December 17th, 1992, Hogwarts Great Hall, 3:53 PM
The Great Hall had been transformed. The house tables had vanished, replaced by a long golden stage that ran down the centre of the hall, raised perhaps three feet off the ground and gleaming under the enchanted ceiling's starlight. Students packed the space on either side, arranged by year with the younger students at the front and older years behind, creating a natural amphitheatre effect.
Harry stood with his friends near the second-year section, his heart already racing with anticipation. The turnout was extraordinary—it seemed every student in the castle had come, drawn by curiosity about the Duelling Club and, Harry suspected, the opportunity to see Lockhart make a fool of himself.
"This is mental," Ron breathed, his eyes wide as he took in the crowd. "I don't think I've ever seen this many people in one place at Hogwarts."
"Everyone wants to learn to defend themselves," Hermione said, though her tone suggested she was trying to convince herself this would be educational rather than disastrous. "With the Chamber attacks, it makes sense."
Luna hummed thoughtfully, her grey eyes tracking the Wrackspurts that apparently swarmed thick around the stage. "The professors are already here. Hiding in the alcoves. They're waiting for the right moment to make an entrance."
Draco's lips curved into a slight smirk. "This should be entertaining. In either the best or worst possible way."
The main doors burst open with theatrical flair, and Gilderoy Lockhart swept into the Great Hall, his robes of deep plum perfectly coordinated with the stage's golden sheen. His smile was as bright as ever, his wavy hair artfully arranged, his presence commanding attention despite—or perhaps because of—his utter incompetence.
"Gather round, gather round!" Lockhart called out, his magically amplified voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent! Welcome to the Duelling Club! I, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award, will be your instructor in the noble art of duelling!"
"Merlin save us," Draco muttered.
From the shadows near the staff entrance, Professor Snape emerged with his usual billowing robes and expression of profound distaste. His black eyes swept the crowd with cold assessment before settling on Lockhart with barely concealed contempt.
"Professor Snape has graciously agreed to help me with a short demonstration," Lockhart announced, apparently oblivious to Snape's murderous expression. "Now, don't worry—you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"
He laughed at his own joke whilst students exchanged uncertain glances. Snape's lip curled.
The two professors mounted the stage from opposite ends, taking positions about twenty feet apart. Lockhart was still smiling, his hazel wand, should Ethan be here he would have recognised it immediately as inadequate for serious duelling—nine inches, dragon heartstring, too flashy, too focused on cosmetic spell-work, held with theatrical flourish.
Snape drew his wand—blackthorn, thirteen and a half inches, dragon heartstring, a weapon perfectly suited to its master's precise and dangerous magic—with economical grace. His expression suggested he was about to enjoy himself immensely.
"Now, as you can see, we're holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart said, though his grip was loose, his stance open, his entire posture screaming amateur to anyone with real duelling experience. "On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course—"
"Speak for yourself," Snape murmured, just loud enough for the front rows to hear.
"One... two... three!"
Lockhart raised his wand with a dramatic flourish. "Expe—"
"Expelliarmus!" Snape's voice cut through Lockhart's attempted spell like a blade.
A flash of scarlet light, a sharp crack, and Lockhart's hazel wand flew from his hand in a high arc, sailing over the crowd to land somewhere in the Hufflepuff section. Lockhart himself was thrown backward by the force of the disarming charm, hitting the stage floor with an undignified thump.
The hall erupted.
Not with concern for Lockhart, but with thunderous applause and cheering. Students from all houses roared their approval, the sound echoing off the enchanted ceiling. Even some of the younger students who'd been awed by Lockhart's books were clapping, caught up in the spectacle.
"Brilliant!" Fred Weasley bellowed from the older students' section.
"Absolutely inspired!" George agreed.
Snape's expression didn't change, but something that might have been satisfaction flickered in his black eyes.
"An excellent demonstration!" came a new voice, and Professor Flitwick emerged from the alcove Luna had indicated earlier, followed by Professors McGonagall and Sprout. "Thank you, Professor Snape, for showing us a perfectly executed disarming charm. And Professor Lockhart—" Flitwick's tone was diplomatic, "—for demonstrating the importance of proper defensive stance."
Lockhart scrambled to his feet, his perfect hair dishevelled, his smile strained. "Yes, well, that was... most educational. Perhaps we should move on to the actual lessons now?"
"Indeed," McGonagall said crisply, stepping onto the stage with the other professors. "Professor Lockhart has kindly agreed to step aside whilst we provide proper instruction in duelling technique."
The dismissal in her tone was absolute. Lockhart's smile froze, but he retreated to the edge of the stage with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn't much.
