"Merlin's beard…" Ron's mouth hung open.
Hermione's eyes were round as saucers, darting rapidly across the shimmering dome.
"I know this one—it's a full Protego! The book says only very powerful wizards can cast it in this sustained, flowing form!"
"So cool!"
Harley couldn't help shouting. All her post-training exhaustion vanished in an instant; her green eyes sparkled with pure excitement.
The students around them were equally electrified.
By the time Harley and her friends reached the spectator area, it was already packed.
Ravenclaws argued heatedly about the spell trails streaking across the enchanted ceiling.
Hufflepuffs clustered together, generously sharing the snacks and fruit they'd brought.
Even most Slytherins—usually so composed—couldn't quite hide their curiosity.
Gryffindors were the loudest, of course. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas were trying to measure the shield's thickness with their wands until Percy hissed at them to stop.
Fred and George had somehow acquired a bag of Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs and were whispering about lighting them the moment the show began.
Even the professors looked unusually animated in the front rows.
Flitwick stood on tiptoe, bouncing with excitement, chatting nonstop with colleagues about historical duelling trivia and advanced techniques.
Sprout sat with gentle good humour, passing around the little badgers' "tributes" of snacks and fruit to the other staff.
McGonagall's lips curved in a rare, restrained smile as she handed a small biscuit to the impeccably dressed Tom beside her.
Dumbledore himself sat among them, blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as he stroked his beard, clearly enjoying the rare, lively chaos.
"What do you reckon—he can actually do this?" Ron muttered to Harley, eyes never leaving the magnificent platform.
"No idea," Harley answered honestly. "But just this venue… it's already something else."
Hermione frowned. "That's strange. This doesn't match Professor Lockhart's usual standard at all. The magical construction here is extremely professional—almost too professional."
Right then the hall lights dimmed.
The spell trails on the ceiling grew brighter, converging like spotlights on the centre of the platform.
A single pillar of light stabbed down from above, illuminating the entrance on one side.
The excited chatter gradually hushed. Every student held their breath.
In the almost suffocating anticipation, Gilderoy Lockhart made his entrance.
He strode onto the platform with exaggerated grace, violet robes shimmering with luxurious gold trim under the magical lighting.
The cut was flawless—collar and cuffs embroidered with intricate silver patterns that rippled like water with every movement.
His hair curled perfectly, every strand in place. His smile was the toothpaste-ad brilliant one from every book cover.
"Good evening, Hogwarts!"
His voice—amplified by magic—rolled through the hall.
"Welcome to the most spectacular, most professional, most essential event of the year—the Duelling Club!"
This time the applause was genuine and thunderous.
Colin Creevey was frantically clicking his camera; flashes lit the dim hall like tiny lightning strikes.
On the platform, Lockhart basked in the roar. He spun once—robes flaring dramatically—then spread his arms wide again.
"I know what you're all thinking: 'Professor Lockhart, your adventures are legendary, your books are bestsellers—but do you truly understand the art of duelling?'"
He paused for effect, flashing a mysterious smile.
"Tonight, dear students—you will see the answer with your own eyes."
But over the next ten minutes the feverish atmosphere began to cool.
After a solid fifteen minutes of relentless self-promotion—during which even Colin started checking how much film he had left—Lockhart finally seemed to remember the actual point of the evening.
"Ah! But talk is cheap—and that is not my style!"
He clapped once, as though the idea had just occurred to him.
"So I have invited two… esteemed assistants to help demonstrate the proper execution of a duel."
His tone was almost offhand, as if he were asking house-elves to bring tea.
"First—our dear Potions Master, Severus Snape."
Lockhart gestured lazily toward one side of the platform.
Snape swept up in his usual billowing black robes, expression darker than usual.
He didn't glance at Lockhart. His black eyes slowly swept the hall—silencing every whisper in their path.
He took position on the far side like a statue carved from midnight.
"And the other…" Lockhart's voice lifted slightly, trying to recapture the energy.
"…is our new Professor of Magical Creature Protection… er, Viktor."
This time he didn't even finish the full name.
Viktor stepped up from the opposite side.
Unlike Lockhart's flamboyant ensemble, he wore simple dark-brown travelling robes, practical belt pouches at his waist—and no wand in hand.
He gave the students a small, calm nod and a gentle smile, then quietly took his place opposite Snape.
Lockhart stood between them and spread his arms once more.
"Now then, gentlemen—students—let us begin this elegant and professional duelling demonstration! Remember: the key is posture, style, and of course… victory!"
He glanced at each of them. His smile had stiffened noticeably.
Snape drew his wand without expression.
Viktor remained still—hands loose at his sides, not even touching his wand holster.
The hall fell completely silent.
Everyone waited.
Lockhart took a deep breath and raised his own wand—the famous pear-wood, nine inches, dragon heartstring core he always mentioned when signing books.
"Then let us begin with Professor Snape. We'll start with the most basic courtesy—the bow. A small demonstration for everyone."
"—But don't worry, I'll return your Potions Master to you in one piece."
He flashed what he clearly thought was a witty grin.
Snape's upper lip curled in the barest semblance of a polite smile.
That smile sent a chill down Harley's spine. If Snape ever looked at her like that, she'd already be running.
At the edge of the platform, Madam Pomfrey stood with folded arms and an impatient expression, a white medical kit already at her feet.
Viktor—somehow now beside Flitwick—chatted quietly with the Charms professor, smiling.
The speech ended.
The duel was officially underway.
Less than sixty seconds passed.
More accurately: the instant after the bow.
Under the stunned gaze of the entire school, Lockhart was hit by a single, crisp Expelliarmus.
He flew backward, crashing against the golden shield.
When he staggered to his feet, his magnificent violet robes were torn open in a long, ragged strip down one side.
Viktor watched the scene and could only think:
Being weak is one thing.
Not knowing you're weak is another.
Lockhart stumbled back to centre stage, dishevelled but still trying.
"Well! Everyone saw that, didn't you!"
His wavy hair now stood on end from the force of the spell—looking utterly ridiculous.
But what he said next was even worse.
"That was a perfect demonstration of the Disarming Charm. I hope my little performance left an impression—"
He glanced at Snape. "No offence intended, of course. Your intent was obvious. If I'd wanted to stop you, it would have taken no effort at all…"
"But the students need to learn, so why not let them see…"
He trailed off.
Snape was staring at him with pure murder in his eyes.
Feeling the killing intent at his back, Lockhart wisely changed the subject—desperate to move past his humiliation.
"Demonstration over! Now let's see what you've learned. Professor Snape, if you'd kindly assist me—"
"Shut up." Snape's voice was ice. "Professor Viktor—step forward. Let the students see what a real duel looks like."
His black gaze shifted to Viktor—standing calmly beside Flitwick.
At Snape's words, the hall erupted.
The noise was deafening.
Every student—regardless of house—turned to stare at Viktor with eyes full of greedy anticipation.