When the Great Hall finally settled into silence, Professors Snape and McGonagall stepped forward together.
That alone was enough to sharpen everyone's attention.
Snape's black robes seemed to absorb the light as he surveyed the gathered students, his expression unreadable. McGonagall stood straight-backed beside him, tartan robes immaculate, her gaze moving critically between the two houses.
"For the final time," McGonagall said crisply, wand in hand, "the rules will be explained."
Her voice carried easily through the transformed Hall.
"Each duel will be one-on-one. No outside interference. No spells intended to cause permanent harm. Any use of Dark Magic, excessively dangerous curses, or deliberate attempts to maim will result in immediate disqualification and expulsion."
Snape's voice followed, colder and sharper. "This is not a brawl. This is a duel. Control, discipline, and precision will be judged just as harshly as victory."
He paused, eyes lingering on both tables.
"Representatives for the first duel—step forward."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
From the Slytherin side, a seventh year stepped out.
Tall. Composed. Confident in the way only someone months away from graduation could be. His wand rested loosely in his hand, posture relaxed but ready.
From Gryffindor—
A first year.
The contrast was jarring.
The young Gryffindor froze for a fraction of a second as he registered who stood opposite him. His face drained of color, knuckles whitening around his wand. Fear was evident—raw, instinctive—but to his credit, he didn't retreat.
Whispers broke out instantly across the hall.
"That can't be right."
"Is that allowed?"
"They're starting with seventh years?"
Even Snape's brow creased slightly, clearly having expected the lower years to be finished first.
McGonagall raised a hand, silencing the noise.
"This pairing," she said carefully, "was not the intended order."
She turned, motioning for Headboy Fawley and the Gryffindor prefect to approach. The three spoke in low tones for several moments—McGonagall listening, questioning, weighing. Snape watched without comment, arms folded.
Finally, McGonagall straightened.
"After discussion," she announced, "the duel order will proceed in reverse."
A ripple of surprise ran through both houses.
"Seventh years will duel first. First years will duel last."
The duel began.
From the first exchange, it was clear why the older students had been saved for last in normal circumstances. The air crackled with precise spellwork—shield charms cast without incantation, curses redirected mid-flight, footwork smooth and economical.
The Slytherin duelist fought like a tactician, shaping the battlefield, forcing his opponent to react rather than act. The Gryffindor responded with raw aggression, pressing forward with relentless energy.
The crowd watched, transfixed.
The duel ended with a narrow Slytherin victory—clean, controlled, decisive.
The second seventh-year duel followed, even more intense. This time, Gryffindor took the win, exploiting a momentary lapse in Slytherin's defensive timing. The third duel went back to Slytherin, decided by a clever feint that drew a premature shield and left an opening.
Two wins for Slytherin.
One for Gryffindor.
The sixth years stepped up next.
If the seventh years had shown mastery, the sixth years displayed ambition—strong spell chains, faster casting, but slightly less polish. The duels were faster, rougher, and less forgiving.
Here, Gryffindor found its footing.
Two duels went their way, powered by relentless offense and well-timed counters. Slytherin claimed one victory through superior control, but the balance clearly shifted.
Two wins for Gryffindor.
One for Slytherin.
Then came the fifth years.
The difference was immediately noticeable.
These were students fresh from their O.W.L.s, still forming their identities as duelists. Their magic lacked the refinement of the older years, but it burned with hunger and determination. Mistakes were more frequent—but so were bold, creative attempts.
And this time, Slytherin dominated.
Each duel showcased preparation over instinct. Clean casting. Defensive layering. Patience. Where Gryffindors rushed, Slytherins waited. Where Gryffindors overcommitted, Slytherins punished.
Three duels.
Three victories.
The emerald side of the hall erupted—not in shouting, but in sharp, restrained approval.
The scoreboard was tightening.
And the atmosphere in the Great Hall had shifted completely.
This was no longer spectacle.
This was war, measured in spellwork and resolve.
The fourth-year duels followed next, and for the first time since the matches began, the shift in eras became obvious to anyone paying attention.
Gryffindor claimed two of the three victories, with Slytherin taking one—but even that win was narrow, hard-fought, and won by margins so slim that a single misstep could have reversed it.
Yet beneath the surface results, a deeper pattern was emerging.
These Gryffindors had grown up hearing stories of war, heroism, and sacrifice—but they themselves had known only peace. The urgency that once forged their house into relentless fighters had dulled. Confidence had slowly slipped into complacency.
Slytherin, on the other hand, had experienced the opposite.
A house that had once coasted on wartime influence had spent years under suspicion, pressure, and scrutiny. That pressure had sharpened them. They prepared because they had to. They trained because failure carried consequences.
The third-year duels made that painfully clear.
Slytherin swept them cleanly.
No theatrics.
No unnecessary spells.
Just calm, efficient domination.
By the time the second years stepped forward, Gryffindor was already struggling to recover momentum. Their casting was rushed, their defenses sloppy, and their coordination poor.
Only one managed to secure a victory—Percy Weasley—whose discipline and textbook precision allowed him to narrowly defeat his opponent. It was a clean win, earned honestly.