The four professors arranged themselves across the stage—Flitwick, Sprout, Snape, and McGonagall—and the hall fell into expectant silence. Harry leaned forward, his green eyes bright with anticipation. This was what he'd come for. Real duelling. Real magic.
"Before we begin," Flitwick announced, his high voice carrying clearly despite his small stature, "I want to emphasise that duelling is not about flashy spell-work or theatrical gestures. It's about precision, timing, and understanding your opponent. Each of us will demonstrate a different approach to magical combat, working with a volunteer from the older years."
"I'll go first, if I may..." Flitwick continued, hopping onto a small platform that raised him to better visibility. "I'll need a volunteer, fifth year or above, preferably from Ravenclaw."
"Penelope!" Percy Weasley's voice rang out from the older students' section. "Penelope Clearwater, Professor! She's brilliant in Charms!"
A tall, pretty girl with curly hair emerged from the Ravenclaw section, her cheeks slightly pink but her posture confident. She mounted the stage, drawing her wand—fir, ten inches, dragon heartstring—with practised ease.
"Miss Clearwater," Flitwick said warmly. "Don't hold back. Attack me with whatever spells you know, and I'll demonstrate proper defensive and offensive technique. Begin when ready!"
Penelope took a breath, settled into a duelling stance, and immediately went on the offensive. "Stupefy!"
Flitwick deflected it with a casual flick of his wand—vine, nine and a quarter inches, dragon heartstring, a champion's weapon—the Stunning Spell ricocheting harmlessly into the enchanted ceiling. "Protego!" Penelope tried to shield, but Flitwick was already moving.
"Petrificus Totalus!" His voice was cheerful, almost conversational, but the spell cracked through the air with lethal precision.
Penelope twisted, barely avoiding it, and countered with "Expelliarmus!"
And this was where Flitwick's true mastery showed. Instead of blocking or deflecting, he transfigured the spell mid-flight—a combination of Charms and Transfiguration that Harry had never seen before—turning the scarlet disarming charm into a flock of golden birds that dispersed harmlessly around him.
'Merlin,' Harry thought, his mind racing. 'He didn't just counter it. He transformed it entirely. Changed its fundamental nature mid-cast.'
Flitwick's attacks came swift and varied—a Blasting Curse that he immediately dampened to non-lethal force, a Levitation Charm used offensively to unbalance Penelope's footing, a rapid-fire series of Stinging Hexes that forced her into constant defensive casting. But it was his counter-spelling that was truly exceptional. Every attack Penelope launched, Flitwick had three different ways to neutralise, deflect, or redirect.
"Notice," Flitwick called out whilst casually batting aside another Stunning Spell, "how I'm not just blocking. I'm adapting each defence to the specific spell. A Shield Charm works for some attacks, but transformation, redirection, or absorption work better for others. Variety is key!"
He demonstrated by catching one of Penelope's Freezing Charms in a conjured sphere of water, freezing the water instead of himself, then transfiguring the ice into a swarm of butterflies.
The duel concluded with Flitwick disarming Penelope—gently, almost apologetically—and the hall erupted in applause. Penelope was breathing hard but grinning, clearly exhilarated.
Harry's mind was already comparing what he'd seen to his father's style. Ethan's duelling was different—more economical, perhaps, less showy. Where Flitwick displayed a vast arsenal of spells and counters, Ethan's approach, from what Harry had observed during their travels, was about perfect timing and minimal wasted motion.
But the underlying principle was the same: deep understanding of magical theory allowing for creative application.
Professor Sprout stepped forward next, her round face pleasant but her eyes sharp. "I'll need a volunteer as well. Someone brave enough to face an old Herbologist!"
"I'll do it, Professor!" Cedric Diggory's voice rang out confidently. The handsome fourth-year Hufflepuff mounted the stage with athletic grace, drawing his ash wand—twelve and a quarter inches, unicorn hair—with a slight bow toward Professor Sprout.
In the stands, Cho Chang's expression went soft, her eyes following Cedric's every movement. Several other girls around her sighed audibly.
"Mr Diggory," Sprout said warmly. "Begin when ready!"
Cedric opened with a rapid combination—"Stupefy! Expelliarmus! Impedimenta!"—forcing Sprout immediately onto the defensive. But the Herbology professor didn't just block. With a complex wand movement and a spell Harry didn't recognise, she caused thick vines to erupt from the stage floor, forming a living shield that absorbed Cedric's spells whilst simultaneously reaching toward him like grasping hands.
"Incendio!" Cedric burned through the vines, but more sprouted immediately.
