So I’m trying to do the sorts of things I never would have done before.
One of them was becoming Head Boy, and I think that’s turning out pretty all right. Another one was telling Millie you wanted to break it off with her, and maybe that wasn’t such a great idea. But it was my idea, and that’s pretty much the point. I’m trying to figure out the best way to be Ralph. I’m sorry for some things, but I’m not sorry for that.”
James opened his mouth to reply but was suddenly distracted by Ralph’s knapsack. The name stitched across the top in green block letters was different. James assumed that Ralph had mistakenly grabbed somebody else’s pack, until he read the name that was printed there.
“Ralph,” he said, squinting distractedly, “why does your backpack say ‘Dolohov’?”
Ralph jerked upright and took a step backward, turning fully to James as if to hide the stitched name. His face reddened, but his determination returned. “Well. It’s my name, innit?”
James studied his friend’s face in confusion. “But… but you’ve always said you liked the Deedle better. I mean, I can sort of understand wanting to make your own way and all, but you said Dolohov was the name of killers and Muggle-haters.”
Ralph shrugged and looked away, toward the glaring white-frosted windows that towered on the corridor’s north wall. “So maybe I changed my mind. It just took me a few years to get used to it. There’s more to a name than the worst people who had it.” He turned back to James again. “Do you have a problem with it?” It was a challenge as much as a question.
James took a step back, dismayed at this sudden change of events. “I don’t… I mean, it’s your choice, I guess. It’ll just… take some getting used to. You know?”
Ralph nodded, his face stoic, the challenge still in his eyes.
“Well, you do that, then. Get used to it. Dolohov’s a good name. It has a great history behind it, going back loads of generations. So there are a few bad branches in the family tree. That doesn’t mean I have to be one. And it doesn’t mean I should be ashamed of my heritage.”
James nodded, prickling a little at having the wind taken so effectively out of his sails. “Sure, Ralph. That’s…”
But Ralph turned and continued on his way, stalking away from James, leaving him in the hall as doors began to creak and slam all around, announcing the start of classes. James realized that he still had his mouth open. He closed it, stared in confused surprise at his departing friend, and then remembered his own classes. With a start, he ran to catch up.
Defence Against the Dark Arts was just beginning as he slipped into the doors, attempting to make himself as small as possible as he ducked behind a knot of standing students. Graham smirked at him from over his shoulder. Across the room, Millie stood with her Hufflepuff friends, deliberately ignoring James’ late entry, or so he imagined. Perhaps she simply hadn’t seen him, or truly didn’t care. He bristled uselessly at the thought.
The floor of the classroom had been cleared of desks, making room for a small dueling arena. Today was apparently going to be a practical session, with students facing off against Professor Debellows or each other. James dropped his knapsack against the wall and drew his wand. Dueling was one of his favorite school activities, and he welcomed it most especially on a day like today, with the thought Millie’s aloof disinterest and Ralph’s disconcerting new name nagging at his attention. The big boy himself stood with some fellow Slytherins on the other side of the door, his face hard as he watched Professor Debellows.
“Today, students, you will not be dueling each other. I intend to challenge you with a more demanding opponent. And no, this time that doesn’t mean you will be dueling against me.”
A sigh and murmur of relief swept over the room. No one had ever bested Professor Debellows in a duel, but many had limped away from such confrontations nettled, embarrassed, and occasionally trailing colorful smoke.
“No, today I wish to observe your technique closely as you do your best to face a more advanced challenger. To that end, Professor Odin-Vann has very graciously agreed to stand in as your opponent.”
James blinked and glanced around. Indeed, Professor Odin-Vann stepped out onto the dueling floor, looking barely older than the seventh years standing nearby. He wore a long black coat belted tightly around his waist, giving his thin frame a sporty, eager look. James, knowing something about the young professor’s spellcasting abilities, was surprised. Dueling definitely did not seem to be the man’s strength.
In fact, from what James had seen, the professor seemed almost incapable of casting spells under even the most mundane pressure. Had he agreed to Debellows’ request simply because he hadn’t been quick enough to think of a sufficient excuse? Was he about to be dreadfully embarrassed by this demonstration of his stress-induced impotence?
