don't change the subject. Or do I need to ask Patrick how it really was?" I said, sitting across from her.

"No, I'll tell you everything," she said reluctantly after a long pause. "It happened last year. I was controlling my aura poorly then, and he accidentally fell under its influence."

"Don't lie to me. You already had my bracelet then." Lying to a mind mage and empath with true sight? Useless.

"Fine, fine. I was practicing on him, sorry! I needed to learn to control my charms!" Yeah, and test them on someone, boost your ego.

"Why are you apologizing to me? Apologize to Delacour now, confess your actions — he's suffering and tormented now. And you even used me as a shield." Now it's clear why so many don't like veela. If we all "practice" like this…

"Please forgive me, I didn't mean to!" You did mean to, oh how you meant to. You just didn't want to talk about it, not from the start.

"We'll talk when you resolve things with Jean. I didn't expect this from you," I said, leaving the already whimpering girl behind.

How many times have I seen an enemy turn out to be an innocent victim, and a friend — a scoundrel? I've never gotten used to it. Not that I'm an angel myself, but I never set up friends like this.

***

[ September 16, 1971. ]

"Arthur, why did you hurt Apolline? Her roommates say she locked herself in her room and won't go to classes!" Patrick ran up to me the next day.

"You know me, I don't hurt anyone for no reason. It's not my secret — if she wants, she'll tell you. Better yet, let her fix what she did," I replied. "Are you coming to training?"

"What training? Do you understand how serious this is? She could be expelled!" he raged.

"And what do you want from me?"

"Whatever she did, forgive her. She's suffering because of you."

"She's suffering because of herself. Or did she run charms on you too?"

"So that's why you're mad at her? But charms don't work on you, do they?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter. Friend or not, a person has to answer for their actions. So, are you coming?"

"No, I'm not in the mood today," he said, clearly offended. Before, he'd have tried to beat me up instead. For the first time, I wondered — do I really know my real friends?

In the coven, they basically had no choice of friends, plus I saved Patrick and he felt obligated to me, then tried to surpass me. But what's happening now? A bad sign.

***

[ October 18, 1971. ]

A month later, the fairies had scattered around the school grounds. They always greeted me, but only Pixie stayed with me constantly. Once again, it proved that saving a fairy doesn't mean she'll stay with you forever.

Pixie and I had already moved on to composing syllables and words. After healing the fairies, I discovered something interesting. Minor healing converts mana into prana suitable for the creature, healing and improving its health, and the excess dissipates into space. But not with fairies — despite their size, they absorb everything. It seems they're semi-ethereal.

So, as an experiment, I cast minor healing on Pixie every day, which made her more energetic and even half an inch taller.

…

"Are you going to Quidditch?" Petit asked, though he already knew the answer.

"You know I think this game is stupid," I replied.

"I know, I know. All players except the Seeker are useless, blah-blah-blah. Need to introduce time limits, blah-blah-blah. But it's at least some fun within our walls," he said while changing.

"I'm having fun anyway," I shrugged.

"You are, yeah, you have a little pest, you won't get bored with her. Hey, stop! Give back the sock!" Oh, you shouldn't have called her a pest — she understands speech now. So, chase her around the whole room.

"And I told you, learn the 'Accio' charm and you'll be happy."

"Phew, caught her!" Pixie stuck her tongue out at him and plopped onto my lap. She loves when I scratch her back between her wings.

"That's fourth year!"

"What are you going on about, year and year? If you want, you can do it," I waved him off.

"Not everyone's a bookworm like you."

"More like lazy people for whom homework is already the end of the world."

Thinking a bit, I continued, "Alright, I'll go. Nothing to do here anyway. I'll watch your flying on brooms. How do they not hurt their balls? I attached a bicycle seat."

"Maybe because there's nothing left to hurt?" Laughing at the simple joke, we went to the match. Actually, there are softening charms, but they don't completely solve the problem.

***

There were four teams in total, open to anyone. But it so happened that two were mixed, and the other two were all-male and all-female. The latter, called Hawks and Flowers, were irreconcilable enemies on the field.

Conservative young men tried to prove that men are stronger, and the girls the opposite — that women are no weaker. It was a matter of principle. Since girls are lighter and faster, and guys are stronger, a certain balance was maintained.

Today, Hawks and Flowers were competing. On this warm, sunny autumn day, we climbed to the stands — high towers with slanted tops and spectator seats. There were canopies, but at this height, they didn't help much against rain.

While two commentators — fans of each team — competed in praising their favorites and badmouthing the opposition, I heard some completely useless news from Petit.

"I heard the captains of the Flowers and Hawks are dating, but can't do it officially because then they'd have to leave their teams. Everyone would think they're throwing games for each other."

"Just like Romeo and Juliet. Why do I need to know this?" I asked.

"How's that? It's so interesting, the whole school is talking about it!" my thin roommate protested.

"Now I understand why most people study so poorly — it's because they think about all sorts of crap," I replied.

"Why crap?"

"Because it's useless, information garbage. Did this knowledge make you smarter? No. Will it be useful in life? Unlikely. These relationships only concern them, and only they can confirm or deny rumors. Sometimes such knowledge is useful if you need to make connections, but not to discuss constantly!"

"What a bore you are," Petit said, sulking.

I just chuckled.

***

A tiny brunette, the flying instructor, came to the center of the field with a chest in her hands. She opened it, releasing the snitch — a small, nimble ball with wings that seekers must catch to end the game and get 150 points.

Bludgers — self-targeting killer balls — were hit by two beaters from each team, trying to stop chasers from scoring the quaffle, which earns 10 points per goal. The quaffle itself is what chasers try to score, bypassing the keeper.

That's why I say the other players are almost useless. The chance that, when the seeker catches the snitch, the other team's chasers will have created a difference of more than 150 points is extremely small. For that, the teams would have to be wildly mismatched. And without catching the snitch, the game never ends. Never.

Team captains greeted each other, shaking hands so hard it looked like they wanted to break each other's fingers. With so many people around, overflowing with emotions, I had to turn off empathy. I don't know if they're lovers or not, and I don't care.

By the way, it's a good place for empathy training. But my control still wasn't enough, and I almost got lost in the flood of emotions, so I had to stop torturing myself.

Then I tried catching balls with telekinesis. And it worked! I thought they were protected from outside interference. So I started having fun, making sure no one could score a single goal. The quaffle would miss by a centimeter and bounce off the goal. A bludger would fly the wrong way. The snitch would suddenly dodge out of reach with broken movements.

They even stopped the game for inspection, but found nothing. Heh. I tormented them like this until evening, then finally let the Flowers catch the snitch — you should let the girls win sometimes.

The match ended up looking like a comedy film where nothing works out for anyone. Though the players, completely exhausted, probably wouldn't agree.

"You were right, Petit. That was an amusing match," I said with a smile as we returned to our room.

"What amusing? That was a terrible match! Not a single goal!" he protested.

"Exactly, Petit, exactly!"

***

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Thank you for the help with the power stones!!!