Traditional sword-wand combat emphasized deep understanding of spells—precise casting, area-effect magic for defense and counterattacks.
When opponents were evenly matched, massive area spells compressed the fighting space.
With magical power running low, Apparition couldn't be relied on.
Then swordplay would combine with magic for the final battle in cramped quarters.
New sword-wand combat focused on practical innovation, wizard equipment, and physical conditioning.
Professor Flitwick abandoned complex area spells. Emphasized only "simple" and "precise."
Acceleration Charm. Levitation Charm. Blasting Curse.
Three in one.
Through potion assistance, rapid combos, instant terrain control—sword-focused, quickly closing on targets. One shield-break, then blade to throat.
Only one requirement: speed.
These simplest spells, in a combat master's hands, could achieve silent casting without even needing a wand.
In adrenaline-fueled battles, Professor Flitwick precisely sliced time into milliseconds.
One miss, immediately Apparate. Withdraw. Lurk like a viper in corners, waiting for the next moment.
[In this trap woven from skill and strategy, we are both hunter and prey...]
"Wizard assassin."
"Nobody wants to be targeted by someone like that..."
Tiger admiringly set down the magazine. Flipped through later issues.
But he found no follow-up from Professor Flitwick. Every section was filled with condemnation and rebuttals.
Photos of angry fists seemed ready to leap off the page.
Nearly every wizard believed this former dueling champion had abandoned dueling's honor, tarnished spellcasting's art, fallen to street wizard level.
[Complete garbage!]
[Only Knockturn Alley rats would do this!]
[What about werewolves?!]
[Nonsense—we're wizards!]
[Trust him or trust Fiendfyre?]
"Bunch of idiots..."
Tiger sneered.
Fiendfyre? Werewolves?
Facing an unscrupulous wizard assassin, werewolves wouldn't have time to transform. Fiendfyre would just get stuck in the wand.
He was certain—if a dueling master like Flitwick really used this system to challenge Dumbledore, Dumbledore wouldn't be able to sleep...
"Burstrode."
Tiger turned toward the tea room.
Burstrode immediately set down his tea and walked over.
"Father, what do you need?"
"This magazine—find several more copies."
Tiger handed him the journal, speaking seriously:
"Have every Slytherin study this. It's important. If necessary, seek out Professor Flitwick. Have him teach you personally."
"Whatever the cost."
Seeing the prominent title, Burstrode's expression grew solemn. He placed his hand over his chest and bowed.
"This is a rare treasure."
"I'll make sure they take it seriously."
Though Head Boy Burstrode hadn't read the full article, he understood its value—especially since Father valued it.
"I hope to see you integrate Flitwick's theories during this term's competitions. And innovate."
"Burstrode, times have changed..."
"Whether in thought or ability, we must keep up. Especially pure-blood nobles—those who can't will be smashed to pieces..."
Tiger left the bar.
Burstrode flipped through the magazine. When he saw the conservative wizards' protests toward Flitwick, something obscure flickered in his eyes.
The wizarding world never lacked conservatives.
As a family heir, Burstrode knew them well. They filled every level, forming the foundation of peace and stability.
But this excessive obsession also wove an invisible cage that bound wizarding thought and dragged the world into a quagmire.
They were both witnesses to history and obstacles to the future.
Burstrode didn't want his family to disappear in the sweep of the times...
Night fell deep.
He slowly closed the magazine and murmured:
"Father, perhaps we need chaos—unprecedented chaos..."
The next day.
Tiger walked into the Potions classroom carrying Gunpowder.
The Slytherins followed, quietly discussing last night's magazine.
Gryffindor students always procrastinated—never appearing until the last few minutes.
Sunlight streamed through old windows onto wooden desks, draping the space in warm golden light. Faint potion scents lingered.
Just as Tiger turned toward the back row, he discovered Hermione sitting there—she hadn't appeared at breakfast.
Messy books covered her desk.
Her disheveled hair hung low, eyes half-open. Obviously exhausted.
"Hermione?"
Tiger walked over and pushed her shoulder, frowning.
Hermione jerked awake. Raised her head. Face pale, drowsy eyes full of fatigue, with dark circles underneath.
"Ti... Tiger?"
Having not slept all night, even her speech lagged. After dozing briefly, waking up felt like she'd lost her soul.
But even so, her eyes overflowed with joy—like the rising sun, though dim, it was dazzling.
"I'm almost finished."
"Just... just need to add a bit more..."
"Want to look first?"
Hermione frantically gathered the papers and proudly presented them like offering treasure, silently showing off that only she could do this.
Tiger looked down.
[Magical Earwax Bugs]
[Tiny creatures that burrow into ears and feed on sound, creating deafness illusion.]
[Capture location: Old houses with solitary residents.]
[Bone-Eating Serpent]
[Snake species capable of silent movement, with special structure reducing sound waves.]
[Capture location: Swamplands at dawn.]
[Rotwood Tree Frog...]
[Night Demon Vines...]
[Tidal Shells...]
Neat handwriting filled over forty pages—incredibly detailed.
However, Tiger's frown deepened.
In just these few breaths, her eyelids drooped uncontrollably. Her smile turned silly.
Combined with her slightly protruding front teeth, she looked even dumber than Neville forgetting passwords.
"Draco."
"Help me and this idiot ask for leave."
Tiger placed Gunpowder on his head.
Amid Hermione's startled cry, Tiger scooped her up and quickly walked out.
The Slytherins stared in shock at Hermione's panicked, helpless struggling in Tiger's arms.
As for why he didn't grab her by the collar like before, Tiger didn't know.
Perhaps...
He didn't like bullying idiots?
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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