January 8th, 1994, Duelling Club Arena, 4:17 PM
The transformed classroom bore little resemblance to its usual configuration.
Professor Flitwick had outdone himself—the space expanded through careful Charms work, walls pushed back to create a proper indoor arena. Tiered seating rose along three sides, capable of accommodating hundreds of spectators, whilst the duelling floor itself had been marked with regulation boundaries and enchanted for safety. Overhead, floating orbs of light provided perfect illumination without casting shadows that might advantage either side.
Harry stood in the centre of the arena, his posture relaxed but alert, his hands resting loosely at his sides. He wore his usual school robes with the hood pushed back, his dark hair slightly messy, his emerald eyes calm and focused. Around his neck, worn like a necklace, hung a silver pocket watch—Ethan's gift from years ago, a reminder of training and patience and the particular mathematics of time.
His fingers found the watch absently, feeling the familiar weight and warmth of metal, the slight tick-tick-tick of mechanism. The motion was meditative, grounding, a way to centre himself before what was coming.
Laughter echoed from the arena entrance—loud, confident, edged with cruelty. Bryce Thornton and his three friends swept in with the swagger of people who'd never seriously considered losing. They were fifth-years, taller, broader, with two additional years of magical education and the particular arrogance that came from targeting younger students without consequence.
Harry tucked the watch away beneath his robes and waited.
The stands were nearly full—an unprecedented turnout for a Duelling Club match. The entire event had taken on mythic quality over the past weeks: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, challenging four fifth-year bullies to defend Luna Lovegood's honour. The story had spread through Hogwarts like wildfire, growing with each retelling until it seemed half the school had turned out to witness the result.
Gryffindor red and gold dominated one section of the stands, students packed in shoulder-to-shoulder and buzzing with anticipation. But surprisingly, Ravenclaw blue and bronze made up nearly equal numbers—Sue Li and Anthony Goldstein had apparently been quite persuasive about house attendance. Whether they were there to support Luna or witness Bryce's humiliation remained unclear, but their presence spoke volumes.
Near the front, Harry's friends had claimed prime seating.
Luna sat with perfect stillness, her grey eyes locked on Harry with unwavering focus. Jasper nestled in her arms, the Golden Snidget's golden feathers gleaming under arena lights, chirping soft encouragement. The Blooming Mirrored Lotus bracelet on her wrist had shifted to cool silver tones—not quite anxious, but certainly alert.
Astoria sat beside her, closer than strictly necessary, her usual aristocratic composure cracked by genuine concern. Ron occupied the next seat, already working through a bag of popcorn that Neville had thoughtfully procured from the kitchens. Hermione sat on Ron's other side, her hands gripping her knees with white-knuckled tension. Draco claimed the end position, his posture deliberately casual but his grey eyes sharp with assessment. And just behind them, Daphne Greengrass had appeared—ostensibly chaperoning her sister but clearly invested in the outcome.
"Do you really think Harry can handle four fifth-years?" Daphne asked quietly, her cultured tones carrying doubt despite obvious effort to sound neutral.
"He's been training," Ron said through a mouthful of popcorn. "All summer. With his dad. Special combat lessons and everything."
Luna nodded but said nothing, her attention never wavering from Harry's still form in the arena.
"What kind of training?" Neville asked nervously. "I mean, Harry's brilliant, but four against one—"
"The kind that makes his summer training look like warm-up exercises," Ron said with confidence he clearly wanted to feel. "Though I'll admit, I'm dead curious to see what exactly he learned. He's been practicing in empty corridors at night, but I've never actually watched him duel properly."
Astoria leaned close to Luna, her voice dropping to a whisper audible only to those immediately nearby. "Your knight in armour looks very determined. Are you worried for him?"
Luna's ears went pink—just slightly, just enough—and her hands tightened around Jasper. "He'll be fine," she said, her dreamy tone not quite hiding the underlying concern. "The Nargles say he's prepared."
"The Nargles?" Astoria's mouth quirked with amusement. "How convenient that they're suddenly prophetic."
