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Watching the excited little witches and wizards stream out, still chattering nonstop about the night's matches, Gilderoy Lockhart's gaze turned into twin poisoned icicles—locked unblinkingly on Viktor's back.
Viktor was patiently explaining something to Hagrid and a cluster of prefects—his expression focused yet calm, completely at ease.
Around him gathered a crowd of eager students, their eyes shining with genuine trust and admiration.
That look… that adoration… it should have belonged to him. Gilderoy Lockhart.
His carefully planned grand entrance.
The sea of worshipful faces he'd imagined.
The flawless image he'd spent years polishing to perfection…
All of it—utterly destroyed.
Ruined by Snape.
Ruined by this Viktor.
Ruined by those damn endless "safety rules."
Viktor hadn't even mentioned his name once!
As if he were nothing more than an unimportant announcer.
Worse—as if he weren't even worth acknowledging.
"My… club… my idea… my stage…"
His fingernails dug deep into his palms, sharp pain flaring—but it couldn't touch the roiling, almost suffocating jealousy and rage burning in his chest.
He could feel the muscles in his face twitching.
The perfect, thousand-times-practised smile mask had cracked—revealing raw, ugly distortion underneath.
He had to exert every ounce of willpower just to stay standing upright.
Instead of storming forward—wand raised—pointing it straight at the calm, infuriating man who always stole every scrap of limelight.
No. No.
Impulsiveness was the devil.
Gilderoy Lockhart's real weapons were cunning. Charm.
And… timing.
Just like when he'd ambushed those reclusive old wizards in their forest cabins.
Patience.
He forced a deep breath—tried to summon the smile again.
His facial muscles refused to obey—locked in rigid failure.
He could only lower his head slightly—letting the artfully curled fringe fall forward to shadow part of his expression.
Fingers compulsively stroked the smooth length of his wand.
Then—out of the corner of his eye—he caught movement in the shadows.
That damned, furry black creature—Viktor's Niffler. What was its name? Mac?
It sat in a corner of the hall—two tiny paws clutching a glittering handful of what looked like dried magical insects—chewing contentedly.
Its little black-bean eyes were fixed on him. Unblinking.
Not curious. Not wary.
Just… a kind of bored appraisal.
As if Professor Lockhart's current grotesque expression was nothing more than trivial background noise while it enjoyed its meal.
Lockhart's heart sank like a stone—pierced clean through by those beady eyes that seemed to see every shred of his humiliation and failure.
Almost on reflex he straightened his spine, forced a thin, stiff smile—though it looked more like a grimace carved in stone.
Mac tilted its head, apparently finding his "face-change" mildly uninteresting.
It let out a tiny burp—sprinkled with insect crumbs—scratched its round belly with a hind paw.
Then it turned, stuck its butt in the air, wriggled, and vanished deeper into the shadows—only the white-tipped tail flicking once before disappearing completely.
As if the very last "audience member" had walked out on him, Lockhart felt a wave of hollow, freezing dread.
Even a damn animal was mocking him!
He gripped his wand so hard his knuckles turned white.
This wasn't over.
Viktor Scamander… just you wait.
Duelling Club? Safety rules? Hmph. We'll see.
There will be an opportunity… there will always be a way… to make you—and that bat from the gutters—and that bouncing little dwarf—understand who really belongs in the centre of the stage, basking in applause and adoration.
He cast one last venomous glance at Viktor—still surrounded by enthusiastic students—then spun on his heel.
His robes snapped in a sharp arc like bat wings folding, and he melted silently into the shadows, leaving the noisy hall behind.
......
October at Hogwarts felt like the entire castle had been wrapped in one huge, sodden grey blanket.
Endless rain hammered the windows. The Quidditch pitch had turned into a muddy swamp. Black Lake water had crept up over the shoreline paths.
Except for the Gryffindor team—those lunatics who apparently didn't understand the concept of exhaustion—still training in the downpour.
The other three houses had sensibly cancelled all outdoor activities.
Every time Harley came back from practice she looked like she'd been fished out of the lake, making Hermione scowl and mutter that Wood had zero gentlemanly instincts—only Quidditch in his eyes.
