Ron accepted Malfoy's duel challenge on Harry's behalf—and even volunteered to be his second.
Harry, for his part, was completely dumbfounded. He had no idea how he'd suddenly ended up scheduled for a duel.
Only after Malfoy had swaggered off did Harry finally ask, "So, what exactly is a wizard's duel? Why do we even need seconds? Are there, like, rules?"
"Oh, sure," Ron said breezily. "If you die, your second steps in to take your place. And they keep going like that until one side's completely wiped out."
Harry's face turned ghostly pale. Seeing this, Ron realized maybe that hadn't come out right. He quickly added, "I mean, that's just the traditional rule. Doesn't mean you and Malfoy are gonna go that far."
"Seriously? You think either of us could even kill the other?" Harry muttered, still pale. Truth be told, he'd barely cast a working spell since arriving at Hogwarts two and a half weeks ago. And even when he did, it was hit-or-miss at best.
"So, would punching him in the face count as cheating?" he asked hopefully.
Ron paused to consider. "Technically, yeah. But if you two stick to just using wands, you could probably duel until sunrise and not land a scratch."
He waved a hand dismissively. "Just punch him square in that smug nose. I've been dying to do that myself."
Harry considered it. Honestly, it didn't sound like the worst plan. He and Ron leaned in and began whispering battle strategies—how to aim for Malfoy's snooty nose, and maybe even yank out his precious golden hair (which, by the way, was more platinum than gold). If it came to it, biting was also on the table. Anything went.
Hermione, who had overheard the whole conversation, looked absolutely appalled. Her brow furrowed so tightly it might've folded in on itself. She wanted to step in and stop this madness… but Tom's words from earlier kept echoing in her head: "Losing is what actually matters."
—
"It's half-past eleven, Harry. Time to go."
The common room was quiet. Firelight flickered low in the fireplace, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Harry and Ron moved silently, fully dressed, treading carefully so as not to wake their roommates. They eased the door shut behind them and tiptoed down the spiral staircase.
Just as they reached the exit—
"Wait!"
A voice—female—cut through the darkness, making both boys jump like they'd been hit with a Stinging Hex.
Spinning around, they saw… Hermione.
"I'm coming with you. To the duel with Malfoy," she said calmly.
"Come again?" Ron was sure he'd misheard. Hermione Granger, model student, nearly top of the class—second only to that Slytherin know-it-all, Riddle—volunteering for rule-breaking?
"I said I'm coming," Hermione repeated firmly.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "You're not… trying to catch us red-handed, are you? Gonna report us to the prefects or a professor?"
"To be honest… yes, that was my plan." Hermione shrugged, shameless. Then she added, "But Tom's right. What really matters is whether or not you win."
"You two—seriously," she said, looking between them. "You barely know any spells. Are you really planning to just punch Malfoy into submission? You're wizards, not boxers."
Harry and Ron looked suitably chastised. Still, they let her tag along. At the very least, Hermione definitely knew more spells than they did.
Now a trio, they slipped out of the common room—only to hear a faint snuffling and panting just outside.
Harry froze. "Mrs. Norris?" he whispered, heart skipping. If Filch's creepy cat was here, Filch couldn't be far behind.
But the Fat Lady had gone visiting, so the portrait door was shut tight.
Hermione squinted at the shape in the shadows. "Neville? What are you doing here?"
Curled up in the corner was none other than Neville Longbottom—the same poor soul who'd fallen from his broomstick earlier that day.
"Thank goodness! You finally came looking for me!" Neville sniffled, teary-eyed. "I forgot the password and couldn't get back in. I thought I was gonna have to sleep out here all night…"
Harry and Ron awkwardly avoided eye contact. They hadn't even noticed Neville was missing.
"Your hand okay?" Harry asked, steering the conversation away.
"Good as new!" Neville beamed and held up his hand. "Madam Pomfrey fixed it right up. She's amazing."
"That's great," Ron mumbled. Then, glancing at his watch, added impatiently, "Password's 'pig snout,' but the Fat Lady's not back. You'll have to wait here 'til she returns. We've got… other business to handle."
"Don't leave me!" Neville cried, scrambling to his feet and chasing after them. No matter what they said, he flat-out refused to stay behind.
And so, their two-man duel squad became a four-person expedition.
Harry consoled himself with the thought that numbers were on their side now. If Malfoy brought backup, they'd be ready.
The group moved carefully, hearts pounding every time they approached a corner, half-expecting Filch—or worse, Mrs. Norris—to be lying in wait.
By some miracle, they reached the Trophy Room on the fourth floor without incident.
Unfortunately, Malfoy was a no-show.
Even more unfortunately, Filch wasn't.
And the way he and his cat were beelining toward the Trophy Room made it very clear they were on a mission.
"Malfoy set you up!" Hermione hissed, furious. "This whole thing was a trap!"
No time for anger—only running.
Hermione flung open the opposite door. "This way!" she barked, leading the charge.
Harry and Ron followed, scowling.
Harry was seething. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for one of Malfoy's tricks. He'd been nervously preparing for a duel—worried he'd embarrass himself by failing to cast a spell—when the real threat had been betrayal.
CLANG!
A deafening crash echoed down the corridor.
Ron had knocked over a suit of armor.
Filch's voice rang out instantly: "They're over there! After them, my sweet!"
"RUN!" Harry bellowed.
None of them looked back—they just ran. Down corridors, through stairwells, past tapestries and busts and locked doors.
And then—just when they thought they might've lost him—Peeves the Poltergeist appeared, howling with laughter and shouting their location loud enough to wake the whole castle.
More running. More corners. More blind panic.
Hermione, who was falling behind, suddenly tripped—her left foot catching on her right. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact—
But the crash never came.
Instead, she felt strong arms catch her mid-fall.
She opened her eyes in shock.
"Tom?! What are you doing here!?" she gasped.