It had been exactly three weeks since they had conducted that very first D.A. meeting. They had so far successfully managed to pull off one secret meeting per week, practicing the 'Impediment Jinx, the Reductor Curse,' and continuously revising their 'Disarming Charm' just to ensure the younger years hadn't lost their crisp edge for the casting.
During one of the sweaty energy sessions, Anthony Goldstein had confidently challenged Lucifer to a private demonstration duel.
....
Another effortless wave of Lucifer's wand instantly reverted the transfigured 'ferrets' back into harmless pieces of common wood.
The entire room fell into a dead, stunned silence. Everyone in the club had fully expected Anthony to lose the match, but no one had anticipated just how quickly or decisively the defeat would happen. Even Hermione, who prided herself on her extensive theoretical magic knowledge, was thoroughly taken aback by the speed.
She knew for a fact she could perform similar 'Advanced transfigurations', but certainly not with the fluid, unbothered ease Lucifer had just demonstrated without even drawing a breath. Clearly, he hadn't even acknowledged the match as a real duel, yet the magical results were entirely flawless.
On the other side of the room, Anthony let out a heavy sigh, picking his wand up off the floorboards. His eyes lingered greedily on the glistening pile of 'forty' gold Galleons Lucifer had tossed onto a table as a prize, but he returned to his blue cushion without a word.
Before long, several more students stood up from their places, unable to resist the temptation of the gold. After all, what did they truly have to lose? There was zero penalty for failing to disarm him, but if they somehow succeeded, the financial reward was immense.
Harry, noticing the sudden wave of eagerness spreading through the crowd, raised his hand to quiet the murmurs. "Hold on a second, everyone," he said with a knowing smile. "The forty Galleons will remain right here on the table. This prize is valid as long as our weekly sessions continue. But each of you only gets one chance to challenge Lucifer. If you lose your match, that's it, your name is off the prize board. If you truly want to win the gold, make sure your wand work is ready before you step up."
The crowd hesitated at the strict terms. Those students who had just stood up slowly sat back down onto their cushions, realizing it was miles better to bide their time, practice their speed, and come prepared later in the term. Low murmurs filled the space as students weighed their realistic chances, with one loud exception, Anthony Goldstein groaned audibly from the back, thoroughly kicking himself for having already blown his one golden opportunity so early.
After that brief excitement, the training session proceeded much more smoothly. Lucifer divided the thirty-five students into pairs to practice the 'Leg-Locker Curse,' and the collective motivation to learn was suddenly palpable in the air.
Spurred on by the glittering prospect of winning his forty Galleons, everyone threw themselves into their practical movements, more focused than they had ever been before during their final exams.
Lucifer kept himself busy weaving smoothly through the crowd, manually correcting flawed wand movements and refining casting techniques, ensuring everyone improved their velocity.
"Hey, Harry, is this movement right?" Ron asked, gesturing down at Neville, who was currently standing awkwardly stiff-legged but still wobbling precariously on his feet. "Why does it feel like his legs can still sort of move against the hex?"
"Because your wand movement is off, Ron," Harry said, barely suppressing his impatience as he watched his friend swing his arm. "The terminal arc needs to be smaller. Just use wrist for the snap. Stop moving your entire bloody arm like a club. You don't have troll's blood, do you?"
"Alright, alright, I'll try it again." For once, Ron didn't aggressively argue back, following Harry's instructions without a single complaint.
The compliance made Harry blink in utter surprise, patting his forehead as the realization struck his mind twofold: 'The power of forty gold Galleons over a Weasley's focus really is incredible.'
Everyone had come to the room tonight with a perfectly clear, unified purpose: to learn what they required to survive. The group had one hour inside the 'Room of Requirement' tonight since they needed to return to their respective house towers before Hogwarts' nine o'clock curfew lock.
Fortunately, the 'Leg-Locker Curse' wasn't an intensely complex piece of magic to grasp. Most of the fifth-years managed to learn counter movements within half an hour, well, most of them.
Neville was the single exception to the progress. To avoid holding up the rest of the group's rotation, Hermione quietly decided she would give him private lessons later in the library.
