December 17th, 1992, Hogwarts Great Hall, 8:27 PM
The Great Hall thrummed with anticipation as students paired off across the golden stage and surrounding floor space. Protective wards shimmered into existence around each duelling pair—transparent barriers erected by the four professors, designed to contain stray spells whilst allowing spectators to watch safely.
Ron and Draco were the first to take position on the main stage, drawing the largest crowd. They circled each other slowly, wands raised, neither willing to make the first move and reveal their strategy.
"Scared, Ronald?" Draco asked, his voice carrying just enough mockery to sting.
"You wish, Malfoy," Ron shot back, though his grip on his willow wand—fourteen inches, unicorn hair—was perhaps a touch tighter than necessary.
The circling continued for another three seconds before Ron's impatience won out. "Flipendo!"
The Knockback Jinx flew straight and true—too straight, too predictable. Draco sidestepped with elegant economy, his hawthorn wand—ten inches, unicorn hair—already moving in a precise arc. "Tarantallegra!"
Ron's legs began dancing uncontrollably, forcing him to break his stance. He managed to stop it with a hasty finite, but Draco was already casting again. "Rictusempra!"
What followed was a flurry of jinxes and hexes that had the watching students gasping and cheering. Ron fought with raw enthusiasm, his casting quick and powerful but lacking refinement. He fired off Knockback Jinxes, Leg-Locker Curses, even a Jelly-Legs Jinx that Draco dodged with a sneer.
But Draco—Draco duelled like he'd been trained since birth. His movements were fluid, his spell selection strategic, his positioning calculated. Where Ron attacked directly, Draco created angles. Where Ron powered through, Draco redirected.
'He's herding Ron,' Harry realised, watching from the side of the stage. 'Forcing him into increasingly aggressive casting, waiting for the mistake.'
It came after perhaps two minutes of intense exchange. Ron, frustrated by Draco's superior footwork, abandoned caution entirely and unleashed a rapid-fire barrage—"Flipendo! Flipendo! Locomotor Mortis!"—putting all his considerable magical power behind each spell.
Draco deflected the first two with quick wand movements, then he simply wasn't there for the third. He'd moved with such sudden speed that it looked almost like disapparation—appearing at Ron's left flank.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell came out shakier than Draco probably intended—his wand movement wasn't quite right, the pronunciation slightly rushed—but it was enough. Ron's wand flew from his grip, though it only travelled a few feet before clattering to the stage floor rather than arcing dramatically into Draco's hand.
The duel was over.
The protective wards shimmered and faded. Ron stood breathing hard, his face flushed—whether from exertion or embarrassment, Harry couldn't tell. But then something unexpected happened.
Draco walked forward and kicked Ron's wand back toward him with a slight nod. "Good power in your casting, Ronald. Work on your positioning and you'd be genuinely dangerous."
Ron blinked, clearly not expecting genuine tactical advice. Then his mouth quirked into a grudging smile. "And you actually managed Expelliarmus. Been practising that one, have you?"
"Well, Father, insisted I learn it over the summer," Draco admitted with a slight shrug. "Still can't get it quite right, but it works well enough."
"High praise indeed," Ron replied, but there was warmth beneath the sarcasm.
The two descended the stage, and Harry caught the knowing look they exchanged—mutual respect earned through combat. Perhaps that was its own kind of progress.
"Right then!" called Professor Flitwick. "Next pair...Miss Granger and Miss Greengrass, please take the stage!"
A ripple of interest went through the crowd.
Hermione mounted the left side of the platform with determined grace, her vine wand—ten and three-quarters inches, dragon heartstring—held in a textbook-perfect grip.
Across from her, Daphne Greengrass ascended with aristocratic poise, her appearance every bit the pure-blood heir—ice-blonde hair, sharp features, and cold green eyes that assessed Hermione with calculating intelligence.
'Wait,' Harry thought, surprised. 'Daphne's in our year? I thought she was older.'
"I wondered when this would happen," Draco murmured beside him. "They've been circling each other like Erklings hunting the same prey since first year."
Harry glanced at him questioningly.
"Hermione's afraid Daphne will beat her marks," Draco explained. "And Daphne's afraid Hermione's right about blood status not mattering for magical talent. So they compete constantly, even when they're not together."
The two witches faced each other with expressions of intense focus. Unlike Ron and Draco's pre-duel banter, Hermione and Daphne simply stared, each waiting for the other to commit first.
Professor Snape's voice cut through the tension. "Begin."