If so, Odin-Vann was hiding his discomfiture very well. He turned on his heel, spun his wand deftly in his fingers, and then bowed with a rather strained smile, clicking his heels together.
“Mr. Warton,” Debellows called out, consulting a clipboard in his huge, meaty hand. “You are up first. Please take position.”
Graham shrugged and sidled out onto the dueling floor, moving opposite Odin-Vann. He bowed perfunctorily, and then lowered to an alert half-crouch, raising his wand diagonally at eye-level, focusing past it to his opponent, just as Debellows had taught them.
James glanced back toward Odin-Vann. The professor stood flat-footed, his wand at his side, his head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed.
His posture suggested that he was contemplating a piece of obscure artwork rather than preparing to defend himself or launch an attack.
Debellows watched impassively, his brow furrowed, a quill raised in one hand, held against the clipboard in the other. James knew that in Debellows’ class there was no official commencement of a duel. It began when the first opponent cast their attack.
Graham struck first, sidestepping and jabbing his wand forward.
“Confringo!” he barked, his voice echoing in the tight confines of the classroom.
The blasting curse was one of Graham’s favorites, and he was particularly good at it. The bolt of sherbet-purple light lanced across the floor and struck Odin-Vann. The young professor stumbled backwards, knocked off balance. James winced, embarrassed on the professor’s behalf.
And yet Graham hadn’t scored the crippling strike that he had hoped for. Somehow, James realized, Odin-Vann had cast a repulsion charm, too late to deflect the blast completely, but just quick enough to avoid being blown completely off his feet.
The gathered students muttered, half surprised that Graham had gotten off such a strong, if predictable, opening shot, and half impressed that Odin-Vann had managed his weak parry without so much as raising his wand. It still hung at his side as he collected himself, resumed his position, and then lifted his chin toward Graham, as if challenging him to try again.
Debellows watched with no expression whatsoever. Would he call it off when it became apparent that Odin-Vann was no match for the students? James hoped so. He watched helplessly, dreading the young professor’s humiliation.
Graham bobbed on his toes and moved sideways. Always be a moving target, James thought, reciting one of Debellows’ first rules in his mind. Graham seemed to wait for Odin-Vann’s attack, watching for the first tick of the professor’s wand, preparing to predict its intent. But the professor made no move. Impatient, Graham sidestepped back the way he had come and lunged forward again.
“Petrificus Totalis!” he cried, speaking quickly but clearly. It was a bold move, and he got it off well. The spell shot across the room, illuminating the faces of the watching students, and struck Odin-Vann with a crack of magical impact.
James stiffened sympathetically, waiting to see Odin-Vann fall backwards like a statue. Instead, the professor remained upright, his eyes wide, his mouth pressed into a tight frown. His wand was raised in his hand now, but at waist level. He had deflected Graham’s spell somehow,
without so much as a word.
The class muttered again, this time in hushed admiration. Nonverbal spells were impressive under any circumstance. Even Debellows only used them sparingly in dueling sessions.
Graham tried again, this time dodging right. “Expeliarmus!”
This time, Odin-Vann blocked the spell before it was halfway across the dueling floor. His defensive charm snuffed Graham’s attack with a burst of golden light.
“Expeliarmus,” Odin-Vann said, almost conversationally, repeating Graham’s own spell. Graham’s wand pinged from his still outstretched hand and twirled behind him, clattering against the door.
Graham gawped, barely comprehending how quickly and easily Odin-Vann had beaten him.
James himself could barely believe what he had seen. Even Odin-Vann looked pleasantly surprised. He glanced down at his own wand and smiled. Then, he raised it to his shoulder and bowed again to Graham.
Debellows marked on his clipboard and called, “Spirited, if predictable, Mr. Warton. Ms. Doone. Please take position and let us see if you fare any better.”
James watched as Ashley Doone faced off next against Odin-Vann. This time, the young professor parried nearly instantly, flicking his wand up even as the spells formed on Ashley’s lips, snuffing them before they crossed the dueling floor. Ashley stepped back, dazzled by her obliterated spells, and Odin-Vann edged forward to close the space.
