We bowed. I turned, took five steps back, wand in hand. At the count of three, he aimed.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Protego!"
The shield shimmered—and in that split second, I did more than block. I timed it perfectly, letting the spell skim against my Protego just enough to make it look like a successful defense. But as it touched the barrier, I snatched the magic from the air and tucked it silently into my inventory.
The effect was subtle. To everyone watching, I'd merely blocked a spell. But to me, it was like bottling lightning.
Lockhart grinned, mistaking my calculated stumble for panic. I let myself reel back slightly, one foot skidding. The crowd leaned in.
He smelled weakness and charged forward with reckless glee.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Another spell. Another shield. Another careful catch.
My robes flared as I staggered back, just a bit more dramatic this time. Hermione gasped from the sidelines. Lockhart's eyes lit up—hungry and triumphant.
"Rictusempra!" he shouted.
I pretended to wince, crouching low. The beam fizzled against a shaky Protego, siphoned just like the rest. My wand trembled slightly in my grasp—for effect.
Lockhart saw only victory. "Yield, Mr. Kingston! There's no shame in it!"
I didn't answer. I gave him just a little more false ground to believe he stood on.
Protego again. The same result. Another spell added to my quiet collection.
As Lockhart launched spell after spell—Tickling Charms, Tongue-Tying Hexes, poorly formed Confringo—I continued to intercept each one with the illusion of skillful defense. A few clipped past by inches, making the crowd gasp. I ducked and stumbled, dragging one foot slightly, letting him think he had the upper hand.
I gave the impression of being barely able to hold on, dodging to the side, panting, falling to one knee. But never once did I cast a single offensive spell. Just defense, evasion, and subtle sleight of hand. The room's energy shifted. Murmurs began. Sympathy spread.
Then, he overstepped.
A high-powered Bombarda Spell surged toward me, glowing like a miniature comet. I cast one last Protego, raising it just in time for the explosion to slam into the shield. The moment it struck, I captured the magical energy into my inventory—undetected—and let the shield visually collapse under the blast. The spell, meant to explode on impact with the ground, detonated with a crackling boom against my barrier, sending shockwaves outward. At the same instant, I leapt backward deliberately, landing in a dramatic tumble that sent me skidding across the floor, limbs flailing. The exaggerated distance sold the illusion perfectly—like I'd been completely overwhelmed.
My body hit the floor. I rolled with the momentum, lay still.
Gasps. Silence.
"Sky!" Hermione shouted, running over.
"Is he—?"
I groaned faintly.
The students began shouting—outrage spilling from every corner of the crowd.
"He aimed to hurt him!"
"That wasn't a disarming spell!"
"Did he mean to knock him out?!"
Even Lockhart's fan club looked horrified.
Lockhart himself stood frozen, mouth twitching between a forced smile and the realization that he'd taken things too far. His wand lowered slightly as he surveyed the angry murmurs growing around him. For a moment, it seemed he might try to laugh it off—until he caught the glares, not just from students, but from his own adoring followers, now staring at him with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief.
Snape raised his hand. "Enough. This club is over for the evening. Anyone not injured may now return to their common rooms."
Hermione, Harry and Ron were at my side instantly. I leaned into Hermione, feigning a limp.
She glanced at me, concern creasing her brow. "Are you okay? That looked awful."
"I'll be alright," I whispered. "And what sturdy shoulder you have, Mione."
She pinched my side. I yelped.
The crowd gasped.
"He's worse than we thought!" someone shouted.
"You should still go to the Hospital Wing," Harry said, helping support me.
"I'll go," I said solemnly. "Just in case there's anything actually bruised. Or broken. Or dramatically inflamed."
Students parted as we walked. I kept my expression solemn, gaze straight ahead, every step timed for maximum sympathy.
Snape watched from the platform, unreadable.
I woke up to the scent of antiseptic potions and Madam Pomfrey muttering about dramatic children. My head ached faintly, but not from any injury—just the weight of holding back laughter for too long. Hermione sat in a chair next to my bed, gripping the edge of a book she hadn't turned a page of in ten minutes. Harry stood behind her, arms crossed and brows furrowed. Ron was slumped in the corner, munching on a biscuit he'd somehow smuggled in.
Madam Pomfrey bustled over, holding her wand like a scalpel. "Bruised, not broken," she pronounced. "You'll live—but honestly, Mr. Kingston, one would think you were trying out for the stage."
"Am I not always?" I murmured, groaning slightly as I sat up.
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Sky—"
"Yes, yes. I'm fine."
She didn't buy it. Of course not. I dropped the smirk, just for a moment. "But thank you. For being here. All of you."
The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable. The kind that told me they were worried, but willing to let me recover in peace. I gave Hermione a small nod. She gave me a long look, as if evaluating the sincerity of my statement, then finally relaxed.
By midday, the door to the hospital wing may as well have had a revolving enchantment on it. Students came in waves—some with curiosity, others with concern. Gryffindors beamed with pride, treating me like a war hero. Ravenclaws probed for technical details. Even a few Hufflepuffs dropped in with baskets of muffins.
And then there were the Slytherins. They arrived in twos or threes, each pretending to insult me while their eyes flickered with something far more interesting—calculation. Even they couldn't deny the spectacle. Though I had lost, the fact that I had held on for as long as I did was a quiet testament to my tenacity and ability. Even they could respect that, if only silently.
Lavender and Parvati stood near the foot of my bed. Lavender chewed her lip, Parvati stared. "He really hit you, didn't he?" Lavender said.
"Repeatedly," I said mildly. "With flair."
Hermione didn't laugh. She was watching the door, watching who came in and out, watching me. After a long pause, she said quietly, "You really need to fix that habit. Not everything needs to come with a quip… especially when it's not even that funny."
I leaned back with a half-smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "If anything, it's always been my coping mechanism. Especially in times like these. When things get too serious… that's when I start throwing out quips like candy. The day I stop—that's the day you know the shit's really about to hit the fan."