"I honestly hope she doesn't lose her temper with him when the time comes," Ron whispered to Harry, watching Neville accidentally trip over his own ankles.
Harry chuckled softly. Neville's historical struggles with basic magic were well-known throughout the tower, often testing even Professor McGonagall's legendary patience during 'Transfiguration' practicals.
Yet, despite his slow progress, Harry fully understood that Longbottom truly gave his best effort every time he drew his wand. His poor memory was simply a constant, frustrating hurdle; the boy could sometimes completely forget the specific mechanics of a spell he had just successfully done within a few hours, or even a few minutes.
His green eyes scanned the wide dueling space, but the room wasn't excessively large, and it was quickly evident that Lucifer was already nowhere to be found near the bookshelves.
"He has already gone back to the common room," Luna Lovegood said matter-of-factly from within middle of the Ravenclaw crowd, packing her parchment away. "I bet he found a rare Pao-Bat hiding in the dark corridors and went after it."
"What on earth is a Pao-Bat?" Neville asked, his confusion mirrored by a few of the surrounding second-years.
"It's a unique species of fairy," Luna explained, her wide, silvery eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "It possesses ability to show lost people the correct way through the dark."
"Those creatures don't exist, Luna," Hermione interjected with a frown, stepping over with her signature list. "At least, I am pretty certain there is no historical record... of such creature in any textbook inside the library."
"If you actually bothered to read 'The Quibbler' regularly, Hermione, you wouldn't be so terribly sure of your books," Luna retorted, her dreamy tone sounding slightly offended.
Hermione, however, wisely chose to not press the issue any further tonight. With the grandfather clock nearing the nine o'clock curfew hour, she decided it simply wasn't worth wasting her remaining time on a pointless argument about "imaginary" forest creatures, instead turning to usher the remaining Hufflepuffs out into the hall who were complaining about having snacks.
xxxxxxx
Lucifer was proud of their steady progress, and every time he looked at Umbridge's sour face at the staff table, he smiled contently in his mind.
Getting a fixed schedule for the secret meetings was proving to be entirely impossible, but he and Harry agreed that an inconsistent, chaotic timeline was far better. It made it incredibly hard for anyone to 'figure' the group out simply by following the crowd.
Hermione brought up her latest strategic idea to him that very night after their third successful meeting, the fire in their private quarters casting long shadows across the stone floor. "I think we should devise a secure way for us to communicate to the other members of the D.A., Lucifer... We can't have them just walking suspiciously up to our table, or another house's table, and loudly asking when the next training session is happening. Keeping suspicion away from us is our primary concern here."
"I already know what you're thinking, love," Lucifer murmured with a knowing smirk. "A Protean Charm."
"Precisely! I found the theory while studying our old two-way mirror inside Sirius's library over the summer," She smiled brightly up at him, her eyes flashing with pride, "And I have the perfect, unnoticeable objects to use for the magic. Fake Galleons."
"Brilliant, pet," Lucifer praised her. He reached out, his large hand rubbing the top of her head, playfully messing up her thick, wild curls.
She remained oblivious to the chaotic bedhead style he was giving her, unable to stop her cheeks from burning a vibrant crimson under his touch."When we next meet in the room, I'll hand them out to everyone. I don't see a valid reason for us four to all have a master coin, though, except for you or Harry."
"Give the master coin to Harry," Lucifer said calmly. When he saw her confused, questioning face, he leaned back. "Like we noticed in class, something is going on with his evening detentions... And I think it will be good to get his mind diverted by managing the dates."
"Right... I just hope he eventually chooses to tell us the truth about it," Hermione said with a straight, serious face. She was secretly feeling internal guilt, knowing very well that Lucifer could easily use his 'Legilimens' power to look inside her brain and see Harry's scar, but he chose not to out of respect for her privacy.
It was at the very end of their fourth weekly meeting when Hermione officially explained the mechanics of the fake Galleons to the thirty-five gathered students.
