The reverse Protego sent Neville Longbottom flying into a bush.
That, in the closed universe of the project, was going to be a tale.
Neville retold it to the end of the school year.
Ron, who had not seen it happen, repeated it, embellished, at some point later on.
Hermione recounted the tale, with accuracy preserved and embellishments replaced by exact measurements.
Cael refused to repeat it at all; if pressed he would admit the truth of it and then move on.
There was a certain protection he felt about the matter, although not for Neville, who had thoroughly enjoyed being knocked into a bush, but for the bush, which had not had a choice.
The bush, he learned two days later, belonged to Sprout.
The day of the test had been brilliant and sharply cold.
Cael had asked Filch, a week earlier, whether he might borrow the old training court between the greenhouses and the Quidditch pitch for the morning; it had high walls on three sides, no foot traffic, and a good view from a covered cloister.
Filch had *fine*, the way Filch *fine* when he believed it was worthwhile to bother with you.
Cael had thanked him and brought Neville, who had volunteered the evening before, to the place at eight in the morning.
*Cael, listen.
If anyone’s going to stand facing you for this and not pass out, it has got to be me.
I have been remapped by your magic before.
That’s what I do.* Cael had objected, *No, Neville, I’m not planning to knock you down,* and Neville had.
*I wouldn’t either, but if you do, I’ll get back up.* That had been one of the new things Neville had said since he started undergoing Cael’s magic.
Hermione had ordered him into padded gear.
Hermione had gotten the padded gear herself, from Oliver Wood – Cael’s former house captain and current captain of Gryffindor Quidditch team – consisting of a Quidditch chest protector, elbow guards and a helmet.
The helmet had fit badly; Neville had worn it with heroic resignation.
He looked, in helmet and chest protector, like a brave, slightly apprehensive teapot.
It was Hermione’s design that the testing procedure be minimum intensity, with Cael and Neville casting twenty metres apart from each other and performing single cast after single cast, with each attempt followed by stopping, reassessment, and Cael’s consent to scale up.
In writing.
*Minimum intensity.
Twenty metres apart.
Single cast.
Pause and reassess after every cast.
Cael, you are not allowed to scale up without my approval and Neville’s approval and five minutes of discussion.* She had written it down and had signed it.
So had Neville.
So had Cael.
Then they had folded the paper carefully and hidden it under a flagstone, which was more for effect than necessity.
Neville had taken position at the far end of the courtyard.
He had stood, to be honest, only nineteen metres from Cael – but Cael had measured it out, and Hermione would have checked for twenty anyway.
He had worn the helmet and raised his hands slightly as if he wanted to be ready or prepared for something.
He nodded.
“Minimum intensity,” “Minimum intensity,” Neville parroted.
Cael cast.
The reverse Protego had left the tip of Cael’s wand in a slight visible compression of air – an inverted sphere, moving slowly enough to observe.
It was like the movement of a thrown ball.
It reached Neville before Cael had completed the wand motion.
Neville had lifted off the ground.
He had not flown.
He had not, really, flown; he had been *moved*.
He was knocked backwards a little over eight feet; the chest protector cushioned the first blow.
The helmet had caught him again.
And then the bush at the corner of the courtyard – a dense Sprout cultivar with springy, thick branches, a vaguely forgiving disposition and energy, of which the next year was to see more – had cushioned him the third, the fourth, and the fifth time, allowing Neville to drop gently into its depths like an unwelcome visitor sinking down in an armchair.
The bush had sighed with offended dignity.
Some leaves had fallen.
Neville’s voice, muffled by a helmet, emerged from the bush.
*I’m okay.* “Are you sure.” “Yes, really.
Am I in a bush?” “Yes.” “Oh, alright.
Yeah, yes, I — I’m in a bush.” “You’re going to come back out.” “That is alright, bring me some scissors.
I think I can get out —” A series of complex sounds followed; Cael heard the thumping of shoes and the rustling of branches as Neville extricated himself.
Then the helmet had fallen out first, followed by the chest protector and finally by the elbow protectors, and Neville had managed to get to his feet.
He had brushed leaves off the chest protector.
He had not been hurt at all; Cael saw, with a sudden wave of intense relief, that he was perfectly fine.
He had a single scratch on his cheek from the branch.
