CHAPTER 6 - Holiday Homework

Peter told Stewart and Alison everything about the Bronze Snitch. Neither seemed particularly surprised. They had suspected he had done something of the sort.

The following morning, he said goodbye to them at Hogsmeade station.

The holidays had begun.

At breakfast, only ten or twelve students remained in the Great Hall. Professor Flamel sat alone at the staff table, eating his breakfast. Near the podium, a few men who looked like Muggle workmen held a large sheet of paper between them, discussing something with Professor Lincoln.

Lincoln hurried over to Flamel and spoke quietly into his ear. Flamel nodded.

After directing the workmen towards the exit, Lincoln left the hall. Flamel rose and approached the podium to address the handful of students.

“Children.”

Everyone looked up.

“Since there are so few of you, I’ll keep this brief. While your friends are away, the school will be undergoing a little maintenance. We’ll be cleaning the dormitories, painting some of the castle walls, and taking down the portraits. In short, the place will be rather a mess.”

He glanced around the hall.

“There will also be Muggle workmen coming and going. So, for a few days over the holidays, we would like you to make yourselves comfortable in Hogsmeade village. Professor Lincoln and Mr. Snowman will take you there and help you settle in.”

He stepped down from the podium.

Peter brightened. He had been eager to explore Hogsmeade ever since hearing about everything it had to offer.

Professor Lincoln spent much of the morning hurrying back and forth. Eventually, he returned to the Great Hall.

“Peter, everyone—please follow me.”

Peter rose with the other students, and they followed Lincoln out of the castle towards Hogsmeade, where the Snowman was already waiting.

“ola Professa!” Snowman spoke. “brought them dwarfs finally! you fellas betta behave in here!”

“Good morning, Professor Snowman. Professor Flamel’s orders, not mine,” Lincoln replied firmly.

“Yea, Yea, Yea, whateva the old man says,” Snowman replied. “come on, imma show you d rooms.”

The students began following him, but then he spotted Peter.

“Aye, boi!” Snowman recognised him. “Yer the guy who's vanilla face homie was messin wit me dat day huh?”

Peter froze. He searched desperately for a way to disappear amongst the others.

“Ya betta watch out!” Snowman warned. “I betta not see ya Three Broomsticks.”

“Professor Snowman,” Lincoln interrupted. “You betta, stop messin wit mah champion!”

The students burst out laughing.

Lincoln was usually deadly serious about his work, with the occasional sarcastic remark. Hearing him imitate the Snowman was something entirely new.

“Peter, I’d like a word with you.”

He drew Peter away from the group.

“Rest of ya'all, follow me,” Snowman carried on.

Lincoln led Peter in another direction, past the shops lining the snow-covered streets. Their windows glowed with colour, and Christmas decorations hung over the doorways.

Then they entered the Three Broomsticks.

“Have a seat.”

Lincoln gestured towards a table before calling across the room.

“One Butterbeer and one lemonade, please, Grace!”

Peter sat down, puzzled.

What could Professor Lincoln possibly want to discuss with him here?

“I have something for you, Peter.”

With a slight smile, Lincoln reached into his coat pocket. He took out a photograph and placed it on the table.

It was old, with a torn corner and slightly faded colours. A man stood holding his wand upright, smiling triumphantly. He had bushy hair, a thick beard, and handsome brown and gold robes. Golden markings ran along his wand like a pattern of cracks.

Something about him looked familiar.

“Do you know who that is?” Lincoln asked.

Peter shook his head.

“That’s your father, Peter. Gerald Harrow. The great Duelling Champion.”

Peter felt as though lightning had struck him.

He picked up the photograph and brought it closer, studying the man’s face.

Now he understood why it had seemed familiar.

“How do you know?”

His hands were trembling.

“I did a little research online,” Lincoln explained. “Gerald Harrow was married to a woman named Matilda Harrow. And, according to our school records, Matilda Harrow is your mother.”

He smiled, and there was a sincerity in it that Peter had rarely seen from him.

For a moment, Peter couldn’t speak.

“I don’t know what to say, Professor…”

He looked down at the photograph again.

“Thank you.”

Tears gathered in his eyes.

“Hey. Champions don’t weep,” Lincoln said, trying to comfort him.

He allowed Peter a moment to compose himself.

“What happened to him?” Peter asked. “Did you find out?”

“No. Not yet.”

Lincoln shook his head.

“But I don’t think I should be the one to tell you. That’s your mother’s place.”

“She never lets me do anything,” Peter said in frustration. “She doesn’t want me to become a professional duellist. Well, now I know why!”

“Peter…”

Lincoln paused awkwardly. His expression softened, revealing a vulnerability Peter had never seen before.

“Shall I tell you a secret?”

Peter nodded.

“I never met my father either. He left my mother before I was born.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them.

“Don’t you want to meet him?” Peter asked.

“No.”

Lincoln’s answer was firm.

“I know who he was. I know why he left. And I know I’ll never see him again.”

He paused.