Luna made a small sound and aimed a playful punch at Astoria's shoulder—her small fist connecting with absolutely no force behind it. "Hmph!"
"Alright, alright..." Astoria said fondly.
Hermione leaned forward, her voice tight with worry. "I know Harry's capable, but Bryce has two more years of education. Two more years of spells, strategies, experience—"
"And Harry's got something they don't," Draco interrupted smoothly. His aristocratic drawl carried absolute certainty. "Actual combat training. Not just classroom duelling, but real preparation from someone who knows what they're doing. Trust me—I've seen what... proper instruction does. Harry's going to be fine."
Colin Creevey, who'd somehow secured a seat in the row behind them, bounced with barely contained excitement. "Harry Potter's going to demolish them! Did you see him with the basilisk? He's brilliant! He's going to show everyone exactly how brilliant he is and it's going to be amazing and I'm going to get photos of everything—"
Hermione shuddered visibly at the enthusiastic hero-worship whilst Draco laughed outright. "Easy there, Creevey. Save some energy for the actual match."
Near the arena's edge, Professor Lupin stood in conversation with Professor Flitwick, both of them ostensibly discussing the safety charms woven through the duelling floor but actually watching the filling stands with professional interest.
"Remarkable turnout," Flitwick observed, his squeaky voice carrying pleasure. "Haven't seen attendance like this since the exhibition matches when I was competing professionally."
"It's the story," Remus said quietly. "Boy defending girl from bullies. Add in Harry's reputation and Luna's situation, and you've got narrative drama that appeals to everyone."
His eyes swept the crowd, cataloguing reactions, noting the particular intensity with which Ravenclaw students watched their own housemates. Then his gaze caught on a figure standing in the shadows of the far corner.
Severus Snape.
The Potions Master stood apart from other faculty, his black robes blending with darkness, his expression carefully neutral. But Remus, who'd spent seven years learning to read Snape's micro-expressions, saw something else underneath. Conflict. Interest. Something that might have been grudging respect warring with old resentment and newer concern.
Snape's eyes were fixed on Harry with unsettling intensity—not the usual disdain he showed James Potter's son, but something more complicated. Something that suggested he was seeing someone else entirely superimposed over the thirteen-year-old in the arena.
Remus wondered what it was.
Professor Flitwick stepped forward, his wand raised for amplification. "Ladies and gentlemen! Today's match will be conducted under standard Duelling Club regulations. No dark magic, no curses intended to cause permanent harm, no transfiguration of living creatures. The match ends when all members of one side are incapacitated or yield. Are the terms understood by both parties?"
"Understood, Professor," Harry said clearly.
Bryce smirked. "Understood. Though I feel obligated to offer Potter a sporting chance—we could go one-on-one instead of four against one. Seems more fair, given the age difference."
His tone dripped with condescension—the particular false concern that made the insult obvious whilst maintaining plausible deniability.
Harry's expression didn't change. "That won't be necessary for I intend to duel all four of you... Simultaneously."
"Your funeral, Potter," Bryce said.
"We'll see." Harry's voice was perfectly calm, utterly indifferent, carrying no anger or bravado. Just stating fact.
Flitwick raised his wand. "Take your positions. On my mark—three, two, one—begin!"
Harry moved first.
"Flipendo."
The Knockback Jinx shot from his holly wand with none of the usual visible struggle of teenage casting—no excessive wand movement, no shouted incantation, just smooth efficient magic that crossed the distance in an eyeblink.
The stocky boy who'd tried to grab Luna's hair weeks ago took the spell squarely in the chest. He flew backwards—not stumbling, not staggering, but properly airborne—and crashed into the arena's far wall with a crack that made several students wince. He slumped to the floor, conscious but thoroughly winded, clearly out of the fight.
One down. Three seconds elapsed.
The arena fell absolutely silent.
Then Bryce's furious cursing shattered the quiet like breaking glass, and everything erupted.
The remaining three fifth-years spread out with practiced efficiency, their wands already moving through casting motions. Spells flew from three directions simultaneously—Stunners, Tripping Jinxes, a particularly nasty Stinging Hex—
Harry was already moving.