“Ascendio,” Odin-Vann called, prodding his wand smartly toward Ashley. She lofted three feet into the air, dropping her wand as she flailed, pin-wheeling her arms.
“That will do, Ms. Doone,” Debellows announced in a monotone voice, making more marks on his clipboard. “Ms.
Fourcompass, you’re next, if you please.”
Fiona Fourcompass moved reluctantly into position as Odin-Vann lowered Ashley back to her feet, depositing her neatly alongside her classmates. Frustrated, she raked her disheveled hair out of her face with her fingers, her cheeks brick red.
As James watched, the same scenario was repeated over and over.
Student after student squared off against Odin-Vann, and he parried, blocked, and extinguished their attacks so easily that he barely seemed to be paying attention. Every time, Odin-Vann bested his opponent with a single, different attack, each more creative and obscure than the last.
Patrick McCoy he overpowered with a tickle charm. Trenton Bloch, by turning his hair into antlers. Fiera Hutchins was unfortunate enough to have her fingers transfigured into jellyworts. And Hufflepuff George Muldoon was subjected to a clown-wraith so terrifying that it left him huddled fetal at Nolan Beetlebrick’s feet.
“It’s only a wraith,” Nolan said, nudging Muldoon hard with his foot, rolling him over onto his back. “Just smoke and noise, you great baby. It’s gone already.” Millie elbowed Beetlebrick aside with a withering glance and reached to help Muldoon to his feet.
James’ own hair was still standing up at the memory of the horrible clown monstrosity, wraith or not. He turned from Millie and Muldoon to Odin-Vann, who was holding his wand thoughtfully to his chest, buffing it against his lapel.
“And with that,” Debellows announced dispiritedly, “I’m afraid we are very nearly out of time. I see we have very much to work to do, students. Very much work indeed.”
James blew out a pent-up breath, not even realizing that he’d been holding it. He had begun to dread the thought of facing off against the suddenly unbeatable Odin-Vann, but now, fortunately, it seemed that he and a remaining untouched few had been granted a reprieve.
“In fact,” Debellows called over the sudden shuffle of feet and murmuring voices, “Before we bid our thanks to Professor Odin-Vann, I’m afraid we have time for only one more duel.”
A sinking sensation came over James. Instinctively, he tried to hide behind Graham and Deirdre Finnegan.
“No good,” Graham growled, shoving James hard with his elbow. “If I have to do it, you do, too.”
Debellows swept his gaze over the class, squinting over his reading spectacles.
“You,” he called, nodding decisively. “Mr. Deedle. If you would favor us with your best game.”
James sagged in relief, exhaling another audible sigh. Across from him, Ralph was looking at Odin-Vann, hard-faced, as he said, “I’m Dolohov now, sir. I’ve decided to take my birth name.”
“Ah,” Debellows said stiffly, consulting his clipboard again with the air of a man who had difficulty remembering his students’ names under normal conditions, much less when they changed them all willy-nilly. “I shall, er, make a note of it, then. Ahem. But please, Mr. Erm.
If you would quickly take position.”
Ralph moved readily out onto the open floor, his eyes still locked on Odin-Vann, his wand held out at waist level. As always, Ralph’s wand looked fairly ridiculous. Thick as a broom handle, its sharpened tip still bearing traces of lime green paint, the instrument would be laughable to those who didn’t know that it was, in reality, a broken-off segment of Headmaster Merlin’s legendary staff, gifted to Ralph after he had mastered it back during his first year.
Odin-Vann stepped forward to bow stiffly, a polite smile on his face. Ralph did not bow in return. Instead, he struck, suddenly and powerfully, before the professor had even straightened upright.
The bolt of red spat from the enormous wand in Ralph’s outstretched fist. In response, Odin-Vann’s wand jerked upright and slashed across the red spell, blunting but not quite deflecting it. The dulled bolt caught him in the shoulder and spun him around, stumbling and flailing, his coattails flying like bat wings.