Even Herbology—normally held in the warm greenhouses—was forced to pause once. Professor Sprout reluctantly cancelled class so the seventh-year advanced students and the professors could help repair storm-damaged greenhouses and calm the agitated magical plants.
With outdoor activities on hold, all that pent-up energy had nowhere to go but inside the castle.
The library was packed to bursting—Madam Pince's feather duster was waving like a battle flag.
Common rooms overflowed with students playing chess, Exploding Snap, or just huddling together complaining about the weather.
Sixth- and seventh-year couples who usually snuck off to courtyards, lakeside spots, or the edge of the Forbidden Forest for dates now had to risk empty classrooms, secluded corridor corners, or the Room of Requirement.
Which made Filch and Mrs. Norris even more paranoid than usual—nighttime patrols became a genuine hazard.
Against this gloomy backdrop, the brand-new Duelling Club hit like a lightning bolt splitting the rain clouds—igniting Hogwarts students' enthusiasm in an instant.
Those three waterproofed, non-slip, temperature-controlled duelling platforms—dry and comfortable even in pouring rain—became the hottest spot in the castle.
Over tea and meals, "Wanna go 'have a talk' on the platform?" became the new catchphrase.
"Having a talk" could mean friendly sparring between mates… or a very "civilised" settling of old scores between bitter rivals.
Even if you didn't want to fight yourself, watching other people "talk" was prime entertainment.
Every night's highlights—funny moments, classic duels, epic fails, hilarious blunders—became the next morning's breakfast-table gossip.
Who pulled off a gorgeous spell combo to turn the tables.
Who synced perfectly with their partner.
Who botched a charm under pressure and accidentally hexed themselves…
These stories flew through corridors and classrooms at lightning speed.
After two full weeks of burning frenzy, though, the heat finally began to cool—slowly, but noticeably.
For most students it gradually settled into something like Quidditch: a fun side activity, a spice to break up the grind of schoolwork—not the centre of their lives.
Aside from a hardcore dozen or so "regulars" who showed up almost every night obsessed with improving their technique and racking up points, most people just dropped in occasionally or spectated.
Even so, both Dumbledore and the other professors were quietly pleased.
Thanks to the club, some students who'd previously coasted through classes were now actively studying defensive spells, counter-curses, and related techniques.
And among those eager learners, the two most mobbed professors were, naturally, Viktor and Flitwick.
Viktor was constantly surrounded by curious students asking about practical uses of magical creatures in combat, clever variations on Shield Charms, and defensive transfigurations.
Flitwick's office door often had a queue—students desperate for precise spellwork advice and advanced techniques from the former duelling champion.
As for Snape… except for Malfoy and a few other Slytherins who occasionally showed up with smug looks to "consult" about potions or dark-defence questions, his dungeon office stayed as cold and quiet as ever.
And among the club's die-hard regulars, the Weasley twins were undoubtedly the brightest—and most headache-inducing—stars.
In singles matches, Hufflepuff's Cedric Diggory—with his rock-solid fundamentals, cool head, and handsome, gentle charm—had won a ton of fans (especially among Ravenclaw girls).
He earned the unofficial title of "Most Promising Duelist," but the "Strongest" crown was still hotly debated—especially among the boys who cared more about raw wins than style.
Cedric wasn't invincible, and many of his victories came from friendly spars, which some felt lacked the weight of true high-stakes combat.
But on the doubles platform? The "Best Partners" crown belonged to Fred and George Weasley—no contest.
In 2v2 they were completely in their element. They even started "cross-year" challenging Slytherin seventh-year pairs.
Those older students might overpower either twin individually in raw power or spell strength.
But when it came to coordination, positioning, tactical misdirection, and near-telepathic teamwork—the Weasley brothers were simply crushing.
They moved like they shared one brain: one glance, one tiny gesture, and the other knew exactly what was coming.
Feints, flanks, cover fire, misdirection—they played it like virtuosos.
Slytherin Quidditch Captain Marcus Flint and his Beater partner got knocked off the platform twice—once for charging too aggressively, once for falling straight into a trap.
Both times they ended up with twisted ankles or wrists, or stuck with stubborn minor curses that required a trip to the hospital wing.
