Sebastian, standing over the defeated Harry Potter, allowed a thin, professional smile to mask his inner amusement. He had, quite literally, been expecting a standard, honorable, first-year duel—quick spells, a lot of running, and perhaps a lucky Stupefy.
He had not expected Malfoy to channel the cold, calculating cunning of a seasoned battle commander, transforming the entire combat surface into a tactical nightmare.
The move was pure theatre, pure Slytherin—a blend of arcane knowledge (Nebula Profunda was not taught until Fourth Year) and outright psychological warfare. The little ferret had engineered a loss condition for Harry by simply refusing to fight on Harry's terms.
The boy is growing up too fast, Sebastian mused, gently flicking his wand to banish the lingering gray mist and dissolving the Petrification Curse on Harry. But this is a painful, necessary lesson. Harry had been caught in the throes of youthful certainty, relying on a heroic, frontal assault. If he was to survive his inevitable encounters with the ultimate "Sixth Prince" (Voldemort), Harry needed a crash course in unpredictability.
Sebastian subtly glanced over at Professor Snape, who was observing the scene with an expression so deliberately unreadable that it became, ironically, fascinatingly complex. Was that pride for his House Champion, Draco Malfoy?
Or was it a deep-seated, familiar irritation at seeing James Potter's son bested by such cunning rather than raw skill? Sebastian made a mental note to conduct a highly sensitive inquiry with Severus later—perhaps involving a bottle of very fine, ancient mead.
Before he could officially dismiss the contestants, Malfoy was already striding toward Harry, his victory amplified by the collective roar of the Slytherin stands.
"Potter! The better man—or rather, the smarter man—wins the day!" Malfoy announced, extending his hand, not in fellowship, but as a triumphant challenge. The victory shield trophy clutched under his other arm slightly obscured the leaping serpent emblem.
Harry took the hand, using the grip to steady himself as he stood up, his arm still tingling from the Petrificus. "I'll be ready for you next time, Malfoy. I'll win it back."
Malfoy just let out a sharp, aristocratic laugh. "I look forward to you proving you're capable of reaching the final again, Potter. It was almost too easy this time." He turned away with a flourish, eager to receive the adulation he felt he was owed.
He didn't make it three steps before Ron was practically spitting fire at his back.
"You slimy, cheating snake! You wouldn't have beaten Harry if you hadn't been crawling around the floor like a common earthworm! That was cowardly, Malfoy!"
Draco stopped, slowly turning back to fix Ron with an expression of withering contempt that could curdle milk.
"And you are…?" Malfoy inquired, his voice dripping with condescension, as if speaking to a strange, persistent gnat. "Oh, right. Weasley. Remind me, what was your final ranking in this esteemed competition?"
Ron clenched his fists, speechless with fury.
"Never mind, don't bother," Malfoy said, dismissing him with an almost bored wave of the hand. "I genuinely have no interest in the achievements of those who are eliminated in the first round. In fact, I'm only willing to speak to those who manage to finish in the top five of their class. I simply don't have the time."
Malfoy tilted his head back, his chin raised proudly as he headed for the exit. "After all, I'm rather busy being Number One."
Ron was left shaking, his face the colour of a ripe tomato, while Hermione tugged desperately at his robe, whispering sharp admonishments about discretion and the danger of antagonizing purebloods in public. Harry, though frustrated, knew Ron's fury was a proxy for his own defeat, and he let him vent, already planning his summer training regime.
The dueling tournament, despite the unexpected drama of the First Year final, was a resounding success. Inspired by Malfoy's cunning, a few Second-Year wizards attempted to replicate the Nebula Profunda, quickly deploying smoke spells on the dueling platforms. Thankfully, the spell was difficult and poorly executed, preventing the pace of the competition from dissolving into a tedious fog-war.
The Second-Year finals were swift and skillful, but the audience was truly waiting for the Third-Year bracket.
As Fred Weasley stepped onto the stage, the crowd below erupted in cheers, a huge portion of the audience clearly rooting for the famous Weasley troublemaker.
"Wand in one hand, shield in the other—look how cool he is!" someone yelled from the stands.
"Hold on! What's with the shield? How is he doing that?"
"Must be Transfiguration! That's easy enough for a Third Year, surely?"
"But look closely! The surface of that shield has two massive, painfully bright lights! How can a Transfigured object have such brilliant magical illumination?"
The students were genuinely baffled. There were strict rules against bringing non-Transfigured alchemical or enchanted items into the dueling arena.
Sebastian, observing from the judges' stand, couldn't suppress a genuine, impressed smile. He knew exactly what the Twins were holding. It wasn't a Transfigured object at all.
This was the fruition of the challenge he had set them over the Christmas break: adapting the principles of the Ironclad Charm (Protego Totalum) using the Guardian Badge as a magical template. The twins, through sheer, chaotic genius, had meticulously copied the protective runes and layered their own unique, playful brand of magic onto the process.
The result wasn't the traditional, elegant, and ultimately invisible protective dome of the true Ironclad Charm. Instead, Fred was holding a mutated Ironclad Spell—a dense, opaque shield, roughly half a meter wide, that required constant magical effort to sustain. It lacked the universal protection of the full charm, requiring the user to actively hold and maneuver it like a medieval buckler.
