Douglas narrowed his eyes, one brow arching upward in challenge.
A cold smirk tugged at his lips.
"Perfect," he drawled. "Let's give everyone a real lesson in proper dueling."
For a fleeting moment, years of awkward, humiliating memories flickered through Douglas's mind.
Professor McGonagall hurried forward, trying to intervene.
"Severus, Douglas—what on earth are you two planning? Albus, you—"
But Dumbledore simply waved her off, stepping between them with a twinkle in his eye.
"Indeed, Minerva. What a splendid opportunity for our students to witness a true demonstration of wizard dueling.
It's been far too many years since the Hogwarts Dueling Club last met, hasn't it, Filius?"
Professor Flitwick nodded regretfully.
Hogwarts had always been home to a variety of clubs—some founded by teachers, like the Slug Club or Charms Club,
others formed by students, such as the paid study group Douglas once ran.
But the Dueling Club? That was ancient history.
If Flitwick hadn't been so busy with the Charms Club, he'd have revived it himself.
Now, with Dumbledore's approval, the other professors had no objections.
The students, meanwhile, buzzed with excitement.
A duel between professors was a rare treat—most had never seen anything like it in their lives.
From the back, whispers floated up:
"I hope Professor Holmes wipes the floor with Snape!"
"Yeah, like he did with those Inferi—give him a good kick!"
"Ron, do you think Professor Holmes'll use Expelliarmus on Snape?"
Of course, not everyone was betting on Douglas.
"I don't know… Dad said Professor Snape was a master of the Dark Arts back in school."
"And Professor Holmes is awfully young…"
Douglas and Snape took their places on the dueling platform, facing each other, eyes locked in a silent contest of wills.
A few students who knew the proper etiquette whispered,
"Aren't they supposed to bow first? Why aren't the professors moving?"
Snape sneered,
"What? Not going to play your ridiculous little games?"
Douglas shot back,
"I was waiting for you to bow, Professor."
Another long, awkward silence.
Professor Sprout crossed her arms and shrugged, muttering to her nearby Hufflepuffs,
"Told you they'd be like this. Back in school, Holmes and Snape would stare each other down for ages—
and Hufflepuff always lost House points because of it."
Apparently, the two on stage realized the staring contest could only go on so long.
Almost in unison, they snapped their wands up to their chests.
Professor Flitwick sighed, "They skipped the bow!"
Without warning, Snape whipped his wand over his shoulder.
"Expelliarmus!" he barked.
A flash of scarlet erupted from his wand.
But Douglas was ready. The second Snape raised his arm, Douglas bent backward in a perfect bridge, the spell missing him by inches.
At the same moment, his own wand sent a Trip Jinx whistling toward Snape's legs.
Snape anticipated this; after firing off the Disarming Charm, he conjured a Protego shield,
blocking the jinx with practiced ease.
After this rapid exchange—barely two seconds—both men paused, circling, sneering at each other.
In that instant, they each recognized the other's sharp dueling instincts:
one forged in the fires of war, the other tempered by a life of adventure across continents.
The students were stunned—some had missed the whole thing just by glancing down.
Then, almost simultaneously, the duelists sprang into action again.
"Levicorpus!"
"Oppugno!"
Twin jets of green and blue light zipped past, dodged with swift footwork.
"Furnunculus!" (Pimple Jinx!)
"Rictusempra!" (Tickling Charm!)
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Langlock!"
"Tarantallegra!"
"Slugulus Eructo!"
On and on—spells whizzed through the air, a dazzling display of color and movement.
The professors on the sidelines busily intercepted stray curses before they could hit the audience.
But as the duel went on, the spectators began to notice something odd.
Why were both professors using such…
well, not especially dangerous spells?
Instead, the field was filled with hexes and jinxes—petty, embarrassing, even childish ones—
the kind that stung pride more than flesh, and seemed all the more absurd when cast by grown men.
All the while, the two combatants circled closer and closer, each clearly with a plan.
Just as they drew within arm's reach,
a rope shot from Snape's wand, making Douglas start—he'd half-expected a serpent.
But the rope, quick and nimble, wrapped him up in an instant—Incarcerous.
Feeling the cords tightening, Douglas knew escape was impossible.
He retaliated with his own Binding Rope Spell, catching Snape in return.
Both spells were branches of Transfiguration, but Douglas's had a little extra flair—
tiny jolts of electricity made Snape twitch with every pulse.
Gritting his teeth, Snape cast Levicorpus, hoisting Douglas upside-down into the air, bound like a dumpling.
Dangling midair, Douglas was just grateful he'd worn proper trousers.
