December had arrived, and the weather was growing colder by the day.
The wind carried the sharp, crisp scent of pine needles from the Forbidden Forest.
Dylan was waiting for the 19th to roll around.
That was the full moon—the night he'd need to start preparing for his Animagus transformation again.
But before that, after a Potions class wrapped up, the students poured out of the classroom in a noisy bustle. Professor Snape, however, approached Dylan with his usual icy expression.
"Come with me."
Before Dylan could even process it, Snape was already striding off, his black robes billowing dramatically behind him, never once dragging on the floor.
Blinking, Dylan stepped over the long shadow cast by the slanting afternoon sun and hurried to catch up with the professor.
Snape led him straight to his office.
Once inside, Dylan had barely found his footing when Snape spun around, his robes flaring, his brows furrowed in a cold stare.
Dylan: ⊙_⊙
*Seriously, Professor? It's just the two of us—do you really need to pose like that?*
"Uh, Professor, did you call me here for something specific?" Dylan asked.
It was about dinnertime now, and after a whole class spent brewing potions—an exhausting task that drained both his energy and stamina—his stomach was already growling in protest.
Still, Dylan kept his patience, looking up at Snape with the respect due a professor.
"Did you see the notice on the bulletin board?" Snape asked, crossing his arms.
"Notice?" Dylan paused, then shook his head. "I didn't notice it."
"You don't ever check the school announcements?" Snape narrowed his eyes.
"To be honest, no," Dylan admitted with a sincere nod.
Snape's mouth twitched slightly, but he didn't waste time. "Tonight's Duelling Club—you're going."
"Huh?" Dylan raised an eyebrow. "Duelling Club? The one that Defense Against the Dark Arts guy started?"
Snape gave a slight nod. "Yes."
Dylan tilted his head. "Professor, are you sure you want me there? If I end up duelling the other students—what if I make them cry? That wouldn't look too good, would it?"
Snape shot him a sideways glance.
After a brief silence, he continued, "You won't be duelling the students."
"Then who?"
"You'll duel a professor—Lockhart. He's been bragging about needing an assistant, and I recommended you."
Snape paused. "McGonagall and the others did too."
Dylan's eyelid twitched.
They wanted him to duel *Lockhart*?
And it was a unanimous suggestion from all the professors?
*They're setting Lockhart up to get wrecked Scottish-style!*
McGonagall, Snape, and the others had tested Dylan in a duel once before. After that, they knew exactly what he was capable of—his skills were nearly on par with an adult wizard, maybe even one of the sharper ones. He might even outmatch them.
As for Lockhart… well, after half a year, the professors had probably figured out what he was really made of.
Sending Dylan to face him? They were basically telling him to *beat the guy senseless*.
"Wait a sec," Dylan thought. "Didn't Snape originally take part in this club too? Hold on—Lockhart invited Snape to be his duelling assistant first, didn't he?"
Dylan clicked his tongue.
*What's going on here?*
If he ended up thrashing Lockhart—student pummels professor—and word got out, wouldn't that tank his reputation?
He tried to nudge Snape back to reality. "You know I've been brushing up on a ton of spells lately. And that Defense Against the Dark Arts guy… what if I slip up and accidentally do some serious damage? That wouldn't be great, right?"
Snape's expression remained calm. "Don't worry. I'll be there to patch him up."
*Oh, sweet!*
With Snape's reassurance, Dylan finally relaxed.
Lockhart was all talk and no skill. One casual spell from Dylan could probably leave the guy crippled. He didn't want to accidentally go too far, only for Lockhart to collapse dramatically and pin the blame on him—leaving Dylan to take the fall.
"Got it. Don't hold back," Snape added. "You'll be facing the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor handpicked by Dumbledore himself! His tricks are vast, his experience ruthless—nothing a student like you could handle on your own. So—"
"Use everything you've got against him. Understood?"
Dylan swallowed hard.
*What did Lockhart do to tick off the usually chill Professor Snape this badly?*
He'd turned the guy downright vicious!
But… use everything he had?
What, like firing off fifty Killing Curses in a row?
*Snape, you'd better have my back if I do!*
Of course, even without the Killing Curse, a couple of well-placed *Sectumsempra* spells would do the trick.
Even Dumbledore would have to drag a freshly reborn Fawkes over, begging Lockhart not to die—at least not at Hogwarts!
"I understand, Professor," Dylan said, straightening up and nodding. He'd take the job.
Lockhart was a professor, after all.
It'd been a while since he last unlocked the "Beat Up a Professor" achievement—since that time with Quirrell.
This could be a fun little test.
*Grrrrumble~*
His stomach let out a noise that sounded like a Crumple-Horned Snorkack gnawing on brains, echoing the faint groans of the Black Lake's ice cracking outside.
The fireplace flickered uncertainly, casting shadows that sharpened Snape's hawk-like nose.
Seeing Dylan agree so readily, Snape finally showed a hint of satisfaction—a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Come on, let's eat. Your stomach's louder than a troll rampaging through the halls."