His body blurred with motion that suggested his physique explosion was active, the unconscious body magic reinforcement Ethan had trained into him turning ordinary dodging into something approaching inhuman grace. He slid beneath a Stunner, pivoted around a Tripping Jinx, and the Stinging Hex missed by inches.
His emerald eyes had begun to glow—not dramatically, not obviously, but enough that students in the front rows noticed. The subtle luminescence of someone channeling magic through their very perception, seeing spell trajectories before they fully manifested.
"COME ON, HARRY!" Ron's bellow cut through the arena noise, popcorn forgotten in favour of jumping to his feet. "SHOW THEM WHAT YOU'VE GOT!"
The shortest of Bryce's friends—the one who'd looked nervous about fighting Harry—shifted tactics. His wand moved in complex Transfiguration patterns, and the arena floor beneath Harry's feet erupted into loose dirt and quicksand, the solid stone transformed into treacherous terrain designed to trap and immobilize.
Harry's response was instantaneous.
His body magic surged. One moment he was sinking, the next he'd accelerated into explosive speed that carried him out of the affected area and directly at the caster. The fifth-year's eyes widened with sudden fear—
Harry's fist connected with his jaw in a perfect uppercut.
The blow carried every ounce of magically reinforced strength behind it. The fifth-year's head snapped back, his feet left the ground, and he collapsed in an unconscious heap before his body even registered what had happened.
Two down. Fifteen seconds elapsed.
"THAT'S MY BEST MATE!" Ron was practically vibrating with excitement, his voice hoarse from shouting. Beside him, Hermione had given up any pretense of sitting calmly and was on her feet, her hands pressed to her mouth but her eyes blazing with fierce pride.
Bryce and his remaining companion exchanged panicked glances. This wasn't going according to plan. Potter was supposed to be overwhelmed, supposed to be a child playing at duelling adults, supposed to be easy.
Bryce made a decision. "Follow me!" he shouted.
Both remaining fifth-years aimed their wands skyward and cast in unison. "Oppugno!"
The conjured flock of small objects—stones, apparently, conjured rather than transfigured to avoid regulation violations—shot upward before arcing down toward Harry in a deadly hail. Not just from one direction but from multiple angles, creating a bombardment impossible to dodge completely.
Harry's wand moved in a smooth arc. "Protego."
The Shield Charm bloomed around him—not the flickering, uncertain barrier most students managed, but a solid hemisphere of translucent blue-white energy that deflected the conjured stones with sharp crack-crack-crack sounds of impact. The shield held steady, not wavering, not flickering, maintaining perfect integrity under assault.
Hermione's gasp was audible even over the crowd noise. "He can cast a solid Protego! That's NEWT-level magic! The theoretical framework alone requires understanding of—"
Her excited technical explanation was cut short when Ron's grip on her arm tightened reflexively, his attention too focused on the duel to realize he was squeezing. Hermione made a small noise of protest but didn't stop watching, her eyes bright with analytical fascination.
The moment the assault ended, Harry's wand was already moving.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell that emerged wasn't gold. Wasn't the standard red-orange. It was crimson lightning—crackling, violent energy that crossed the distance with speed that made it nearly impossible to track.
Both remaining fifth-years tried to react. Bryce's friend was too slow—the red lightning struck him squarely, his wand flew from nerveless fingers, and the physical force of the spell's impact sent him staggering backwards. Before he could recover, Harry's follow-up struck.
"Flipendo!"
The Knockback Jinx was considerably more powerful than the opening shot. The fifth-year flew across the arena and hit the far wall hard enough that Professor Flitwick immediately moved to check on him.
Three down. Twenty-eight seconds elapsed.
Only Bryce remained.
The fifth-year's face had gone white. His bravado had evaporated entirely, replaced by dawning terror as he realized he was alone facing someone who'd just systematically dismantled three opponents whilst barely breathing hard.