Hermione struck first with a rapid combination—"Flipendo! Rictusempra! Locomotor Mortis!"—forcing Daphne immediately on the defensive. But where Ron had relied on power, Hermione demonstrated breadth. Her next volley included a Tripping Jinx aimed at Daphne's feet, a Stinging Hex targeted at her wand hand, and a creative use of Aguamenti to create a slick puddle beneath her opponent's stance.
Daphne weathered it all with impressive calm. Her ebony wand—nine inches, dragon heartstring—moved in tight, controlled arcs, dodging what she could, deflecting what she couldn't dodge. She didn't try to match Hermione's variety; instead, she used a smaller arsenal of well-practiced spells, executed with surgical precision.
When Hermione paused to draw breath, Daphne struck. "Flipendo!"
The force behind it was remarkable for a second-year. Hermione barely managed to dodge, stumbling slightly on the wet patch she'd created herself. Daphne didn't give her time to recover—"Tarantallegra! Rictusempra!"—forcing Hermione into an awkward defensive position.
What unfolded was perhaps the most technically impressive duel of the evening. Hermione's strength lay in adaptation and creativity—she used the Knockback Jinx at angles to make Daphne lose her footing, attempted to freeze the stage floor beneath Daphne's feet with a modified Glacius charm. Her spell selection showed she'd read far beyond their year level, even if she couldn't cast the advanced magic yet.
But Daphne's economy of motion was extraordinary. She didn't waste energy on flashy counter-moves. Instead, she read Hermione's patterns, anticipated her tactics, and struck with devastating efficiency at the exact moments when Hermione was between spells.
'It's like watching two different philosophies of magic clash,' Harry thought.
The duel escalated. Hermione tried to conjure a simple distraction—a flock of sparrows using a basic Avifors, transfiguring a button from her robes—whilst simultaneously casting a Stinging Hex through the confusion. Daphne swatted the birds aside with a sweep of her wand and deflected the hex with a quick dodge.
They were both breathing hard now, their faces flushed with exertion and concentration. The watching students had fallen silent, captivated by the display of skill.
Then Hermione tried something ambitious. She'd been studying ahead, Harry knew, reading about defensive spells in the library. "Protego!"
The shield flickered into existence for perhaps half a second—translucent, unstable, more suggestion than substance—before collapsing entirely. Hermione's face showed frustration at the failed spell, but it had given her enough time to reposition.
"Nice try, Granger," Daphne said, and there was genuine respect in her voice. "But that's a sixth-year spell."
"I know," Hermione shot back. "Doesn't mean I won't keep practising it."
The duel continued for another minute, both witches showing signs of magical exhaustion. Finally, in a moment of mutual understanding, they both attempted their trump cards.
Hermione, drawing on everything she'd learned: "Expelliarmus!"
Daphne, using a spell her mother had taught her: "Impedimenta!"
The Disarming Charm came out weak—Hermione's wand movement was technically correct but she didn't have the magical maturity to power it properly. It flew wide. Daphne's Impediment Jinx hit true, but Hermione managed to throw herself aside at the last second, the spell only grazing her shoulder and slowing her movement slightly.
They stood facing each other, both panting, both realising they'd reached the limits of their second-year abilities.
Professor Flitwick's voice rang out cheerfully. "I think we'll call that a draw! Excellent effort from both of you. Ten points to Gryffindor and ten points to Slytherin!"
The hall erupted in applause. Even the professors looked impressed—these were clearly two of the most talented witches in their year.
Hermione approached Daphne, and they regarded each other for a long moment before Hermione extended her hand.
"That was brilliant," Hermione said, and meant it. "Your positioning is better than mine."
"Your spell variety is exhausting to defend against," Daphne replied, though her slight smile softened the words. She shook Hermione's hand firmly. "Perhaps we should practise together sometime. We could both improve."
"I'd like that."
As they descended the stage, Harry caught Hermione's expression—satisfied but already analysing what she could have done better. The competitive fire hadn't been extinguished; it had merely been acknowledged by both parties as something potentially constructive rather than hostile.
"Miss Lovegood and Miss Greengrass, the younger Miss Greengrass," Professor Sprout called out. "Your turn, dears!"
Luna drifted toward the first-year section of the stage with her characteristic dreaminess, whilst Astoria Greengrass—Daphne's sharp-tongued younger sister—approached with visible determination. The first-year girl had her wand—silver lime, eight inches, unicorn hair—gripped so tightly her knuckles were white.