Ralph stepped forward, sighting down the length of his arm. He fired again, an orange spell this time. The blinding streak caught Odin-Vann in the back of the knee and he buckled, his leg momentarily useless. His wand jerked upright again and he spun around on his good leg, following its movement, an uncertain gleam in his eye. He was surprised by Ralph’s attack. James could see that. But he was also angered by it.
“He’s using nonverbals!” Deirdre hissed aside, not taking her eyes from Ralph. “Since when does Deedle know nonverbals?”
“That’s not Deedle, don’t you know,” Graham answered in a low voice. “That’s Dolohov!”
Ralph fired again, still stepping forward, closing the gap. This time Odin-Vann managed to block it, but the sheer force of the blow pushed him backwards several feet, scraping his boots on the stone floor as he leaned into the force.
“Deedle,” Debellows called out, but his voice was drowned by another crack from Ralph’s wand. An arc of pale green lightning writhed toward Odin-Vann, striking his chest even as his wand fired the counter-jinx uselessly into the air. The professor blasted backward and struck a bookshelf, which vomited its freight of books, peppering the professor and the shocked students nearby.
“That’s quite sufficient,” Debellows announced, raising his voice to a formidable boom. “Mr. Deedle, or whatever you prefer to call yourself—”
A blast of yellow sparks shot across the room, this time from Odin-Vann’s direction. The spell ricocheted off the ceiling and floor, spraying its force uselessly, but distracting Ralph briefly. The professor flung himself upright from the tottering bookshelf, kicked a scatter of fat textbooks aside, and raised his wand again.
Ralph saw and fired another of the pale green lightning bolts.
James assumed that it was a repulsion hex, although it was impossible to tell, since Ralph continued to fire without speaking any incantations.
Nonverbal spells, James thought, his eyes widening. Odin-Vann has no idea what to protect himself against.
And yet, this time Odin-Vann did protect himself, if only because Ralph cast the same spell twice. The professor’s wand swept up, producing a shimmering shield at the very instant that the green bolt lanced across the room. Ralph’s spell struck it and rebounded back toward him. The big boy strafed sideways, turning as he did, so that the bolt arced past and struck the door, leaving a blackened starburst on the ancient wood.
Ralph spun back toward his opponent and thrust out his wand once more.
“Sectumsempra!” he shouted, firing a blast of livid blue.
James’ blood went cold. Sectumsempra was a vicious attack, barely known and never used in dueling practices. Also, it was Ralph’s first spoken hex. He seemed to have run out of nonverbals to attempt.
Odin-Vann slashed at the blue bolt, his wand-hand moving jerkily, as if it was spring-loaded. Ralph’s spell obliterated in mid-air.
Ralph tried again, lunging aside as Odin-Vann trained his wand on him. “Incarcerous!” His voice was hoarse, strained with both concentration and inexplicable vehemence.
A spray of ropes snaked toward Odin-Vann, writhing to incapacitate him, but the professor had found his footing now and was striding forward himself, meeting Ralph’s attacks head-on. His wand lanced upright, drawing a streak of flaming red in the air, and the ropes pattered to the floor as worms of ash.
Ralph struck again, and again, but Odin-Vann barely blinked now. He stepped forward with each deflection, closing the distance between them, forcing Ralph backwards toward the door. The professor was smiling now, or at least showing his teeth in a sort of mirthless rictus, his wand hand moving as if of its own accord, slashing and thrusting, jerking in his fist like a living thing. Ralph was breathless, calling every spell he could think of, faster and faster, but to no avail.
Odin-Vann’s wand met each one with its counter-jinx, so quickly that James could barely keep track. The crackle of spent magic, acrid and electric, filled the room and made James’ hair prickle. The flashbulb pop and sizzle of the duel was almost too blinding to watch. By comparison, the rest of the room was a gloom of astonished, staring faces.
Finally, as the confrontation reached its breathless, explosive zenith, Ralph’s back thumped against the classroom door. His elbow struck the wood and the wand fumbled from his hand, trailing sparks and steaming like a log in a fire. Odin-Vann swept his arm forward in a blur, stopping just short of Ralph’s upraised chin, touching the tip of his own smoking wand to the boy’s throat, and freezing there.
James Potter and the Crimson Thread Page 34