If only his wand weren't pinned by the ropes, he'd have shown Snape the true meaning of a Flatulence Hex.
But Snape wasn't faring much better.
The rope's shocks were minor, but the real indignity was the ropework itself—
the infamous Rope Art Spell, as the students whispered.
He didn't know the name of this particular configuration—"Four-Horse Binding"—but it was definitely humiliating.
Hands and feet lashed together, he could only lie on the ground, glaring up at the red-faced, inverted Douglas.
Neither was about to yield, each mocking the other with a crooked smile.
And yet, both still had their wands.
Given their magical prowess, it was almost comical neither could break the other's spell immediately.
That was why the other professors stayed out of it.
The audience watched, some even starting to place bets on who would free themselves first.
One thing was certain—after this, many students quietly swore they'd rather cross Professor Snape than ever risk Professor Holmes's ropework.
The Weasley twins had always boasted about Holmes's legendary rope spell on Peeves—but seeing it in person was… something else.
Of course, Snape's Levicorpus had its own brand of humiliation.
After a long, awkward standoff—one above, one below—finally, there was movement.
Face flushed, Douglas called out,
"Professor, shall we call it here? No winner, no loser?"
Snape sneered,
"Agreed!"
Before anyone could puzzle out what that meant,
the ropes around Douglas snapped apart. He flipped gracefully in midair, landing lightly on his feet.
At the same instant, the ropes binding Snape dissolved as well—though, thanks to the awkward position, he took a moment to get his limbs working again.
Douglas stepped forward, offering a hand.
Snape hesitated, then accepted, letting Douglas pull him to his feet.
In that moment, both men felt a silent barrier between them begin to crumble.
Then Snape said, almost too quietly,
"I lost."
He turned and strode from the hall without a backward glance.
As he disappeared, the faintest smile flickered at the corner of his mouth—unseen by anyone.
Douglas blinked, then hurried to call after him,
"It was a draw! Neither of us won or lost!"
The audience stared, bewildered.
What sort of ending was that?
Ron scratched his head.
"So… Professor Holmes won, right?"
Harry frowned.
"No, their ropes broke at the same time. It was like they'd planned it all along.
Aren't they supposed to hate each other?"
Ginny chimed in,
"Isn't that why they used all those humiliating spells?"
The three Heads of House exchanged glances—feeling as though they understood, and yet not quite.
They looked over to Dumbledore, who sat at the staff table, calmly eating sweets.
Sensing their gaze, Dumbledore lifted his candy bowl in silent invitation.
Everyone was speechless.
Truth was, Douglas and Snape had never harbored any deep grudge.
In private, Snape actually respected Douglas—he saw in him a reflection of his own younger self:
a keen mind for inventing new spells, a rare talent for Potions…
He'd often wondered, if he'd been like Douglas in school—innovative, but never obsessed with the Dark Arts—
maybe Lily wouldn't have been so disappointed in him.
Of course, there were things about Douglas that irked him:
his constant fraternizing with Gryffindor troublemakers, his lack of respect for Potions, his refusal to join Slytherin, and so on.
If Snape hadn't been burdened with so many secrets,
he might have chosen to mentor Douglas—to change his views on Potions, maybe even pass on his legacy.
It was rare to find a student so flexible with magic, never shackled by tradition, always seeing the world from a different angle.
Douglas felt much the same about Snape.
Throughout his Hogwarts years, Professor Sprout had been like family, always nurturing him.
McGonagall and Flitwick admired his talents and never hesitated to praise him.
But only Snape seemed to express his expectations through biting sarcasm—
otherwise, what professor would chase a student across the castle over every little thing?
Douglas never thought of himself as a glutton for punishment.
Even if Snape's harsh words hid a sliver of kindness, he'd never simply endure it.
That's why he'd never considered starting a proper hotpot at Hogwarts—always using cauldrons instead.
Over time, a strange awkwardness grew between them.
The three Heads of House and the Headmaster, ever the keen observers, saw it too, but could do little about it.
When Snape challenged Douglas to a duel,
Dumbledore immediately sensed something different,
and so gave his blessing.
At first, Douglas thought Snape just wanted an excuse to teach him a lesson.
But as the duel progressed, he sensed a deeper meaning—
especially knowing how Snape's story would end.
And so—
A wizard who'd lived more than a century,
a double agent for two of the most powerful wizards alive,
and a traveler between worlds with a mind full of Eastern and Western magic—
Three men, each with secrets and schemes,
came together in a duel that, to outsiders, looked like mutual humiliation and deepening enmity,
but beneath the surface, was a silent agreement.
To this point—no winner, no loser.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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