He managed to throw up a shield—decent technique, properly formed, exactly what Ravenclaw instruction would have taught him. The barrier shimmered between them, and for a moment, Bryce looked like he might actually survive this.
Then Harry started walking.
Not running. Not rushing. Just advancing with measured, deliberate steps whilst his wand moved in continuous casting motions.
"Flipendo. Stupefy. Expelliarmus. Impedimenta."
The spells came one after another in relentless rhythm—not shouted, not desperate, just quiet incantations delivered with absolute confidence. Each spell struck Bryce's shield, each impact sending visible cracks spider-webbing across its surface.
And whilst he cast, whilst he methodically broke down Bryce's defence, Harry spoke.
His voice carried through the arena—not amplified, but loud enough, clear enough, filled with cold fury that made several students shiver.
"You bullied Luna Lovegood." Another spell. Another crack in the shield. "You hid her belongings. Made her walk barefoot on cold stone. Whispered about her. Excluded her. Made her feel wrong for being herself and I'm sure that was the least of your other heinous acts..."
"She's brilliant." Harry's eyes blazed. "She sees connections nobody else notices. She understands magic in ways that make professors pause. She's kind and unique and everything you're too small-minded to appreciate."
Bryce tried to reinforce his shield, his wand shaking with effort and fear.
The shield was failing. Visible fractures ran through it like broken glass.
Harry's voice lowered, dropped to something dangerous only Bryce could hear. "You hurt someone I care about."
The final spell—"Stupefy"—shattered Bryce's shield entirely. The Stunner continued through and struck the fifth-year squarely in the chest. He staggered, his wand falling from slack fingers, his consciousness fighting the spell's effect.
Harry's follow-up was precise. "Petrificus Totalus."
Bryce went rigid, his body locking completely, and toppled backward like a felled tree.
Four down. Forty-seven seconds total.
The arena was silent.
Then Harry turned, and his emerald gaze swept across the Ravenclaw section with the cold precision of someone making absolutely certain a lesson had been learned. His eyes—still glowing faintly with residual magic—carried promise: touch her again, and this happens to you.
Sue Li stood from her seat. Her voice shook slightly but carried determination. "We're sorry, Luna. We should have spoken up years ago. What they did to you—what we let them do by staying silent—it wasn't okay. It was never okay."
Anthony Goldstein rose beside her. "Bryce and his friends are cowards. We were cowards for not stopping them. That changes now."
Several other Ravenclaws nodded, their expressions carrying shame and resolution in equal measure.
Then Harry's eyes found Luna.
The fierce, cold anger that had driven him through the duel melted instantly. His expression softened—transformed from predator to protector, from warrior to something gentler. Luna was on her feet, Jasper clutched carefully in her arms, and her smile was radiant with joy and pride and absolute trust.
Their eyes met across the distance—emerald and grey, darkness and light, protection and gratitude—and something wordless passed between them. Understanding. Recognition. The certainty that he would always fight for her, and she would always do the same for him.
The Blooming Mirrored Lotus bracelet on Luna's wrist had shifted to warm gold and pink tones—happiness, contentment, love so new and fragile that neither of them had words for it yet.
Professor Flitwick's voice broke the moment. "Match concluded! Winner: Harry Potter!" His squeaky voice carried genuine awe. "That was... quite remarkable, Mr Potter. I don't believe I've ever seen a third-year demonstrate such comprehensive combat capability."
The arena erupted.
Gryffindor students were on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse, stamping their feet until the stands shook.
Even Ravenclaws were cheering—many of them, at least—their applause mixing with shouts of approval and what sounded suspiciously like relief that their house's bullies had been so thoroughly defeated.
Ron had somehow acquired a Gryffindor banner and was waving it with manic enthusiasm whilst Hermione laughed and cried simultaneously. Draco applauded with aristocratic restraint that couldn't quite hide his grin. Astoria was whispering rapid observations to Luna, who seemed incapable of looking anywhere except at Harry. Even Daphne looked impressed, her usual cool composure cracked by genuine approval.