"I've been practising," Astoria said, her voice carrying more intensity than usual. "Daphne's been helping me. I want to see how I really measure up."
"That sounds lovely," Luna replied, her grey eyes unfocused but somehow still attentive. "Though I should mention, the Nargles have been quite chatty about defensive positioning today."
Astoria's expression suggested she still hadn't decided whether Luna was brilliantly eccentric or just odd. "Right. Nargles. Of course."
"Begin!"
Astoria immediately went on the offensive, her determination translating into aggressive spell-work. "Flipendo! Locomotor Mortis! Tarantallegra!" The spells came fast, her technique surprisingly good for a first-year who'd only had a few months of formal training.
But Luna simply... wasn't where the spells went.
She moved with an almost absent-minded quality, as though she'd spotted something interesting just to the left of where she'd been standing, or decided on impulse to examine the ceiling. Yet every time she moved, a spell passed harmlessly through the space she'd occupied a heartbeat earlier.
It was uncanny. Astoria's face grew progressively more frustrated as spell after spell missed their mark—not because Luna was particularly fast or because the aim was poor, but because Luna seemed to know exactly where each spell would be before it was cast.
'She's reading something,' Harry realised. 'The way Dad sometimes knows what's coming before it happens. But how?'
"Rictusempra!" Astoria's voice had taken on an edge of desperation.
Luna tilted her head, and the Tickling Charm sailed past her ear. "Flipendo," she said softly, almost apologetically.
The Knockback Jinx was gentle—Luna clearly didn't want to hurt anyone—but it was enough to make Astoria stumble backward. The first-year girl caught herself, frustration evident on her face.
For the next minute, Astoria threw everything she knew at Luna—Leg-Lockers, Tripping Jinxes, even a Stinging Hex that made Luna actually have to duck. But nothing landed properly. Luna just kept... not being there.
Finally, exhausted and desperate, Astoria tried a spell combination her sister had showed her. "Tarantallegra! Locomotor Mortis!" One to make the legs dance, one to freeze them—hoping the contradiction would at least slow Luna down enough to land something else.
Luna dodged the first but the second clipped her ankle. For just a moment, her movement was restricted.
"Flipendo!" Astoria put everything into it.
The Knockback Jinx hit Luna squarely in the chest, sending her wand flying from her grip as she stumbled backward. It skittered across the stage, well out of reach.
"Yes!" Astoria pumped her fist in triumph, then immediately looked embarrassed by her outburst.
But as the protective wards faded and the two girls approached each other, Harry noticed something odd. Astoria was breathing heavily, her face flushed, sweat beading her forehead despite the cool December air in the Great Hall. She looked completely exhausted.
Luna, by contrast, appeared mostly unruffled. Slightly winded perhaps, but her robes weren't dishevelled, her expression remained dreamy, and when she smiled at Astoria it was with genuine warmth rather than any hint of disappointment at losing.
"You did wonderfully," Luna said, retrieving her wand. "All that practice with your sister really shows. That combination at the end was very clever."
Astoria studied Luna with narrowed eyes. "You weren't really trying to win, were you? You dodged everything without much effort, but you barely attacked back."
"I was trying," Luna assured her. "Just... perhaps differently than you expected. I don't like hurting people, even in practice."
"How did you know where my spells would be? Every single time, until that last combination."
Luna's expression turned thoughtful. "Do you know how sometimes you can feel someone watching you? Even when you can't see them, you just know their eyes are on you?"
"Yes..."
"It's like that, but with magic. I can feel the intention behind the spell before it's fully formed. Mother called it 'listening to the shape of magic.' The combination confused it because there were two conflicting intentions."
Astoria's eyes widened. "That's... can people learn that?"
"I'm not sure," Luna admitted. "I've never met anyone else who could do it. Well, except Mother, before... and maybe Mr Ethan understands something similar."
They continued their conversation as they moved off the platform, Astoria peppering Luna with questions whilst Luna answered with her characteristic blend of matter-of-fact mysticism and concrete observation. Harry watched them go, filing away yet another piece of evidence that Luna Lovegood was far more extraordinary than her dreamy demeanour suggested.
Which left only one duel remaining.
Harry climbed onto the main stage, his heart pounding steadily in his chest. Across from him, Theodore Nott stood with casual arrogance, his elm wand—twelve inches, dragon heartstring—held loosely in one hand, a smirk playing at his lips. His Slytherin housemates had gathered close to the stage, watching with predatory interest.