"Do you all see the small numerals stamped around the outer edge of the coin?" She held one up as a visual example in the torchlight. "On real, goblin-minted Galleons, that's just a serial number referring to the specific Goblin who cast the metal... On these fake coins, though, those numbers will dynamically change to reflect the exact time and date of our next meeting. These coins will grow intensely hot against your skin when the numbers shift, so if you're carrying them in a pocket, you'll instantly be able to feel it. We take one each, and the moment Harry sets the date for our next lesson, he'll change the numbers on his master coin... Because I've placed a Protean Charm across the metal, every piece will instantly change to reflect his."
Hermione was met with a blank silence from the crowd, which caused Lucifer to let out a silent smirk from his bookcase. She looked around the quiet room, rather disconcerted and nervous at the total lack of a reaction. "Well... I thought it was a good security ide--"
She was sharply cut off by Terry Boot, who leaned forward from his cushion with wide eyes. "You can actually cast Protean Charm, Granger?"
"Yes, of course, so can—"
"But that's... that is advanced N.E.W.T. standard magic, that is," Terry said weakly, his jaw slack. "We aren't supposed to touch that theory for another two years."
"Oh," She blinked, then tried her best to appear modest, though her inner pride was singing. "Well... I suppose it is a bit advanced... Lucifer can cast too, of course. I asked him if he thought utilizing a 'Protean Charm' across coins was smart, and he knew what I was thinking before I even said the words out loud."
He looked between two Gryffindors in bewilderment. "How on earth come neither of you were sorted into Ravenclaw?"
"Well, the Sorting Hat did seriously consider putting me in Ravenclaw for a long time during my trial," Hermione explained to the room, a brief glimpse of her first-night sorting flashing through her memory. "But in the end, it decided on Gryffindor. So, are we in agreement on using coins?"
There was an immediate, loud murmur of eager assent, and everyone bounded forward from their cushions to grab a fake coin from her basket.
"You know what these things remind me of, Hermione?" Harry asked her quietly from the side as he turned the metal over in his hand.
"What would that be, Harry?" She asked, though already knew what his answer was going to be.
"The Death Eaters' burned scars," Harry said grimly, his green eyes dark. "Voldemort touches his own mark, and every one of his supporters can instantly feel it because it burns into their skin... and they know they've got to drop everything, show up, and join his circle."
"Truth be told, that is also where I derived the underlying idea from," Hermione admitted quietly, her voice dropping into a tight whisper. "But I figured engraving the magic onto a common piece of coin instead of our own bare skin was better for our health."
"Yeah," Harry said, slipping the coin deep into his robes. "I prefer your method more."
"You know," Lucifer muttered stepping up to her side the moment Harry walked over to talk to Ron. "If the hat had actually put you in Ravenclaw back then, pet, I would be sitting at that blue table right there with you."
"Really?" She asked him, looking up into his dark eyes with a sudden, racing heart.
"Yeah," Lucifer gazed into her left eye, his voice steady. "Remember, the Sorting Hat knew that I only wanted to be wherever you were, so it was always going to put me in whatever house you had been sorted into."
Hermione blushed a vibrant pink and quickly turned her face away from his gaze to hide her wide smile. 'We... fate... if a grand destiny truly exists, it really wants him and me together forever. Just like our wands reacted the first time in Mr. Ollivander's.'
xxxxxx
As the very first official Quidditch match of the season, the legendary Gryffindor versus Slytherin showdown, drew nearer, their weekly D.A. meetings had been placed on a temporary hold. Angelina Johnson was giving the roster almost daily practices to build their stamina, but Lucifer stubbornly maintained his terms: he only went down to the pitch on Mondays and Fridays.
Those were his strict conditions for rejoining the team as a reserve player, and as long as Harry was fully cleared to play Seeker, he wouldn't push for more.
The fact that the school Quidditch Cup had not been held at all last year due to the 'Triwizard Tournament' added considerably to the wild interest and frantic excitement surrounding the forthcoming game. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were taking a highly lively, vocal interest in the outcome, as they would be playing both powerhouse teams in the coming months.