Sprout's style was unlike anything Harry had seen. She combined her deep knowledge of magical plants with standard duelling spells, creating a fighting style that was both unpredictable and devastatingly effective. Devil's Snare tendrils erupted to entangle Cedric's feet. Venomous Tentacula leaves conjured, thankfully, without the actual venom, snapped at his wand hand.
All whilst Sprout peppered him with Stinging Hexes, Tripping Jinxes, and the occasional well-placed Stunning Spell.
'She's controlling the battlefield,' Harry realised. 'Making the environment itself a weapon. Dad does something similar with wards and runic circles, but this is more... organic.'
Cedric fought valiantly, his spell-work clean and his reactions quick, but he was clearly out of his depth. When Sprout finally ended the demonstration by wrapping him thoroughly in conjured ivy whilst simultaneously disarming him with a cheerful "Expelliarmus!", he was laughing despite his defeat.
"Well fought, Mr Diggory!" Sprout said, vanishing the plants with a wave of her wand. "You see, students, never underestimate an opponent based on their usual discipline. Magic is magic, whether it's Herbology or Transfiguration!"
Snape stepped forward next, his black robes billowing despite the lack of wind, his presence immediately commanding the hall's attention. "Rhys Maybury," he said, his voice soft but carrying perfectly. "Seventh year, Slytherin. Front and centre."
A tall, lean student with sharp features emerged from the older Slytherin section. He mounted the stage with confident grace, drawing his hornbeam wand—eleven inches, dragon heartstring—and settling into a duelling stance that suggested considerable training.
Unlike Flitwick's cheerful instruction or Sprout's warm encouragement, Snape offered no preliminaries. He simply raised his blackthorn wand and said, "Begin."
Maybury opened with "Stupefy!"
Snape's deflection was minimal—a tiny wrist movement that sent the Stunning Spell careening past his shoulder. No Shield Charm, no transformation, just precise redirection. He countered with "Tarantallegra!"
Maybury blocked it, but Snape was already casting again. "Confundus!"
What followed was a masterclass in efficient combat magic. Snape used perhaps six different spells in the entire demonstration—Stunning Spell, Dancing Legs Jinx, Confundus Charm, Disarming Charm, Impediment Jinx, Full Body-Bind—but each one was placed with surgical precision. His movements were economical to the point of minimalism, his wand work subtle, his timing absolutely perfect.
'This is closer to Dad's style,' Harry thought, watching intently. 'Few spells, but each one exactly right for the moment. No wasted energy, no unnecessary flourish. Just... precision.'
Snape didn't dodge when he could deflect with a centimetre's movement. He didn't use complicated counters when simple redirection would suffice. And his attacks came in patterns designed to force his opponent into increasingly desperate defences, each spell setting up the next, until Maybury was so focused on blocking that he never saw the final Disarming Charm coming.
The duel lasted perhaps forty-five seconds. When it ended with Maybury's wand in Snape's hand, the younger wizard was breathing hard whilst Snape looked as though he'd done nothing more strenuous than grade essays.
"Efficiency," Snape said coldly, returning Maybury's wand, "is the difference between survival and death in real combat. Flashy spell-work may impress your friends. Precise spell-work keeps you alive."
He stepped back, and Professor McGonagall moved forward. Unlike the previous demonstrations, she didn't immediately call for a volunteer. Instead, she looked directly at Percy Weasley.
"Mr Weasley," she said, her Scottish accent crisp. "As a Prefect and one of my most accomplished students, I believe you're the appropriate choice for this demonstration. If you're willing?"
Percy looked simultaneously terrified and honoured. He climbed onto the stage, his chestnut wand—twelve inches, dragon heartstring—held in a textbook-perfect grip, his posture rigid with nervousness.
"Don't hold back, Mr Weasley," McGonagall said, though her expression softened slightly. "This is a learning opportunity."
Percy nodded, took a steadying breath, and opened with a by-the-book Stunning Spell. "Stupefy!"
McGonagall's response was immediate and extraordinary. With a sharp jab of her fir wand—nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring—she transfigured the stage floor directly in front of Percy, raising a stone shield that absorbed his spell. Then, whilst Percy was still processing this, she transfigured the shield into a flock of stone birds that dove toward him.
Percy's second spell, a Protego, created a shimmering barrier—which McGonagall immediately transfigured into water, drenching Percy and shorting out his Shield Charm in one efficient motion.
'She's not just using Transfiguration for offence,' Harry realised, his eyes wide. 'She's turning everything be it the environment, her opponent's magic, even the space between them... into weapons or tools.'