"Potter," Theodore drawled. "Ready to show everyone that the Boy Who Lived can actually duel? Or will you be relying on that famous luck of yours?"
Harry didn't respond. Instead, he settled into the stance Ethan had taught him—weight balanced, holly wand held at a slight angle, entire posture suggesting relaxed readiness. He was thinking of his father's duelling style, the way Ethan moved like a magician performing tricks, always three steps ahead, every gesture containing hidden purpose.
'A magician never performs without preparation,' Ethan had said once. Harry had prepared.
Professor Snape's eyes flickered between them, his expression unreadable. "Begin."
Theodore opened with a Knockback Jinx—"Flipendo!"—but it was a feint. His real attack came a split-second later from a different angle, a Tripping Jinx aimed low whilst Harry was focused on the first spell.
But Harry had already begun his Cogitation, the meditative technique Ethan had taught him years ago. The blue moon took shape in his mind, its cool light bringing clarity and focus. Time didn't slow exactly, but his perception sharpened. He felt Theodore's hostile intent shift fractionally before the second spell was cast, that innate warning system giving him the edge he needed.
Harry sidestepped both spells, his movement fluid, and countered with "Rictusempra!"
Theodore deflected it with a quick wand flick. "Locomotor Mortis!"
The duel accelerated. Theodore's style was aggressive and underhanded—he used Stinging Hexes aimed at Harry's eyes, Tripping Jinxes masked behind stronger spells, even created puffs of smoke with a minor charm to obscure Harry's vision whilst he repositioned for a better angle. It was the duelling equivalent of street fighting, brutal and effective.
But Harry had spent years training with Ethan, learning to read not just spell-work but intent. Every time Theodore's gaze flickered toward Harry with hostile purpose, Harry felt it like a tingle across his skin. It gave him a fraction of a second's warning—enough to know when Theodore was about to cast even before the wand moved.
'He's getting frustrated,' Harry thought as he dodged another Stinging Hex. 'Good.'
"Flipendo! Tarantallegra! Locomotor Mortis!" Theodore unleashed a genuine barrage, forcing Harry into rapid defensive movement.
Harry dodged the first, deflected the second with a wand movement Ethan had taught him, and rolled under the third with perhaps less dignity than his father would have managed but effective nonetheless. He came up casting "Impedimenta!"
The Impediment Jinx—one of the more advanced spells Ethan had taught him, though still technically within the Hogwarts curriculum—caught Theodore in the shoulder, slowing his wand movement enough for Harry to follow up.
"Tarantallegra!"
Theodore's legs began dancing, breaking his stance completely. The Slytherin boy's expression darkened with genuine anger. He managed to stop the jinx with a furious "Finite!", but Harry saw the moment his opponent realised he was losing. Harry's defensive technique was too solid, his counter-attacks too well-timed, his training too thorough. Theodore's trump cards—the surprise attacks, the hidden hexes—had all been anticipated and neutralised.
"Flipendo!" Theodore snarled, putting real force and rage behind it.
Harry sidestepped and prepared to end the duel with a Leg-Locker Curse.
Then Theodore did something stupidly reckless.
"Serpensortia!" he bellowed, his voice carrying desperation and fury in equal measure.
The effect was immediate and horrifying. From the tip of Theodore's elm wand erupted not one snake but dozens—thick, black serpents perhaps four feet long each, materialising in a writhing mass that spilled across the stage like living shadow. Their scales gleamed an oily black under the enchanted ceiling's starlight, their eyes glowing an unsettling yellow, their mouths opening to reveal fangs that Harry sincerely hoped were non-venomous conjurations rather than the real thing.
The protective wards, already stressed from containing the flurry of spells cast during previous duels, flickered ominously. Warning signals flashed in the translucent barriers as the magical construct struggled to contain the mass of animated serpents.
The watching students screamed and stumbled backward. Even the professors looked alarmed—this was far beyond appropriate spell-work for a student duel. Serpensortia was a fourth-year spell at minimum, and Theodore had somehow conjured not one but dozens of snakes.
"Mr Nott!" McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip. "Cease this immediately!"
But Theodore either couldn't hear her over the chaos or chose not to respond. The snakes were spreading across the stage, their movement aggressive, their hissing filling the hall with menacing sound. Some students were already fleeing toward the doors.
Then Lockhart, in what had to be the single worst decision of an evening already full of his poor judgement, raised his hazel wand with dramatic flourish. "Not to worry! Allow me! Vipera Evanesca!"
