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At the same time, in the warm and cozy common room of Gryffindor Tower, the atmosphere was heavy with tension.
In a quiet corner, Neville sat slumped over, absentmindedly rubbing the hem of his robe in a futile attempt to scrub away the specks of mud clinging to it. His eyes kept flicking around the room, never settling, as though he could not bring himself to meet anyone's gaze.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had taken refuge at a table tucked away from the rest of the crowd. They leaned close, their voices hushed but urgent, locked in an intense discussion about the recent string of attacks. None of them looked particularly well… each face was set in grim lines, their expressions tight and troubled.
"This isn't 'sparring' at all!"
Ron's voice was low but forceful, and his fist came down hard on the tabletop, making the ink bottle jump with a sharp rattle. "Just look at Neville! And Susan Bones… attacked right at the library entrance. Whoever's doing this is completely mad!"
Hermione's eyebrow was furrowed in deep concentration as she flipped rapidly through her thick, timeworn copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, turning page after page as if the answer might leap out at her from the faded parchment.
"Professor Greengrass's lessons were meant to teach us how to defend ourselves, not to give people an excuse to throw their weight around. These attacks are nothing but a twisted misuse of magic, the worst kind of distortion of what he's been trying to teach. School rule number… number… oh!"
With a frustrated snap, she shut the book and pressed her palm against the cover. "We have to report this to Professor McGonagall, or even to Headmaster Dumbledore. This is already spiralling out of control."
Harry's gaze remained fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth, the dancing light reflected in the green of his eyes, where a quiet, smouldering anger burned.
He could not help but think back to the times when Dudley and his gang used to corner him, hurling insults and shoving him around. That helplessness, that sting of humiliation, was still sharp in his memory.
"Hermione's right," he said at last, his voice dangerous calm. "This isn't about getting better. This is hiding behind the word 'practice' and a pulled-up hood… it's the kind of thing cowards do when they're too scared to show their faces."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone darkening. "They only go after people when they're alone. They've picked on Neville, and even Goyle…"
Ron blinked, startled. "Goyle? He deserved it! Think about how he and Crabbe treat other people most of the time!"
"Ron!" Hermione cut him off sternly, her voice full of reproach. "This is different! Being cornered by a group and hit with a Full Body-Bind Curse, then mocked while you can't even move… No matter who it happens to, that's going too far. And besides…"
Her eyes flicked uneasily around the common room, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff have been giving us strange looks, as though they believe all the attackers are from Gryffindor. We can't let this keep going…"
Harry nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling heavily in his mind. "You're right. Professor Greengrass's duelling lessons were supposed to be a good thing. But now…" He hesitated, a shadow passing over his face. "Now it feels like someone's opened Pandora's box…"
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The whispers spread swiftly through the shadowed corridors of the castle, moving like a chill breeze through unseen passageways.
Those who had been injured or humiliated sat in the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's stern and watchful gaze, fumbling for words, unwilling — or perhaps afraid — to speak plainly. Meanwhile, a quiet undercurrent of resentment and anger began to seep through all four Houses, settling in unnoticed until it was everywhere.
In the common rooms, the atmosphere grew strangely fragile. Even within the same House, trust was beginning to fray, unraveling thread by thread under the polite disguise of "sparring practice."
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had each received several vague complaints, their wording slippery and unclear, offering no solid evidence and no obvious culprit, leaving them with little they could act upon.
Professor Snape, however, had taken a far more visible approach. His face was a mask of dark displeasure as he increased patrols at the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons, his cold, icy gaze sweeping over every non-Slytherin who passed, carrying the silent weight of a territorial warning.
It was only a matter of time before this out-of-control "duelling craze" and the malice it had stirred up came, inevitably, to stand before the one who had first set it in motion: Sargeras.
During the second Saturday duelling lesson, while the students were practicing the finer points of applying the Shield Charm, Sargeras appeared without so much as a sound. He stepped into the space between a Slytherin and a Gryffindor who had been exchanging Disarming Charms, their spells sharp with barely contained hostility.
He did not even raise his wand. Only two words left his lips, cold and precise.
"Stop!"
The voice was not loud, yet it cut straight through the taut air between them. The light of their spells died mid-flight, vanishing into nothing, and both students froze in place, their faces pale.
Sargeras' gaze swept slowly across the entire hall. It was no longer the casual observation of a teacher but the deep, knowing look of someone who saw far more than was spoken, a gaze laced with a faint, chilling disappointment.
He offered no rebuke, no lecture on safety or discipline. Instead, he mounted the duelling platform with an unhurried step and gave the room a small nod.