What followed was perhaps the most impressive display yet. McGonagall didn't need a huge variety of spells like Flitwick, or specialised knowledge like Sprout, or Snape's precision timing. Instead, she transformed the very nature of the duel itself. Percy's careful, orderly approach—the stable duelling style that came from years of following rules and practising proper form—was systematically dismantled as McGonagall turned the battlefield into chaos.
The stage beneath Percy's feet shifted and changed. The air between them filled with transfigured objects—chairs, suits of armour, flocks of birds, swarms of butterflies—all serving either as shields or projectiles. Percy's own spells were intercepted and transformed mid-flight, turned against him in ways he'd never anticipated.
When McGonagall finally disarmed him—using a combination of a Levitation Charm on his robes and a Transfiguration spell that turned his wand temporarily into a rubber chicken—Percy was completely overwhelmed, his orderly approach reduced to confused reactive casting.
The hall erupted in applause as Percy stumbled down from the stage, looking dazed but strangely elated.
Harry's mind was racing, comparing and contrasting. Each professor had demonstrated a valid approach to magical combat, each rooted in their particular expertise.
And somewhere in his memory, Harry held the image of his father—Ethan's style incorporating elements of all these approaches but filtered through the lens of a Seer's perception. Ethan fought as though he could see three moves ahead, positioning himself perfectly, choosing spells not just for immediate effect but for how they'd set up future advantages.
'Different paths to the same goal,' Harry thought. 'Mastery through specialisation, but with enough breadth to adapt.'
"Now then!" Flitwick's voice called out, breaking Harry from his analytical reverie. "We'll open the floor to student practice. Pair up with someone from your year, preferably from a different house. Remember—this is educational duelling, not a brawl. First-years through third-years will use Disarming Charms only. Fourth-years and above may use Stunning Spells, but everything else should be relatively harmless hexes and jinxes."
The hall immediately descended into controlled chaos as students began pairing off. Harry looked around for his friends, already feeling the familiar anticipation of practical magic building in his chest.
Ron had locked eyes with Draco across the crowd, both wearing matching expressions of competitive determination. "Malfoy. You and me."
"Thought you'd never ask, Weasley," Draco replied, though his slight smile suggested genuine enthusiasm rather than antagonism.
Hermione was scanning the students, her brown eyes sharp. When her gaze landed on Daphne Greengrass, something like challenge flashed across her face. "Daphne Greengrass," she called out. "Care to demonstrate whether pure-bloods actually have any natural advantages?"
Daphne's eyebrow arched. "Granger. How delightfully presumptuous. I accept."
'Since when do they have a rivalry?' Harry wondered, but the determined set of Hermione's jaw suggested this had been building for a while.
Luna had drifted toward the younger students, where Astoria Greengrass—Daphne's sister, the sharp-tongued first-year who'd become Luna's unlikely friend—was waiting with unusual intensity in her eyes.
"Luna Lovegood," Astoria said formally. "I've been practising. I want to see how I measure up."
"That sounds lovely," Luna replied with her characteristic dreaminess, though her grey eyes held focus. "Though I should warn you, the Nargles have been whispering duelling strategies to me all week."
Harry turned toward Neville, who'd been watching the professors with wide-eyed fascination. "Neville, do you want to—"
"Mr Potter."
Snape's voice cut through the noise like ice. The Potions Master had appeared beside Harry with his usual unsettling silence, his black eyes fixed on Harry with unreadable intensity.
"You will duel with Theodore Nott," Snape said flatly. It wasn't a suggestion.
Harry's excitement curdled into something colder. He looked across the hall to where Theodore stood with his usual cronies, a smirk already spreading across his sharp features. The Slytherin who'd called Hermione a Mudblood. Who represented everything Harry despised about blood supremacy and casual cruelty.
'Of course,' Harry thought, his jaw tightening.
Theodore was already making his way toward the stage, his elm wand—twelve inches, dragon heartstring—held with casual arrogance. His grey eyes gleamed with malicious anticipation.
"Potter," Theodore drawled as he mounted the stage. "How wonderful. I've been wanting to demonstrate proper wizarding technique to our resident celebrity."
Harry's hand moved to his holly wand—eleven inches, phoenix feather core—and he felt the weapon's power thrumming through the wood, eager, ready. His green eyes met Theodore's grey ones across the duelling platform, and the crowd began to press closer, sensing the genuine tension between these two.
Around them, other duels were beginning—Ron and Draco circling each other with wands raised, Hermione and Daphne exchanging cold pleasantries before taking positions, Luna and Astoria settling into their stances with contrasting styles.
But Harry's focus had narrowed to the boy opposite him. Theodore Nott. Bigot. Bully. And now, opponent.
Snape's voice cut through the noise one final time: "Begin."