Harry walked to where his opponents lay in various states of unconsciousness and incapacitation. He checked each one briefly—making sure they were breathing, that no serious injuries had occurred—with the thoroughness Ethan had drilled into him about responsible magic use.
Professor Flitwick was already casting diagnostic charms. "All fine. Bruised egos more than bodies. They'll recover fully within hours." He looked up at Harry, his expression mixing approval with concern. "That Stunner at the end—the red lightning—that's not standard curriculum."
"No, sir," Harry agreed. "My father helped me develop it. It's... more effective than standard casting."
"Clearly." Flitwick studied him with sharp eyes. "I expect we'll be seeing more of you in Duelling Club. That was professional-level combat efficiency, Mr Potter. Remarkable."
Medical assistance arrived—Madam Pomfrey bustling in with her usual brisk competence to collect the defeated fifth-years. Bryce was still rigid from the Full Body-Bind, conscious but unable to move or speak, and Harry suspected the Healer would leave him that way for a bit longer than strictly necessary.
Students began filing out, the stands emptying in waves of excited chatter and dramatic retellings. Harry's friends descended on him immediately—Ron wrapping him in a crushing hug whilst Hermione lectured about the theoretical implications of his shield work and Luna simply held Jasper and smiled.
"That," Ron said emphatically, "was the most brilliant thing I've ever seen. Less than a minute! You took down four fifth-years in less than a minute!"
"The red lightning Expelliarmus is fascinating," Hermione added, her academic curiosity overriding everything else. "The energy signature, the physical force behind it, the way it actually caused impact damage rather than just disarmament—Harry, you have to show me how that works—"
"Later," Harry said, laughing despite exhaustion. His eyes found Luna's. "Are you okay?"
"Perfect," Luna said softly. "Thank you, Harry. For everything..."
"Always," Harry said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.
Professor Lupin approached as the crowd thinned, his shabby robes doing nothing to diminish the warmth in his expression. "Well fought, Harry."
"Uncle Remus," Harry said, suddenly feeling very young despite what he'd just accomplished. "I didn't hurt them too badly, did I?"
"You showed remarkable control," Remus assured him. "Enough force to win decisively, but nothing that caused lasting damage. That's harder than it sounds in the heat of combat." He paused, his mouth quirking with amusement. "Though I suspect Bryce will be considerably more careful about who he targets in future."
"That was the point," Harry said flatly.
"Indeed." Remus's expression shifted to something more serious. "Speaking of lessons—we start tomorrow after your regular classes. Patronus instruction. Be prepared for emotional work, not just magical."
"Tomorrow?" Harry's exhaustion suddenly felt very present. "Already?"
"The sooner you learn proper defence against Dementors, the better." Remus's hand found Harry's shoulder, squeezed gently. "You did well today, Harry. Protecting those we love—there's no nobler reason to fight. But remember: power without wisdom leads to tragedy. Your Dad understood that. Make sure you do too."
"I will," Harry promised.
"Good. Now go celebrate with your friends. You've earned it."
Harry rejoined his group—Luna immediately taking his hand, Ron still recounting the fight blow-by-blow to anyone who'd listen, Hermione alternating between pride and academic analysis, Draco offering aristocratic approval whilst Astoria teased Luna about her "knight's" performance.
As they left the arena, Harry caught one final glimpse of Professor Snape still standing in his corner. The Potions Master's expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes followed Harry with something that might have been respect buried beneath layers of complicated history.
Then they were in the corridor, heading toward Gryffindor Tower, and Harry let himself relax completely for the first time since the duel began.
Luna's hand in his. Friends surrounding him. The knowledge that he'd stood up for someone who mattered, who'd needed protection, who deserved so much better than what she'd been given.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges—Patronus lessons with Remus, continued vigilance against Mordred, the ongoing chess game Ethan was playing with pieces Harry only partly understood.
Third year continued its complicated dance.
And Harry Potter walked through Hogwarts with Luna Lovegood's hand in his, absolutely certain he'd fight that duel again a hundred times if it meant she'd never have to face her tormentors alone.