Ivan looked at Malfoy, the corner of his mouth lifting in an unreadable smile, flashing a row of even, snow-white teeth. Slowly, he clenched his fist; the joints cracked softly, muscles taut as a fully drawn bow. In the next heartbeat the fist whistled through the air and smashed straight into Malfoy's eye.
Though he had changed bodies and no longer had true qi to reinforce his strength—he couldn't punch clean through a table—long years of brawling with Second Dog were etched into his soul. Strike the eyes first, rob the enemy of sight. Another punch landed squarely on Malfoy's nose. Two red trails of blood immediately dripped from his nostrils.
Malfoy was stunned. Weren't Wizards supposed to care about poise—toss down a glove and back away before a proper duel? This Ivan had ignored the script entirely; he'd launched straight into a fistfight. Heavens, what a savage!
Ivan cared nothing for Malfoy's bewilderment. When your foe is down, press the attack—that was the rule he'd learned from Second Dog. Another punch sank into Malfoy's stomach. Malfoy's face flushed crimson, his features knotting as a hoarse grunt tore from his throat. His body flew backward, slammed to the floor, and raised a cloud of dust.
Panic and shock swept the surrounding students. Screams and shouts erupted like a stone hurled into a lake, ripples racing outward. Timid girls clapped hands over their eyes; most pupils simply gaped, too stunned to intervene.
Showing no intention of stopping, Ivan pressed his advantage, straddling the fallen Malfoy and raining left-right blows on his cheeks. Blood flew from Malfoy's nose; crimson seeped from the corner of his mouth. Malfoy lifted his arms in a futile guard, but Ivan's fists were too fast, every punch drawing a muffled cry of pain.
The Slytherin table sat frozen for long seconds before the spectacle registered. Goyle, seated nearest Ivan, heaved his bulky frame upright, fat quivering, and tried to drag Ivan off. 'Stop it! Have you lost your mind?' he stammered, grabbing Ivan's shoulder.
Feeling the tug, Ivan lashed back without looking, his knuckles crunching into Goyle's nose. Goyle shrieked, clutched his bleeding face, and staggered into the bench, collapsing as though all strength had fled him.
Crabbe's expression darkened. Snatching a roast drumstick from the table, he swung it at Ivan's head. Ivan caught the motion, ducked, grabbed a nearby plate, and smashed it into Crabbe's face. The dull impact snapped Crabbe's head back; blood ran from his brow as he toppled, groaning.
The Slytherin table plunged into chaos. Students rose, wanting to intervene, yet Ivan's ferocity rooted them in place. Amid the turmoil a pale, long-fingered hand settled on Ivan's shoulder—light but carrying absolute authority.
Ivan turned. Professor Snape gazed down at him coldly, face livid, lips pressed thin, barely restraining fury. His voice was low, icy, edged with menace. 'Enough. Stop.'
Snape ignored Ivan after that and hurried to Malfoy's side, bending to inspect the damage. Blood leaked from nose and mouth, bruises blooming on both cheeks; Malfoy lay groaning. Snape frowned and murmured a spell.
'Episkey.'
A flick of the wand and the blood dried, bruises fading, the nosebleed halting.
Ivan watched, sensing a power akin to spiritual energy gather in the wand and surge into Malfoy, mending his injuries in moments. Malfoy was whole again—only his spirit remained shaken, his eyes avoiding Ivan's.
'Ancestor Master, did you see? That's magic—excellent healing.' Ivan spoke silently.
'I'd love to study it; I wonder how it compares with Daoist healing arts.'
The ring on his finger flashed in answer.
'Slytherin, minus five points.' Professor Snape glared at both Ivan and Malfoy.
The surrounding Little Wizards glared too; their house had lost points before term even began.
By the end of the day the whole school knew the names of the two first-years who had brawled on opening morning. Ivan earned the nickname 'Mad Demon.' To forestall further bloodshed he was awarded a private room—no, a single room. Ivan was disappointed; he'd hoped to share magical insights with classmates. Still, solitude had its uses—after all, he had to provide for Ancestor Master.