"It seems that some of you, having learned a handful of spells, have already forgotten the boundaries that should come with them."
His voice carried the same calm steadiness as always, yet the moment the words left him, it was as though the temperature in the hall had plummeted.
Sargeras moved to the very centre of the room, and an invisible pressure rolled outward from him in steady waves. One by one, the clatter of movement stilled. The glow at each wand tip faded into nothing, until the only thing left was a silence so deep that even the sound of breathing felt loud.
"I teach you to duel not to hand you an excuse for bullying the weak, nor to give you a mask behind which to hide your personal selfish desires. My one and only purpose is to empower you with the ability to protect yourselves when faced with real danger."
He spoke no names and mentioned no incidents, yet his gaze was sharp, unyielding, and all-seeing. It passed over the hall with the weight of someone who already knew. That look alone sent a shiver racing up the spines of every student who had ever taken part in a malicious 'sparring match'… and of those who had suffered from one.
What he did next made every breath in the hall catch.
With quiet precision, Sargeras casually chose a single student, a Gryffindor prefect who had performed best during practice only moments ago. His choice fell on Percy Weasley.
"Mr. Weasley," he said evenly, "use the attack spell you are most skilled at. Cast it on me. Any spell you like."
Percy froze, the words seeming to take a moment to sink in. Around the room, there was a collective intake of breath, sharp and almost in unison.
"Immediately." Sargeras' tone left no room for doubt or refusal.
Percy hesitated only a heartbeat longer before biting down hard, raising his wand, and calling out, "Stupefy!"
A brilliant streak of red light tore through the air, slicing toward Sargeras with enough force to make the students nearest to him flinch.
Yet at the very instant the spell was about to strike, Sargeras did not so much as reach for his wand. He merely lifted his hand the slightest fraction and made a faint, almost careless sweep of his fingers through the air. The movement was so fast it was almost imperceptible.
The Stunning Spell, which by any measure was strong and well-cast, struck something invisible, something smooth and ungraspable, like a wall made of glass and oil. Then, with a sharp, unnatural twist, it rebounded. Its speed doubled, its path curving with eerie precision until it slammed straight into Percy's chest.
Percy didn't even groan. He simply collapsed where he stood, the force of the fall echoing in the sudden stillness.
For a moment, the hall was as silent as a tomb.
Dozens of eyes darted between the unconscious Percy Weasley and the unmoving figure of the professor who had felled him without drawing a wand.
Sargeras' gaze was like liquid ice, seeping straight into the heart of everyone present.
Without a flicker of triumph or cruelty, he finally drew his wand. With a light, precise wave, he broke the spell's hold. Percy stirred, groggily struggling up to sit, his face drained of all colour, as if he had just clawed his way out of a nightmare.
"Do you see?" Sargeras asked quietly.
His voice was calm, without the faintest ripple of emotion. "The disparity in strength can be this vast. But tell me… do you truly understand what strength is?"
No one answered. The students lowered their heads in silence, and among those who had once taken part in secret acts of violence, a few could not stop their bodies from shaking.
"Now, all of you…" Sargeras' cold gaze swept across the hall like a blade of frost, "pick up your wands and cast a spell at me. Any spell you choose."
The students looked from one to another, frozen in place, none daring to move.
"What's the matter?"
The corner of his mouth curved into the faintest trace of a smile, one that was almost cruel in its mockery. "Afraid you might hurt me? Afraid you might kill me? Or is it that your 'courage' only ever surfaces when you're aiming your magic at someone weaker than you?"
No one spoke.
"To prey on the weak, just to savor the thrill of bullying…" He shook his head, his eyes narrowing to icy points that stabbed into a few students who ducked their heads in guilty shame. "That is the lowest and most pitiful path a coward can take. It is the vilest insult you can offer to magic itself."
He began to walk among the rows of silent students, his steps unhurried, his voice not loud, yet carrying the finality of an unchallengeable verdict.
"From this moment on, all 'private duels' within the castle are forbidden unless given express permission. Any use of magic, if proven to be malicious or if it takes place without both parties' willing consent and without proper supervision, will no longer be treated as a mere breach of school rules. It will be dealt with directly… by me."
His cold eyes passed over every single face, and each time they met his, the student beneath them instinctively dropped their gaze.
"Believe me," he said softly, "you do not want to find yourselves in my hands."
Looking at the crowd of students who now seemed as small and timid as a cluster of quail, Sargeras added in that same level, even tone, "Of course, I will give you an opportunity—"
"If you wish to prove yourselves, you can. But it will be within the rules, and under my watchful eyes."
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[Chapter End's]
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