However, as the twins had excitedly explained to Sebastian before the tournament, this mutated version was significantly easier to learn as an intermediary spell, providing a solid, visual defense before the sheer magical complexity of the full, transparent Ironclad Charm could be mastered. Sebastian was particularly fascinated by the hybrid element: the "great lights" the students were whispering about were actually powerful, personalized Lumos Maxima charms woven into the shield's surface.
Brilliant. Sebastian wanted to raid both their minds and document their chaotic process.
Fred, utterly pumped with adrenaline, stood ready. His opponent, a young Slytherin, immediately launched into the familiar, devastating curse.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The spell hit the surface of Fred's shield. With a visible thrum and a burst of light, the curse harmlessly splattered against the enchanted surface. Fred grinned, completely protected. The defensive capabilities were sound.
Now, for the offense.
Fred pumped a sudden surge of his chaotic, playful magic into the shield.
"You get blinded now!" he shouted with glee.
In an instant, the two powerful Lumos charms embedded in the shield's front intensified violently, acting like a pair of high-beam headlights on a dark road. The intense, blinding white light streamed directly into the Slytherin's face.
The opponent gasped, instantly flinching and clamping his eyes shut. His vision was completely overwhelmed; he couldn't discern Fred's location and could only blindly cast defensive spells into the air.
Fred advanced easily, protected by his shield and his opponent's temporary, self-inflicted blindness. He finished the duel with a precise, low-powered Knockback Jinx, sending the stumbling Slytherin flying off the platform.
The crowd went wild, half in awe of the sheer, brilliant novelty, and half in hysterics over the unfairness of the "headlights."
Fred's run was almost stopped by his own brother, George, in the semi-finals. George had created his own shield, featuring an even more distracting variation: a shimmering, kaleidoscopic surface that used powerful fluorescent charms to induce immediate sensory overload. The two brothers put on a spectacular, prolonged, and utterly hilarious duel—a chaotic dance of dazzling lights, deflection, and evasive charms that left the audience screaming.
In the end, George ran out of magical stamina first, his shimmering shield collapsing just as Fred managed to land a Disarming Charm. Fred was utterly exhausted, but victorious. He proceeded to the final, where, drained of magic, he was gracefully defeated by the steady, focused charm-work of the Hufflepuff Seeker, Cedric Diggory, who comfortably took the Third Year championship.
The dueling tournament dominated the weekend, thrilling the entire student body and demonstrating the tangible results of a year of focused practice.
Time, however, waits for no champion. The buzz of the tournament quickly faded into the nervous silence of the final exam period. For a grueling week, the students suffered through practical demonstrations, written theory papers, and the terrifying glares of Professor Snape during the Potions practical.
When the exams were finally over, a wave of profound relief swept over Hogwarts. The castle seemed to physically relax. The tension that had held the students rigid for days evaporated into a collective, joyous buzz.
Now, with the stress gone, the school turned to celebration and memory. The newly abundant magical cameras appeared everywhere. Graduating Seventh Years formed small, emotional groups, filming graduation reels and taking enchanted photos of their favourite professors and the beautiful castle grounds before they left for good.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and their classmates sought refuge by the serene edge of the Black Lake, enjoying the warm, late-spring sun.
"I was absolutely certain I had failed Charms," Hermione confessed, though her relief was evident in the happy flush on her cheeks. "The spell combination I tried for the practical was far too ambitious. But thankfully, the results came in! I actually came in first place in our year! I can't believe it!"
Ron, sprawled on the grass, grinned widely. "See? Never a doubt, Hermione. And Harry and I didn't exactly shame the family, either! We both passed all our core subjects with flying colours—top marks in all the practicals, thanks to the Dueling Club." He stretched luxuriously, utterly relaxed by the positive outcome.
"This means a stress-free summer, finally," Ron announced, sitting up to face his two best friends. "You both have to come to The Burrow! My whole family is definitely going to show you a proper good time. We can play Quidditch until midnight and eat Mum's cooking until we burst."
"That sounds brilliant, Ron," Hermione replied, her eyes already lighting up with thoughts of shared adventures.
Harry, however, only managed a weak smile as he accepted the invitation. He lay back on the grass, sighing heavily. The grades were good, the championship was won (by Malfoy, but still), and the school year was a success.
But the reality of the immediate future loomed, heavy and unwelcome.
He knew he couldn't go directly to Swann Manor this summer. Professor Dumbledore, with his infuriatingly secretive reasons, had insisted that Harry must return to his aunt and uncle's house for at least a month. It was a condition of his protection, tied to the arcane magic of his mother's bloodline. A month of confinement, far from magic and even further from his friends.
Dudley.
Harry wondered what state his cousin would be in. Was he still the same monstrously fat, greedy, overgrown bully? The thought instantly brought a flicker of dark, tactical inspiration.
Magic is technically forbidden, but...
Perhaps, Harry mused, he could get his hands on some of the twins' more innovative magical candies. The kind that induced swelling, or perhaps even a severe, lingering case of uncontrollable hiccups.
He let a small, dangerous smile creep onto his face as he stared up at the clear sky.
If I can't leave, maybe I can at least gain a tighter, more magical grip on Dudley's lifeline while I'm stuck there. This summer might be awful, but Harry was no longer the boy who blindly obeyed. He was a survivor, and survivors always looked for an advantage. Even against a Muggle cousin.