The incidents even reached McGonagall and Snape (one of the supervising professors).
Under Snape's freezing glare, McGonagall, Viktor, and Flitwick conferred—and were forced to issue a temporary rule:
"High-intensity, unscheduled doubles practice involving Fred and George Weasley is prohibited during the lead-up to major Quidditch matches and during class hours."
Gryffindors quickly nicknamed it the "Weasley Ban" or "Weasley Clause."
The twins weren't remotely ashamed—they treated it like a badge of honour. They strutted through the castle with extra swagger.
At first they'd been a little worried Mum would hear about it from Percy and send a Howler calling them troublemakers who weren't focusing on studies.
But to their surprise, Molly Weasley's reply was surprisingly mild.
"I hear you've joined Professor Viktor's club? Don't just spend all your time fighting and showing off—learn something useful from the professors, like your brother Charlie does."
Still—the Weasley twins were also the single biggest source of new rules and clauses for the Duelling Club.
Their wild, grey-area "creativity" gave the supervising prefects and professors constant migraines.
And it forced the club's rulebook to "perfect" itself at breakneck speed.
First to be explicitly banned: bringing undeclared magical items onto the platform.
It started when Fred and George "accidentally" dropped a few Dungbombs near the edge during a match against Ravenclaw upper-years.
Then—mid-duel—they charmed the bombs to explode.
Half the platform ended up shrouded in foul-smelling gas.
Their Slytherin opponent got absolutely coated—vomiting helplessly while the twins finished him off in the stink cloud.
Afterward the twins raised their hands and swore it was just "practice supplies that slipped out of our pockets by accident."
McGonagall read the report, turned ashen, and immediately added the rule.
Next came self-brewed potions during matches.
This one stemmed from George "accidentally" splashing what he claimed was a failed batch of Scabies Potion onto his opponent (he swore to Madam Pomfrey it was unintentional).
The poor kid ended up covered in fist-sized boils. Pomfrey was furious—called it "dangerous substance misuse."
So Viktor had to add to the safety code:
Except for standard emergency Wiggenweld and Pain-Relieving Potions provided at the platform edge by the hospital wing, no personal potions may be consumed or applied. Violators face suspension from the club and mandatory labour service.
The clause that alarmed the professors most—and directly spawned the strictest new rule—was the clear definition of "off-platform interaction" and "non-duel interference."
Before several matches against Slytherin senior pairs—the opponents would mysteriously suffer twisted ankles, upset stomachs from "bad potions," or other sudden ailments—rendering them unable to compete or perform poorly.
The twins always insisted it was "karma" or "coincidence."
But in the common room—they proudly preached their philosophy: "Victory isn't decided only on the platform."
Though no direct evidence ever tied the incidents to the Weasleys—
Snape insisted it constituted "pre- or post-match magical harassment of an underhanded, non-combat nature."
At his insistence—a harsh new rule was added:
It is strictly forbidden—outside of formally scheduled duels—to apply any malicious charms, hexes, or pranks to recent or upcoming opponents. Violators face substantial house point deductions, long-term suspension, or more severe disciplinary action.
Naturally—Fred and George always greeted each new rule with expressions of pure innocence and wounded feelings.
"We're just helping the club improve, Professor!"
Fred once winked slyly at Flitwick.
"Look how much more organised everything is now! All for safety… and fairness."
Flitwick usually just gave a high-pitched chuckle—neither confirming nor denying.
McGonagall would fix them with a stare sharp enough to cut glass—until they shuffled off, grinning.
Still—no one could deny it:
The Weasley twins' presence had electrified the Duelling Club's atmosphere.
And their relentless boundary-pushing had—through sheer necessity—hammered the safety rules into something far more comprehensive and airtight.
Every time a new regulation was posted—students would instinctively glance toward Fred and George.
The twins would puff out their chests—like they'd just been awarded another badge of honour.
"See?" George once told a gaggle of awestruck first-years.
"Behind every boring new rule… there's probably one of our selfless contributions to the noble art of magical duelling. Feel it in your hearts, kids. Feel it."
The first-years nodded—half-understanding, wholly worshipping.