Chapter 329: A Duel
In the corridor.
Harry continued to recount Professor Snape's latest atrocities, seemingly unaware of his own shifting perspective, but Sean could sense it: the boy was starting to reflect.
Harry was beginning to wonder: if Professor Snape wasn't essentially the same as a Death Eater—having helped him against the bewitched Professor Quirrell—then why did the man harbor such a visceral resentment toward him? As a memory surfaced in his mind, Harry's mood plummeted.
"Voldemort transferred a part of himself into me," Harry said, looking dazed. "Sean... Voldemort and I are similar."
Beside him, Sean remained silent. It seemed Harry was still being influenced by the shadow of the Dark Lord, enough to start doubting his own nature.
"Oh, honestly, Harry. You're the one who made Voldemort vanish, yet here you are worrying that you're just like him? That's a bit rich, isn't it?"
Justin Finch-Fletchley stepped out from a nearby alcove. He looked as though he had just come from the kitchens, stumbling upon Sean and Harry by chance.
Harry's eyes brightened at the logic. His overwhelming anxiety had clouded his reason; how could he have forgotten that one crucial fact?
Sean glanced at Justin, who was now busy offering Harry more cheerful words of comfort. Both Sean and Justin understood Harry's dread. No one would want to be compared to the murderer of their own family.
The corridor soon emptied, leaving only the fading echoes of their footsteps.
Inside the Ravenclaw dormitory, a black cat manifested in the darkness.
While the Void Rune slowly regained its magical charge, Sean spent his time in his Animagus form, grinding his proficiency in Soul Transfiguration.
[Alert: You have practiced Soul Transfiguration at the standard of an Entry-level Master. Master-level Proficiency +3]
The System notifications continued until the stroke of curfew, and the night slipped away into silence.
The following day, every student in the castle felt the weight of Professor Snape's fury.
If he had been strictly demanding before, he was now a literal machine of regulation. Even a slight variation in the rhythm of stirring a cauldron was enough to earn a five-point deduction.
Even Justin looked somewhat shell-shocked after Potions. In a single double-period, Hufflepuff had lost forty points, and Ravenclaw hadn't fared much better. It was a massacre of the House hourglasses.
Fortunately, another event was scheduled for the evening to distract the student body. Otherwise, a crowd would surely have gathered at the Great Hall doors just to stare at the sand-clocks and wonder if someone had dropped a Dungbomb in Snape's private office.
"Professor Snape... I have to say, he's gone round the bend," Justin said at dinner, choosing the most diplomatic term he could find for the Potions Master's behavior.
"We need to stay out of his way. Especially you lot," Hermione said, looking pointedly at Harry, Ron, and Neville. They were usually the primary targets for point deductions; the current situation was almost too terrifying to contemplate.
Above them, the owls arrived with the evening post. Sean took a sip of pumpkin juice, glancing up at the High Table. Snape looked particularly sallow and grim, speaking to Dumbledore with a thin, unpleasant smile.
This time, for some reason, Snape seemed to hold the upper hand in their conversation.
By nightfall, the Great Hall was buzzing again.
Sean had been practicing charms in the Room of Hope, but after growing weary, he followed an excited Justin and the others to the Hall.
The long house tables had vanished as they had the night before. A gilded stage had been erected along one of the stone walls, illuminated by thousands of floating candles that made the space as bright as high noon. The enchanted ceiling above had returned to a deep, bottomless black.
Nearly the entire school had squeezed inside. The room was a sea of moving figures, every face full of nervous anticipation. Students clutched their wands tightly, whispering frantically to one and another.
"Can you see? Who's the professor teaching us? Who is it?" Hermione asked. She was blocked by a wall of taller, upper-year students and was hopping up and down in frustration. "Is it Professor Flitwick?"
"Hermione, if you can't see, you can't expect the rest of us to grow six inches in a second," Ron grunted, stretching his neck to no avail.
"As long as it isn't—"
Harry's sentence ended in a groan. Gilderoy Lockhart had just stepped onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum. Beside him, looking like a dark shadow in contrast, was Severus Snape, wearing his usual sweeping black robes.
Lockhart waved his arms for silence and shouted, "Gather 'round, gather 'round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Splendid!" Lockhart shouted, his voice projecting easily over the murmurs.
"Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Duelling Club. The goal is to train you all thoroughly, just in case you ever need to defend yourselves in the manner I have used on countless occasions to protect my own life—for full details, I refer you to my published works."
His entrance was so staggeringly arrogant that Sean saw Hermione's face—which had been alight with excitement only moments ago—fall instantly.
Harry turned on his heel to leave, and Ron was right behind him. However, the club session had officially begun, and Percy Weasley was standing guard near the exit, blocking their path.
"Class is in session. Back you go," Percy said firmly, puffing out his chest.
Sean watched as Harry and Ron slunk back to the group, looking thoroughly defeated. Meanwhile, Lockhart's voice boomed again:
"Allow me to introduce my assistant, Professor Snape!" Lockhart said, flashing a wide, toothy grin. "He tells me he knows a thing or two about duelling himself," Lockhart said, flashing a wide, toothy grin at the crowd. "And he has sportingly agreed to assist me in a short demonstration before we begin.
Now, I told him—I wouldn't want any of you youngsters to worry! Once I've finished with him, I shall return your Potions Master to you in one piece, never fear!"
Professor Snape's expression was already dark enough to commit murder. Lockhart caught sight of it, stammered for a heartbeat, and his head whipped around as he pivoted his strategy.
"But before we begin our own demonstration, perhaps two volunteers could come up? It might be helpful to show everyone what a failed duel looks like. Any takers?"
He stole a glance back at Snape. Seeing the cold, wintery glint in those black eyes, he immediately looked away. "Let's have a pair of volunteers—Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you two?"
"A poor idea, Professor Lockhart," Snape interrupted, gliding across the stage like a giant, predatory bat. "Even with the simplest of charms, Longbottom is capable of causing a catastrophe. In that event, we would be sending Finch-Fletchley's remains to the hospital wing in a matchbox."
Neville's round face turned a violent shade of pink. Justin and Hermione quickly leaned in to whisper to him: "He's talking rubbish, Neville. Remember? You were ranked seventh in the year!"
Neville's expression improved significantly at the reminder.
"Sean Green, up here," Snape said, his eyes fixed on Sean.
There was no trace of emotion in his gaze, only a fathomless depth. Since the events of yesterday, Snape had realized once more that he had lost his grip on understanding this particular student. Now, he knew it wasn't his own failing; some wizards were simply not destined to grow at the sluggish pace of the mediocre.
"And you, Marcus Flint," Snape added. "You shall be his spar—opponent."
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