"Animals react far faster than humans," Professor McGonagall said crisply, her wand flicking with precision. "They can intercept fatal spells at crucial moments—or, through Transfiguration, be used to restrain your opponent."
She pointed lightly at Neville. At once, the chair behind him sprouted two arms and clamped around his torso. Neville gave a panicked yelp, thrashing so wildly he nearly toppled over. Fortunately, McGonagall released the chair in time to steady him.
"You see?" she said, lifting her chin. "Transfiguration in a duel is not only elegant—it is a mark of true tactical intelligence."
The class fell silent, eyes wide. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted; students who normally slouched through lectures now leaned forward eagerly, drinking in every word.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick grew nostalgic, recounting his glory days and the many dueling championships he had won. His voice, squeaky but full of pride, painted the scene vividly.
"My opponent was formidable—well-versed in spells, blessed with a perfect memory. I was pushed to the very brink. Right up until the decisive moment, everyone was certain I would lose."
"You must have used a very powerful spell, didn't you, Professor?" one student asked, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Of course not!" Flitwick tugged his tiny mustache, his expression gleeful. "I defeated him with nothing more than the Summoning Charm."
The students gaped. Fifth-years, all of them—they had mastered the Summoning Charm last year. Could such a common spell really fell a seasoned duelist?
"I summoned a stone wall," Flitwick declared, hopping onto a pile of books so everyone could see him. His eyes twinkled. "A very large, very solid one.
"It skimmed the ground as it flew. I, being small in stature, simply crouched and avoided it. My opponent, however, was… less fortunate. He tried the same trick but—" Flitwick grinned impishly, "—even crouching, he was taller than I am standing."
The class winced as realization struck.
"Indeed. The wall struck him square on the head. He was knocked unconscious instantly, suffered a concussion, and needed quite a long rest before he recovered."
The room fell silent.
Flitwick chuckled at their dumbfounded expressions. "What's the matter? Disappointed by the lack of grandeur? Think it had no finesse?"
No one dared admit it aloud, though many silently agreed.
"You are falling into a trap," Flitwick told them gravely, shaking his head. "Dueling has never been about comparing spells like trophies. The sole aim is to render your opponent incapable of fighting. Victory is victory, whether earned through brilliance, brute force, or sheer luck.
"Never burden yourself with thoughts of honor or shame. So long as it falls within the rules, any method is a legitimate triumph."
The young witches and wizards nodded slowly, thoughtful now.
Even in Potions, the fever of dueling had reached.
Snape's class had been scheduled to brew a simple pain-relieving draft. But, as always, he had other plans.
"Fire Protection Potion," he drawled, voice silken and sharp, the very sound enough to sour the air. "It halts the spread of most flame-based curses. Splashed on the ground or ingested, it provides protection. In duels, fire is a common weapon—and this, therefore, is your shield."
Harry stiffened instantly, remembering the line of potions he had once gambled on during the underground chambers. That lucky guess had saved him.
"In many duels, potions are permitted—but with restrictions." Snape prowled between the desks, cloak billowing like storm clouds. His gaze snapped to Ron. "Weasley. Tell me the restriction."
Ron blinked. His eyes went perfectly blank, the portrait of innocent ignorance.
"Excellent," Snape sneered. "Two points from Gryffindor."
The Gryffindors bristled, glaring murderously. Snape ignored them, satisfied, and went on:
"The rule is simple: a wizard may only use potions they have brewed themselves. A prepared Potions Master, therefore, can be nigh undefeatable.
"Do not be idiotic enough to think waving your wand blindly will win you glory. Use your mind. Even if your opponent is weak, treat him as an equal adversary."
"I will, Professor," Draco Malfoy said loudly, voice dripping with false sincerity.
Everyone understood the barb. The Slytherins burst into laughter.
Ron surged half out of his seat, but Harry clutched his arm hard.
"Calm down, Ron!" Harry hissed. "Malfoy wants you to snap. Snape is waiting for you to lose points. Beat him in the duel—then they'll have no choice but to shut up."
Grinding his teeth, Ron slumped back into his chair.
After class, Hermione dragged Tom off to the library. They didn't emerge until dinner was over. Only then did Tom return to the common room.
Malfoy was already waiting. He kept glancing toward the door, and the moment Tom entered, he hurried over.
"Tom—help me," Draco pleaded. Without hesitation, he slipped a heavy pouch of galleons into Tom's pocket. The clink of coins was unmistakable.
"You want me to help you duel?" Tom asked, brow arching. "Surely you can handle a Weasley?"
Malfoy's bravado was nowhere to be found now. His voice carried a rare edge of unease. "They may be poor, but they're still pure-bloods. My father says Arthur Weasley isn't weak—the family must have powerful spells tucked away.
"And Ron's got older brothers. They'll teach him tricks, no doubt. Tom, I can't take chances. I need to crush Weasley—so I can go back to tormenting Potter!"