The air in the Great Hall seemed to thin as Professor Snape and Professor Lockhart squared off on the gilded stage. It was a study in contrasts: one man looked like a blooming peony in his flamboyant crimson robes, while the other resembled a sharpened obsidian blade, dark and dangerously focused.
Lockhart was busy performing a series of intricate, almost rhythmic wand flourishes, looking more like a conductor leading a symphony than a wizard preparing for combat. He was still offering "expert" advice to the crowd, his voice booming with unearned confidence. Snape, however, didn't move a muscle. He simply watched, his dark eyes tracking Lockhart's throat with the clinical detachment of an executioner.
"Now, on the count of three!" Lockhart chirped, his grin wide. "One—two—"
"Expelliarmus!"
Snape didn't wait for three. The incantation wasn't a shout; it was a hissed command, sharp as a whip-crack. A jet of blinding scarlet light erupted from the tip of Snape's wand, striking Lockhart dead center in the chest.
The impact was visceral. Lockhart didn't just lose his wand; he was lifted off his feet as if struck by a charging centaur. He flew backward through the air, his crimson robes billowing like a tattered flag, before slamming into the stone wall with a sickening thud. He slid down the masonry, crumpling into a heap of expensive fabric and bruised pride.
For a moment, the Hall was dead silent. Then, the Slytherin section erupted. Draco Malfoy was practically doubling over with laughter, lead-clapping with a group of fifth-years. On the other side of the room, several Gryffindor girls let out strangled gasps, clutching their chests as if they had been the ones struck.
Lockhart struggled to his feet, his breathing ragged. His pristine wavy hair, usually his pride and joy, was now standing up in erratic tufts like a field of windblown dandelions. His hat lay forgotten somewhere near the edge of the stage.
"Well, there you have it!" he managed to wheeze, staggering back onto the platform with a shaky, forced laugh. "A textbook Disarming Charm! I must say, Professor Snape, your intention was quite clear. I could have blocked that quite easily, of course, but I felt it was vital for the students to see the full effect of a successful hit. Thank you, Miss Brown, for retrieving my wand."
Allen watched from the crowd, his eyes narrowed. He had seen his eldest brother, Albert—an Auror who dealt with dark wizards for a living—cast disarming spells. Even Albert's spells lacked that specific, jagged edge Snape had just displayed. That wasn't just a training spell; it was a release of pent-up animosity.
Snape's face remained a mask of cold fury. "Perhaps it would be more prudent," Snape said, his voice silky and low, "to teach them how to block the spell, rather than how to be a target for it."
Lockhart gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "Quite right, quite right! But before we move into the general practice, I believe Professor Flitwick has a suggestion to heighten the... spirit of the evening?"
Professor Flitwick stepped forward, his small stature doing nothing to diminish the authority he carried. He had been watching the Ravenclaws closely, sensing their hunger for redemption after the Quidditch disaster.
"Indeed," Flitwick squeaked, his eyes twinkling. "In the spirit of healthy competition, why not raise the stakes? After we have observed the initial pairings, we shall select a champion from each of the four Houses. These four will duel in a mini-tournament. The ultimate victor will not only prove their skill but will earn fifty points for their House."
The reaction was instantaneous. The Ravenclaws, who had been treating their schoolwork like a holy crusade to regain points, looked like they were ready to charge into battle then and there. Even the tired-looking seventh-years straightened their backs. Fifty points was a fortune. It was the kind of boost that could change the entire ranking of the House Cup.
"And!" Lockhart added, regaining some of his bluster. "The winner will receive a personally inscribed, gold-leaf edition of Magical Me, delivered directly to their dormitory!"
While the boys in the room seemed largely indifferent to the book, the fifty points were a different story. Allen felt a rare spark of competitive fire. He wasn't particularly interested in being a 'House Hero,' but he was damned if he was going to let Gryffindor or Slytherin walk away with a fifty-point lead because of a fancy book-club meeting.
The professors began to move through the crowd, acting as matchmakers. Lockhart, predictably, was pairing people based on who looked good together. He shoved Neville Longbottom toward Justin Finch-Fletchley, both of whom looked like they'd rather be facing a dragon than each other.
Snape was more surgical. He paired Harry Potter with Draco Malfoy, a move so transparently malicious that even the first-years groaned. He then paired Hermione Granger with a large, square-jawed Slytherin girl named Millicent Bulstrode, who looked like she wrestled mountain trolls for fun.
Flitwick handled the Ravenclaws. He paired Edward with a burly Gryffindor third-year, and then he stopped in front of Allen.
"And for Mr. Harris..." Flitwick scanned the Gryffindors. His eyes landed on a tall, lanky boy with flaming red hair and a permanent mischievous glint in his eyes. "Mr. George Weasley. Step forward, please."