Perhaps if he'd been competent, the spell would have worked. Instead, his botched attempt at vanishing the serpents merely enraged them. The protective wards shattered completely under the strain of containing both the snakes and Lockhart's malformed spell. The serpents, now free of their magical barrier, turned as one toward the nearest target—a Hufflepuff second-year named Justin Finch-Fletchley who'd been standing close to the stage, frozen in terror.
The serpents lunged.
Harry didn't think. Didn't consider. Didn't pause to worry about consequences or appearance or anything except the absolute certainty that those snakes were about to attack an innocent student.
"Stop!"
The word that emerged from Harry's mouth was wrong. He knew it even as he spoke, knew the sibilant hissing sounds were not English, not any human language at all but something older and stranger and utterly alien.
But the snakes understood.
They froze mid-strike, their bodies locked in position as though petrified, their yellow eyes turning toward Harry with something that might have been confusion or recognition or simple obedience to the command they'd been given. The temperature in the Great Hall seemed to drop ten degrees.
The hall fell into absolute silence.
Every student, every professor, every living thing in that vast space stared at Harry with expressions ranging from shock to horror to naked fear. Even Theodore looked stunned, his previous arrogance replaced by something that might have been awe or terror—Harry couldn't tell which.
'Oh no,' Harry thought, the realisation hitting him like a bucket of ice water. 'Oh no, no, no—'
"You're a Parselmouth," Theodore whispered, and despite the whisper his voice carried in the crushing silence. "You're speaking to them. Potter's a Parselmouth."
The word rippled through the crowd like poison spreading through water. Students began backing away, their faces pale, their eyes wide. Whispers erupted—"Parselmouth... Slytherin's heir... the attacks... he's the one..."
Even Ron and Hermione looked shaken, though they held their ground when others retreated. Hermione's face showed dawning understanding mixed with worry. Ron just looked confused and protective at the same time.
Harry's mind raced in panic. He'd heard the legends, knew what Parseltongue meant to the wizarding world. It was the mark of Slytherin, the language of Dark wizards, the sign of—
'The Heir of Slytherin.'
Everyone would think he was the Heir. They'd think he'd opened the Chamber, attacked Colin Creevey and Mrs Norris. They'd think he was trying to purge Muggle-borns from Hogwarts. They'd think he was the enemy.
His hand moved to his pocket before conscious thought engaged, fingers finding the soft fabric of the Invisibility Cloak that he'd taken to carrying everywhere since the attacks began. Ethan's voice echoed in his memory: 'Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is recognise when you're not ready to face something. There's no shame in retreating to regroup.'
Harry looked at Justin—wide-eyed, terrified, but alive and unharmed. That was what mattered. He'd stopped the snakes. Justin was safe.
The rest... the rest he couldn't handle. Not now. Not with hundreds of eyes looking at him like he was a monster wearing his friend's face.
Harry pulled the cloak from his pocket and swung it around himself in one fluid motion. The silver fabric settled over him like water, and he felt the familiar sensation of the world becoming slightly distant, slightly unreal. Around him, students gasped as the Boy Who Lived vanished from sight.
"Mr Potter!" McGonagall's voice cut through the noise. "Harry, wait! Come back here this instant!"
But Harry was already moving, weaving between frozen students, heading for the doors with single-minded focus. Behind him, he heard Snape's cold voice—"Vipera Evanesca"—properly pronounced this time, and felt the magical signatures of the serpents winking out of existence as the Potions Master did what Lockhart had failed to do.
Harry reached the doors, pushed through, and ran.
He ran through corridors that blurred with tears he refused to let fall, past portraits that called out in alarm, down staircases that shifted beneath his feet. His heart pounded not from exertion but from the crushing weight of realisation: everything had just changed.
They'd all seen it. They'd all heard him speaking Parseltongue. And in a castle where someone calling themselves the Heir of Slytherin was attacking Muggle-borns, Harry had just painted a target on his back that no amount of explanation could erase.
'Ethan,' Harry thought desperately as he ran. 'I need Dad. I need to go home.'
But Hogwarts was home now, wasn't it? And after tonight, he wasn't sure there was any safe place left for a Parselmouth in its ancient halls.
Behind him in the Great Hall, chaos erupted as students shouted and professors tried to restore order. But Harry didn't hear it. He was already gone, lost in the darkness between tapestries, hidden beneath his cloak, running from the truth he'd accidentally revealed.
The Boy Who Lived could speak to serpents.
And in the wizarding world, that made him either heir to greatness or harbinger of darkness.
Tonight, everyone would believe the latter.