The rest fell.
By now, the Great Hall had grown unnervingly quiet.
Faces at the Gryffindor table were pale.
Ravenclaws were recalculating.
Hufflepuffs watched with unease.
This wasn't trickery.
This wasn't manipulation.
This was Slytherin winning outright—spell against spell, will against will.
And that was what unsettled everyone most.
Then came the first years.
The Hall tensed.
Warrington stepped forward first.
Before he moved, I caught the eyes of all three of our first-year representatives and gave a single, deliberate nod. My instruction was simple— Don't end it too early.
This wasn't about rushing to victory. It was about sending a message.
I had half a mind to warn them to take the duel seriously if the Weasley twins stepped up—but Gryffindor's own arrogance spared me the trouble. Their constant jokes and public antics had done their work well; Gryffindor clearly underestimated them, mistaking mischief for incompetence.
I watched him closely.
The nervous, uncertain boy who had been outcast in slytherin was gone. In his place stood a composed, arrogant pureblood—back straight, chin lifted, wand held with deliberate confidence. Whether the arrogance was real or worn like armor no longer mattered.
His Gryffindor opponent wasted no time, launching a Knockback Jinx with a shout.
Warrington didn't even raise his wand.
He stepped aside—clean, effortless—and the spell slammed harmlessly into the floor behind him.
Then his wand flicked.
A Stinging Jinx struck the Gryffindor square in the chest, sharp enough to stagger but not enough to end the duel.
Warrington didn't follow up.
He simply stood there.
Smiling.
The Gryffindor recovered, face flushed with humiliation, and shouted a Petrification Spell.
Warrington reacted instantly.
"Tarantallegra."
The Gryffindor's legs betrayed him, launching into an uncontrollable tap dance.
Laughter exploded through the Great Hall.
Even some professors struggled to keep their expressions neutral.
Furious now, the Gryffindor tried to shout an Incendio—
But Warrington was already moving.
"Langlock."
The spell sealed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
"Levicorpus."
The Gryffindor was yanked upside down, robes falling toward his head.
"Expelliarmus."
His wand flew cleanly from his grasp.
And finally—
"Stupefy."
The red bolt ended it.
Warrington turned and walked back without a glance, arrogance restored, posture immaculate. Applause broke out from Slytherin—not wild, not chaotic, but sharp and approving.
Shock rippled through the rest of the Hall.
That was a first year.
Nyx followed.
Her duel was quieter—and far more terrifying.
She dismantled her opponent methodically, dismantling shields, exploiting footwork errors, and ending the match without ever raising her voice. It wasn't flashy.
It was surgical.
Montague was last.
If Nyx was precision, Montague was pressure.
He drove his opponent back relentlessly, cutting off angles, forcing mistakes, and finishing with a clean disarming followed by a stun that left no doubt about the outcome.
Three duels.
Three victories.
Not just wins.
Humiliations.
When the first years returned to their group, the Great Hall no longer buzzed with anticipation.
It was silent.
Before Professor McGonagall could formally declare the duels concluded, I stepped forward.
The movement alone was enough to quiet the Great Hall.
I turned slowly, letting my gaze sweep across every table—Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff—then up to the professors' dais.
"Everyone," I said evenly, my voice carrying without magic, "these duels were never meant to prove Slytherin's superiority."
A ripple of surprise passed through the crowd.
"They were meant to end grudges," I continued, "and to send a very clear message."
I paused deliberately.
"Slytherin will no longer accept discrimination—for our ambition, our wealth, or our influence."
A few jaws tightened. Others straightened.
"If any of you, in the future, have grievances to settle," I went on calmly, "call for a duel. We will accept it openly."
My eyes lingered briefly on the Gryffindor table.
"But if you choose cunning instead," I added coolly, "remember whose house trait that is."
The silence was heavy now—listening, not hostile.
"One more thing," I said. "What truly decided today's outcome was not blood, nor status, nor tricks."
I tapped my chest lightly.
"It was training. Daily, disciplined training."
I turned slightly toward the professors.
"I have already proposed an all-house study club," I said. "A formal proposal will be submitted to the Headmaster next month."
A murmur spread instantly.
"This club," I continued, "will be open to everyone—regardless of house, wealth, blood status, or the mistakes of their families."
I let that settle.
"I take full responsibility for ensuring that does not happen within that space."
Then, with a small nod, I concluded, "Before the proposal is finalized, I will circulate it here in the Great Hall. Anyone who wishes to join may sign."
I inclined my head slightly.
"Thank you for your time."
And I stepped back to my place.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Slytherin began to clap.
Not loud at first—measured, deliberate.
Hufflepuff joined in next, hesitant but sincere.
Professor McGonagall raised her hands and clapped as well, her expression thoughtful rather than angry.
Ravenclaw followed, applause rippling across the blue-and-bronze table.
Only Gryffindor remained silent—faces tight, pride bruised, bitterness still fresh.
But even they did not look dismissive anymore.
They looked… wary.
And that, I thought, was more than enough for today.