George Weasley let out a loud, exaggerated groan. "Oh, come on, Professor! You're putting me up against a second-year? He's tiny! I'll snap him like a dry twig. Isn't there someone my own size? Maybe a stray cat?"
A few Gryffindors laughed, but the Ravenclaws didn't join in. They knew better.
Penelope, standing nearby, crossed her arms and gave George a look of supreme coldness. She had been observing Percy Weasley—George's older brother—all year, admiring his discipline. Seeing George's arrogance, she felt a sudden urge to see the Weasley ego deflated.
"Are you complaining because he's small, George?" Penelope asked smoothly. "Or are you just terrified that a 'scrawny' sophomore is going to put you on your backside in front of the whole school?"
George's face flushed as red as his hair. "Terrified? Of a kid who probably still has baby teeth? Right then. Let's get this over with."
"Partners, face each other!" Lockhart shouted from the stage. "Bow to your opponent!"
George gave a jerky, mocking nod. Allen responded with a shallow, formal bow, his expression utterly unreadable.
"Wands at the ready!" Lockhart's voice rose to a crescendo. "Remember—just the disarming spell! One... two... three!"
George didn't wait for "three." He lunged forward, swinging his wand in a massive, overhead arc, clearly intending to blast Allen off the platform with sheer force.
He never finished the movement.
A flash of red light, faster than anything the students had ever seen, caught George under the chin. His wand didn't just fall; it was ripped from his hand with such velocity that it whizzed past his own ear and embedded itself in the velvet curtains behind him. George himself stumbled back, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on his rump.
The nearby students went silent. George sat there, blinking, his mouth hanging open. He scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of disbelief.
"You cheated!" George barked, his voice cracking. "You fired before he finished the count!"
"I fired exactly on three," Allen replied, his voice calm and steady. "You were just too busy trying to look intimidating to notice the timing. We can go again, if you're feeling up to it."
George's eyes narrowed. "Fine. Best of three. And let's have a real referee this time."
Professor Flitwick stepped between them, a small, knowing smile on his face. "I shall referee. Back to your marks, gentlemen."
They reset. George was no longer grinning. He held his wand in a proper dueling stance, his feet braced, his eyes locked on Allen's chest. Allen stood casually, his wand tip pointed toward the floor, looking more like he was waiting for a bus than a duel.
"On my mark," Flitwick said. "One... two... three!"
This time, George was ready. He barked the incantation, but Allen wasn't there. With a fluid step to the left, Allen let the Gryffindor's spell sizzle harmlessly through the air where his head had been a second ago. In the same motion, Allen flicked his wrist.
"Expelliarmus."
It was a whisper, but the result was deafening. George was hit so hard he didn't just lose his wand; he was knocked backward, hitting the same spot on the wall that Lockhart had decorated minutes earlier.
George slid down the wall, rubbing his shoulder. He looked at his wand, then at Allen, and then at Professor Flitwick. Finally, a reluctant, lopsided grin returned to his face.
"Alright, alright," George huffed, accepting his wand from Flitwick. "I'll eat my words. You've got some kick, Harris. I wouldn't want to be the guy who meets you in the finals."
But the rest of the Hall was descending into pure, unadulterated chaos. Not everyone was as graceful in defeat as George Weasley.
"I said disarm only!" Lockhart screamed, ducking as a stray curse turned his red robe into a bright shade of lime green.
The room was a mess of colored smoke and flying sparks. Neville and Justin were both on the floor, Justin seemingly suffering from a leg-locker curse while Neville tried to apologize through a series of uncontrollable hiccups.
In the corner, Edward and his Gryffindor opponent had both lost their wands in the first five seconds and were now engaged in a spirited, if uncoordinated, wrestling match on the floor.
Further down the line, Penelope was a whirlwind of movement. Her wand was a blur as she pelted Percy Weasley with a barrage of non-lethal but highly irritating stinging hexes. Percy, usually so composed, was retreating rapidly, his face a mask of sheer panic as he tried to remember the counter-curses he'd read about in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5.
Snape and Flitwick were darting through the crowd, snapping their wands to dissolve particularly nasty jinxes. Snape looked like he was enjoying the mayhem a little too much, while Flitwick looked like a shepherd trying to herd a flock of very angry, magically-armed sheep.
Allen stood in the center of the storm, his eyes scanning the room. He saw Harry and Draco locked in a stalemate, their faces twisted in hatred. He saw Hermione grappling with Millicent Bulstrode, who appeared to have forgotten she was a witch and was currently trying to put Hermione in a headlock.
The Dueling Club had officially begun, and if the first ten minutes were any indication, the school was more likely to end up in the hospital wing than on a podium.