The Heads of House of the competing teams, though they continuously attempted to disguise their bias under a thin pretense of professional sportsmanship, were fiercely determined to see their respective sides secure a total victory.
It only became glaringly apparent to Hermione just how much Professor McGonagall cared about the match when she abstained from giving their year any homework in the week leading up to Saturday.
"I think you all have quite enough physical practice to be getting on with at the moment," she had said loftily from her podium, stunning her entire 'Transfiguration' class into breathless silence. She then turned her stern, sharp eyes to lock onto Harry, Ron, and Lucifer, who were sitting together. "I have become accustomed to seeing the glittering Quidditch Cup sitting proudly in my study, boys, and I really do not want to face the humiliation of handing it over to Professor Snape's office this year... So, use this extra free time to practice your drills, won't you?"
Snape was no less obviously partisan for his snakes: he booked Quidditch field for training so frequently that Gryffindor team had a terribly hard time getting out to the pitch at all.
When Lucifer informed McGonagall of the scheduling block, she immediately appealed matter directly to Dumbledore, and intervention must have worked, because the time slots for their evening practice quickly opened up.
However, Snape refused to listen to any student reports of Slytherin players attempting to jinx, hex, or curse Gryffindor players in the corridors. When Alicia Spinnet had turned up inside the Hospital Wing with her eyebrows growing so thick, long, and fast that they obscured her vision and filled her mouth.
Snape merely sneered. He insisted to the Matron that the girl must have foolishly attempted to use a common 'Hair-Thickening Charm' on herself, ignoring the fourteen eyewitnesses who insisted that they had seen the Slytherin Chaser, Cassius Warrington, hit her from behind with a nasty jinx right outside the library shelves.
Lucifer did feel optimistic about their chances against the Slytherin roster, though, despite Ron's volatile performance as Keeper. The ginger boy's flying style wasn't quite up to Oliver Wood's legendary, ironclad standard of leadership, but his reflex saves were still better than anyone on the team had expected him to honestly be.
The only real problem with his training was his persistent tendency to lose his confidence the second he made a blunder; if he let a Quaffle slip past his hands into the hoop, he would get flustered, panic, and was likely to let more goals in as a direct result of his nerves.
On the other hand, Lucifer had personally seen Ron make some spectacular, borderline impossible saves during their sessions.
One instance happened on a rainy Friday practice; Ron had been hanging upside down, held by one single hand from his broom handle, and kicked the incoming Quaffle with such immense force that the ball flew straight across the pitch and cleanly through the center hoop at the other end of the field.
Angelina had enthusiastically compared the maneuver to the Irish International Keeper, Barry Ryan, blocking Poland's top Chaser, Ladislaw Zamojski, in a recorded professional game from years back.
The only serious threat to Ron's performance was the Slytherin team's notorious, unsportsmanlike conduct. Lucifer had been used to getting snide comments and names thrown at his face for ages from his time in the human world, so insults didn't register to his mind at all.
Pansy Parkinson had slithered up to make a mocking comment to Harry one evening near the courtyard. "Hey, Potter, I heard Warrington has personally sworn to knock your skinny body right off your broom in the coming match."
Harry had delivered the perfect, response without a blink. "Warrington's flying aim is so pathetic, Parkinson, I'd be more worried if the bloke was aiming for the person sitting next to me."
Hermione, Ron, and Lucifer had all burst into a loud laugh at comeback, and Pansy's smug smirk was instantly wiped from her face as she stomped away. Besides, there was a clear disparity between the teams' broomsticks. A Slytherin Nimbus 2001 trying to outpace a Gryffindor Firebolt? The snakes would need a dragon's engine pushing their tails just to stand a baseline chance in a straight sprint.
But Ron, unlike the others, had never endured a relentless, public torrent of taunts, vicious insults, jeers, and psychological intimidation from an opposing house. When some large Slytherin seventh-years had whispered to him in the corridor, asking if he had a hospital bed prepared for his broken bones at St. Mungo's, the poor boy had turned a light shade of green, his hands shaking over his books.
xxxxx
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