“Ever.”

Peter said nothing.

For several minutes, neither of them spoke.

Then Peter looked up, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Professor… what would you do if you did meet him? By chance?”

Lincoln paused, then shrugged.

Before Peter could ask anything more, their drinks arrived.

“Lemonade for you, because you’re still a child,” Lincoln said. “You can have Butterbeer when you’re older.”

Peter began sipping his lemonade through the fancy straw, the photograph still lying before him.

“Do you want to learn?” Lincoln asked casually.

“Learn?”

“Do you want to become a professional duellist? I could teach you the techniques. The skills you’d need.”

“I don’t know…”

Peter hesitated.

“Don’t worry about your mother. She needn’t know.”

Lincoln leaned towards him.

“Peter, you’re clever, strong, and brave. I saw what you were capable of in our very first lesson. You have the potential to become the youngest Duelling Champion in the world.”

“Like Ivan Karkaroff?”

“You could beat Ivan Karkaroff.”

Peter stared at him, then slowly smiled.

“All right, Professor. When do we start?”

“Now,” Lincoln replied.

Peter’s lessons began at the edge of the woods near the Shrieking Shack.

“All right, Peter. Today, you’ll learn the basic Disarming Charm,” Lincoln began. “Say it clearly: Expelliarmus!”

“Expelliarmus!”

A jet of red light shot from Peter’s wand and disappeared amongst the trees.

“Good. A natural, it seems.”

Lincoln nodded approvingly.

“This spell is used to disarm an opponent, often leaving them unable to continue a duel. But don’t underestimate it. In the right circumstances, even a simple Disarming Charm can help you survive a dangerous attack. Defeating another wizard can also win you the allegiance of their wand.”

Peter practised for hours. By evening, Lincoln finally took him back to the inn in Hogsmeade, where the other students were staying.

Peter had brought his mysterious notebook.

That night, he searched its pages for more about Expelliarmus and discovered several unusual ways of using it.

Over the following days, a routine began to take shape.

Peter rose early, stretched, and ran for miles alongside Lincoln.

“A duellist must be as fit in body as in mind,” Lincoln told him. “You won’t always have time to cast a Shield Charm. Sometimes, you’ll have to run, duck, or throw yourself out of a spell’s path.”

Each day, they worked on the essential duelling spells: Stupefy, Protego, Impedimenta, Incarcerous, Diffindo, and Petrificus Totalus.

The weeks passed in a steady cycle of casting, blocking, dodging, and trying again.

Peter spent hours repeating incantations until the words came without thought. Lincoln corrected his stance, adjusted his grip, and taught him how to move without leaving himself exposed.

After each lesson, Peter returned to the inn exhausted. But instead of going straight to sleep, he opened the notebook and searched for more about whatever Lincoln had taught him that day.

Eventually, his attention returned to Foreseeking.

He wanted to sense an enemy’s attack without having to see it coming.

Lincoln took him into the woods and tied a blindfold over his eyes.

“Stand still. Relax. Stop trying to look through the cloth. Listen to your instincts.”

Then he began attacking from different directions, without warning.

Peter got hit every time.

He would barely recover from one spell before another caught him from somewhere else.

Next, Peter wanted to learn to fly without a broom.

Lincoln told him to run.

So Peter ran.

He ran until his legs ached and his breath came in painful bursts. Then Lincoln shouted for him to jump.

Peter jumped.

Nothing happened.

He landed in the snow and looked back at his teacher.

They tried again.

And again.

Then, one day, Lincoln brought a few hungry dogs.

Before Peter could ask what they were for, Lincoln sent them after him.

Peter ran as though his life depended on it.

The barking grew louder behind him. He pushed himself faster, racing between the trees until, at last, he had no choice but to jump.

He braced himself for the landing.

It never came.

Peter looked down.

His feet were hanging above the ground.

He was flying.

Over the following days, Peter stopped walking to his lessons altogether. He flew through the woods alongside Lincoln, the two weaving between the trees and firing spells at each other.

Each tried to disarm the other.

Neither managed it.

“Children often perform magic without a wand,” Lincoln remarked during one lesson. “Before anyone has taught them an incantation or shown them how to hold one.”

Peter listened closely.

“Your wand doesn’t create your magic. It channels it. The power is already inside you.”

Lincoln began teaching him to cast spells silently, first with his wand and then without it.

Peter struggled.

For hours each day, he stared at objects, willing them to move. He concentrated until his head hurt, but nothing happened.

Then the notebook offered him a trick.

Imagine the wand in your hand. Hear yourself speaking the incantation clearly inside your head.

Peter tried it.

And, at last, it worked.

He could lift Professor Lincoln into the air without a wand or a word.

He could also drop him rather suddenly into the snow.

After all those weeks of running, duelling, failing, and trying again, something else had changed too.

Peter and Lincoln had become friends.

“Well, I suppose you’re the strongest child in this school now,” Lincoln remarked.

Peter smiled and nodded.