“Cael.” “I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be sorry.
I’m fine.
Actually, it works.
The — the pulse, the *pulse*.
What was that?
Was that an attack pulse, or wasn’t it, wasn’t it?
It wasn’t a shield.
This was never a shield.
It’s an *offensive* spell.” “Yes.” “It isn’t even defensive anymore, it’s an attack.
It has to be.” “Definitely.” “Not a defense shield at all.
The opposite of a shield is an attack.” Neville crossed the courtyard, still scattering leaves.
“Calibrate,” “Cael, calibrate.” “Neville.” “Calibrate.
I want to see how far down you can go.
See if you can get it to a mere *stagger*.
You push people backwards and knock them on their ass with a defense spell!
Imagine using this in a duel – someone tries to get at you, and you raise your shield.
The shield throws them backwards four feet without hurting them at all.
You have the time to get ready to —” “You’re not standing in front of that, Neville.” “I am going to stand in front of it.” “You just flung me into a bush.” “But I am going to calibrate.” “You just blew a bush apart.” “Well then, calibrate.
The bush *is here*.” Indeed, Cael thought in alarm, the bush was not in good shape.
It was, in fact, not only dead; it was also, in an agricultural sense, in several pieces.
And the bush had done its best for a single thirteen year-old boy and was, Cael was beginning to think, going to be a discussion that he was going to have with Sprout the following Wednesday.
Three days off.
He had three days to figure out how this was going to look in the conversation he was going to have.
He made a mental note.
He calibrated.
They did several casts with progressively smaller power – Cael estimated that each following cast was one-quarter, one-eighth, one-sixteenth of the original strength.
Neville had stumbled back with the first, had remained standing but reported a feeling of a polite conversation with someone else with the second and third.
By the fifth cast, he had produced a working range of spells from *throw a person into a bush* through *knock them back and leave them stunned* to *address them politely from afar*.
The bush was beyond saving; Cael was pretty sure he was going to owe Sprout an apology and explanation on Wednesday.
There were leaves floating around the inner edges of the cloister too – secondary effects from powers he had yet to consider.
He noted that issue as well.
Then he stopped, looking around at the bush and the courtyard.
“Right.” “Cael.” “Yeah?” “By the way, that is the most ridiculous defensive magic I’ve ever seen.” “I — yeah.” “You just gave yourself an attack spell.” “Yes, I —” “Straight up attack spell.” “Yes, I did.
Neville, let’s get out of here before somebody finds out about the bush.” “Sure, right.” They packed the gear up.
Cael took, on a whim, a couple of the bigger broken branches with him; they would help with the explanation.
Then they walked back to the castle in silence for the first hundred metres.
And Neville started laughing.
“What.” “Didn’t you notice, Cael?
You’re going to have to *replant* that bush.” “I noticed.” “And Sprout is going to *talk* to you.” “I noticed.” “She’ll probably give you a *list*.
Sprout makes lists for plants.
She made a two-page list about a tomato and Seamus.” “I know.” Neville, wearing the helmet, leaves hanging from the back of his shirt, shook his head with a grin of fond, resigned amusement.
“It worked,” “Yes.” “It actually worked.” “Of course it did.” “Neville.” “What.” “We’re going to have to do tests from at least twenty-five metres next time.
This is too close.” “Yeah.” “Or thirty.” “Okay.” “Maybe — maybe even thirty-five.” “Neville —” “I’m joking, Cael.
Mostly.” They walked to the castle in relative silence with the sound of Neville’s laughter at the bottom of it.
Cael, halfway through the walk, pondered what he was going to write in the entry that evening, and what line of that entry he was going to underscore – because he had, at last, discovered an offensive spell with which to harm nobody and only propel them a certain distance away from him.
The spell was essentially a reverse of Protego – absurd and wonderful concept to discover at such a tender age.
Cael filed away, also, that problem with Sprout.
He would see Sprout Wednesday and she would be Wednesday, and after Wednesday for several following Wednesdays.
But he was going to have to replant a lot of bushes while he studied at Hogwarts.
It was not too bad.
He dropped off Neville and took the broken branches into the bedroom, leaving them in the hearth to dry, thinking that they would probably become useful later on, and went off to the notebook.
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