Quirrell's inviting look made Theodore Ashbourne blink.
Second week of term and I'm sparring the two-faced man?
…Seriously?
A heartbeat later, the surprise melted into a hungry spark. Ever since claiming Born-for-Duels and Staff Arts Transcendent, Theo hadn't truly learned what his ceiling was.
First-years were no longer in his weight class. Even the corridor troll, Abba, had been little more than a warm-up—down before Theo had used a fraction of his kit.
Two-Face, though… might actually take a hit or three.
He drew a long breath, tightened his grip on the ancient staff, and let his fighting will rise.
"Professor," he said mildly, "I'm going to start. If you get hurt, that can't mean points off Gryffindor."
A peculiar smile tugged at Quirrell's mouth.
Had the ridiculous scarf act worked too well? Was Ashbourne still stuck with the "hopeless coward" impression?
No one landed the Defence post at Hogwarts without real teeth. A first-year—no matter how "gifted"—was still a first-year. How dangerous could he be?
Quirrell dipped his chin.
And in that single instant a prickle of danger exploded in his mind.
Voldemort's voice knifed through his skull. "Focus, you fool!"
At the edge of the dais, a drift of chalk-dust—untouched by wind—whipped up and slapped toward Quirrell's face.
His expression snapped hard.
Bloody— Since when did Gryffindors open with dirty tricks?
He barely got a Scourgify out in time, sweeping the dust to nothing.
That was only the opening bell. With initiative seized, Theo's staff blurred—and a squall of minor hexes, jinxes, and precise transfigurations came at Quirrell like a monsoon. None of them was a castle-breaker; some were barely more than classroom cantrips. But every cast hit optimum timing, angle, and distance—no wasted motion, no gaps.
Having lost the first beat, Quirrell suddenly felt pinned. Like a fly in a web: not crushed, not yet, but every second tightened the strands.
He covered, frustration mounting. A professor, pressed by a first-year? If he weren't barred from black magic and high-yield spells, this would be over already.
Even so—could a child keep this pace without slipping?
He hunched behind layered counters and shields, wand flicking in tight, economical motions, and waited for the inevitable error. That was sound duelling doctrine—one even Voldemort wouldn't frown at. Every fighter missteps eventually; even battle-worn masters like himself or Dumbledore could falter under pressure. A green boy with scant real combat? All the more likely.
What Quirrell (and the thing behind him) didn't know was that Theo's battle sense wasn't the fruit of grind; it was a Flood-Age gift. Born-for-Duels wasn't practice—it was wiring. Mistake? Against a wizard bound by Hogwarts rules, there would be none to find.
The "web" cinched. Quirrell's "tortoise shell" felt smaller, heavier, slower.
Quirrell hadn't noticed the trap closing; Theo had. The talent was obscene. So long as Quirrell refused to use black curses or faculty-level overkill, he had already hit his ceiling.
Still… not enough. Theo's eyes cooled. Time for the substitute to log in.
He snapped his staff.
"Incendio."
Students flinched back, bracing for a sweeping wall of fire—but no broad blaze burst forth. Instead, a string of near-white, almost spectral-blue fireballs winked into being before Theo; the air around them wavered with heat.
Quirrell's eyes went wide.
Incendio braided into Transfiguration? From a second-week first-year?
What are they feeding Gryffindors now? When he was a boy, nothing like this prowled the corridors.
Even Voldemort hummed, impressed.
"Talent—exquisite, unparalleled. This Ashbourne may grow into another Dumbledore—perhaps surpass him. Quirrell, like this, you won't beat him…"
"Let me."
Control shifted. Theo felt it the instant the aura changed.
There you are, understudy.
Theo's smile edged sharp. He breathed a second charm.
"Scourgify."
A gale screamed forward, feeding the flames. Wind and fire locked, and the Incendio swelled far past its station.
Laced with Transfiguration, the firelines knitted into a burning causeway that surged straight at the two-faced professor—Theo's bootleg Fire-God Path.
Even throttled down—no Control-Flame talent yet, no desire to torch a classroom—this was stronger than the one he'd thrown in Diagon Alley.
Freshly in the driver's seat, Voldemort actually grunted.
Fire-God Path? Not quite—the Patronus heart that crowned the true art was missing; what Theo shaped had form but not spirit. But to carve even the shape of it as a first-year?
"Excellent," Voldemort said, eyes glittering through the heat. "I have not seen a child like you in years."
He cut his wand, an invisible blade parting the inferno, opening a path through the flames as he strode in.
Theo's wrist turned. He snapped into tight flame control—technique, not talent—
White blazed to full ghost-blue, nearly colourless with heat. The fire hardened—swords, spears, halberds, and prowling beasts, all of fire, closed like a pack.
Theo grinned. "Save the compliments for when you win, Professor."
With Voldemort's snarl ringing in Quirrell's head, the parted flames closed, swallowing him again.
"My lord?" Quirrell's voice wobbled in the shared skull.
"Silence," Voldemort snapped, parrying shifting patterns of flame. "If you had any discipline, would I need to take over? And this body—have you trained it at all?"
His gaze tightened on the web of heat hemming him in.
What is this brat? In the womb with a wand? No first-year does this.
No Killing Curse. No true black magic. Irritating.
And yet, even in a borrowed body, skill told. He steadied, defended, and searched for a seam.
He found one.
A glittering rope flicked from his wand—sleek, bright, needle-true—threading the fire to snare Theo's torso.
The follow-up was already mapped: yank to break stance, Expelliarmus to pop the staff, then a neat wand-tip to the throat. Textbook, flawless.
Voldemort snapped his wrist. The rope jerked—with the kind of force that could drag down a charging bull.
"Got you."
Nothing moved.
Theo didn't so much as sway. He only looked back at Voldemort with the faintest, most annoying hint of amusement.
The next instant, the rope went tight in the opposite direction—like hooking a mountain. A tidal force ripped down the line and hauled Voldemort forward.
For all his experience, even he stared.
What— is that strength?
A low, disbelieving curse hissed through his teeth.
"A Gryffindor brat… born with a troll's body."
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