“It’s all because of you, Professor.”

“Now it’s time to return to the castle. Professor Flamel has sent word,” Lincoln told him. “The school is finally clean.”

“Come on, Dwarfs!”

Snowman barged into the inn.

“D old man calls you back! Pack ya things and follow me. Professa Lincoln, you comin?”

Lincoln nodded and followed him outside.

Peter hurried to his room, packed his belongings, and tucked the notebook safely into his backpack. Then he joined Lincoln and Snowman for the journey back to the castle.

Hogwarts looked almost new.

The walls were freshly painted, the portraits hung in perfectly straight rows, and the tables gleamed.

But one thing remained.

I LOVE MISS JANUARY.

The words were still scrawled across the wall.

By the Great Hall doors, Professor Flamel was deep in conversation with the Muggle contractor as the students filed inside.

The holidays were nearly over. Peter could hardly wait to see Alison and Stewart again.

The following morning was the last day of the break.

Peter woke late and made his way upstairs from the Slytherin dormitories. Still half asleep, he wandered drowsily through the corridors, knowing he would have to put an end to this habit tomorrow.

He was heading peacefully towards the Great Hall for breakfast when a snowball burst against his face.

He was wide awake at once.

A boy stood a short distance away, laughing.

Peter glared at him.

Then he gave chase.

The boy raced outside onto the grounds, where snow had been falling all morning. Students were already throwing snowballs at one another. Nearby, Snowman lay on his back, sweeping his arms and legs through the snow to make a snow angel.

Peter joined the battle.

Snowballs flew in every direction as the children ducked, shouted, and chased one another across the grounds.

Then Peter gathered enough snow to form an enormous ball.

He aimed at Snowman.

And threw.

Snowman jolted out of his peaceful rest and sat bolt upright.

“Yo!”

He scrambled to his feet and charged towards Peter.

The children burst out laughing.

Snowman was heavy and could barely manage a run, but he pursued Peter with determination. Peter sprinted away, laughing as they approached the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

He scooped up another handful of snow, shaped it into a ball, and threw it.

It struck Snowman, who toppled backwards and landed in the snow with a heavy thump.

Peter giggled and ran on.

Straight into the Forbidden Forest.

Furious, Snowman struggled upright and followed him between the trees. He snatched some snow from the ground and hurled it at Peter.

The snowball struck him, sending him sprawling.

But before Snowman could catch up, Peter scrambled to his feet and took off again.

They ran deeper and deeper into the woods.

Soon, Snowman was panting.

After what felt like miles, the trees began to thin, and they reached what appeared to be the far edge of the forest.

“Ha!”

Snowman tried to sound triumphant, but he could barely catch his breath.

He collapsed onto the ground.

Peter dropped into the snow nearby, panting just as hard and still laughing.

For a moment, they both lay there, recovering.

Then Peter noticed something move.

He sat up.

“Snowman, did you see that?”

“What? Nope, I didn’t see nothing! But you, lil chap! Yer dead meat!”

Snowman hauled himself to his feet.

Peter stood too.

“Ya’ll think being a snowman is a joke!”

Peter wasn’t listening anymore.

Goosebumps rose along his arms. He stood frozen, staring past Snowman.

“Can’t say nothing now, hah!”

“Snowman…”

Peter slowly raised a hand and pointed behind him.

“Dementors!”

Snowman turned.

A cluster of hooded figures glided through the air beyond the trees, gathering like crows.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

These were far more terrifying than the Boggart.

“Run!”

Peter turned and fled.

Snowman tried to follow, but one of the Dementors reached him before he could escape.

It bent over him and began drawing at his soul.

Peter stopped in horror.

For an instant, his mind went blank.

Then he drew his wand.

He lifted Snowman into the air, rose from the ground himself, and flew as fast as he could between the trees.

Snowman went limp.

The Dementors did not follow.

Peter kept flying, his wand raised and Snowman suspended in the air beside him. He dared not slow down or look back. Branches flashed past as he raced towards the edge of the forest.

At last, the trees opened onto the grounds.

Peter landed and carefully lowered Snowman into the snow.

He was still unconscious.

“Snowman! Snowman!”

Peter knelt beside him and tried to wake him.

Nothing.

Panic gripped him.

Professor Flamel had specifically forbidden anyone from entering the forest. Students, teachers—even Snowman.

Would they expel him?

Then he looked down at Snowman’s motionless face, and the thought of punishment vanished.

“Snowman, please wake up.”

His voice shook.

“Please.”

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he begged Snowman to open his eyes.

“Huhhh…”

Snowman stirred.

Peter felt as though he could breathe again.

“Snowman! Are you all right?”

“Peetah! Oh my God!”

Snowman began to weep.

“That shit was so scary, bro!”

“Right…”

Peter wiped his face and helped him sit up, then slowly supported him to his feet.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

Snowman steadied himself, then looked at Peter.

“Listen up, Peetah. Let’s not say a word of dis to d old man.”

Peter nodded.