Dylan gave an embarrassed grin. "Guess it's braver than me—it's already yelling at you to head to dinner."
"Are you saying I'm wasting your time?" Snape squinted.
"No, no, not at all! Let's head to the Great Hall together, Professor. You need to eat too."
Snape paused, gave a soft huff, and started toward the door.
As he passed Dylan, he muttered, "If you're hungry, hurry up."
"Coming!" Dylan chirped, falling into step behind him.
---
After dinner, Dylan went back to his dorm to read for a bit and check on things in his suitcase space.
With a new batch of goblins—ones that weren't quite like the usual fairies and definitely not as sharp—he was worried they might stir up trouble.
Last time, he'd caught them trying to mess with the few small animals in the forest.
A couple of well-aimed Cruciatus Curses sorted them out, and they'd been behaving since.
By around 8 p.m., Dylan left his dorm and headed to the Great Hall again.
Stepping inside, he almost thought he'd walked into the wrong place.
The hall looked completely different now.
Hundreds of candles floated overhead, blazing so brightly it was almost blinding, but with a tacky vibe he couldn't quite place.
The light only lit up the ceiling, leaving the hall itself dim.
The long dining tables for the four houses were gone, replaced by a narrow, compact platform.
Unlike the grand stage Snape and the others had set up before, this looked more like a runway—except it was just a straight line, no flair.
It even seemed gilded, with over-the-top, gaudy patterns etched into the dark gold surface.
A decent crowd had already gathered around it—students from every house, and quite a few of them.
Lockhart might've been a flop lately, but his fame still drew some loyal book fans.
Though, it was hard to tell if more people were here to cheer him on or to watch him crash and burn.
"Duelling Club! Sounds awesome just saying it!"
"Real magic battles—pure style, no holding back!"
"Haha, you're even betting on it now?"
"Just throwing it out there, no big deal."
"It's Hogwarts' first-ever Duelling Club! I heard Lockhart's the one running it!"
"Maybe he's fed up with all the rumors and wants to prove himself?"
"Could be! I bet that's it! I mean, it's *Lockhart*! The guy who walked with trolls!"
Dylan wove through the crowd, catching snippets of chatter.
Then, with a burst of cheers, Lockhart strutted onto the platform.
Dylan looked up—and nearly gagged.
Lockhart was decked out in a garish pink velvet robe that looked like it'd been yanked straight out of the sun, embroidered with massive golden flowers the size of his hand.
*Is that supposed to look good?*
Lockhart's fashion was getting bolder—and weirder—by the day.
He was peacocking around like… well, you get the idea.
Dylan shivered.
That signature grin on Lockhart's face just made him want to slap the guy.
"Everyone, come closer—gather round!" Lockhart called, flinging his robe dramatically.
It smacked a nearby student in the face, who sputtered and nearly passed out.
"Pfft! Pfft! This thing reeks like a hundred perfumes—I'm suffocating!"
The student tossed the robe to the ground.
Lockhart, oblivious—or maybe just too full of himself to care—didn't notice.
He probably thought the kid wanted to keep it as a souvenir.
"I've got to tell you all," Lockhart boomed, "Hogwarts students can't keep fumbling around helplessly when danger strikes, letting fear take over!
Professor Dumbledore's given me the green light to start this Duelling Club—so one day, you can all protect yourselves as gracefully as I do!
Want the full scoop? Check out my books—every one's a guaranteed tear-jerker!"
He struck a pose, hands on hips. "But first, let me introduce my assistant—Professor Snape!
And he's generously recommended his star pupil—well, all the professors did, but that's beside the point—Mr. Dylan Hawkwood! Come on up!"
Lockhart's voice rang through the hall, gold glitter shaking off his sleeves and sparkling in the candlelight.
A Hufflepuff student sneezed loudly—*Achoo!*
Dylan hesitated, then stepped toward the stage.
Eyes from the crowd locked onto him.
"Oh, Mr. Hawkwood, don't be nervous—I won't hurt you," Lockhart said, waving him over with a grin.
He'd caught Dylan's wandering gaze and assumed it was fear.
But nope—Dylan was actually sneaking a peek at Snape, who was sitting at the far end of the platform, his face unreadable.
*Lockhart just called me Snape's star pupil?*
What would the Slytherins think of that?
Snape didn't seem to mind, though—his expression stayed flat, though his chin might've lifted just a tiny bit.
Like, *really* tiny.
"Come on, kid, over here," Lockhart urged, pulling Dylan closer once he was on stage.
Then he turned to the crowd and announced, "Mr. Hawkwood will return to you all safe and sound. I've just asked him up here for a little demo—nothing fancy."
Down below, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had squeezed their way to the front.
Seeing Dylan and Lockhart as the first pair for the brand-new Duelling Club left them dumbfounded.
"Wait, they're duelling? Is he insane? How's he got the guts for that?" Ron blurted, a bit too loud near the stage.
Lockhart overheard, glanced back, and chuckled. "I told you, no need to worry—your friend'll be fine!"
*Yeah, right!*
Ron's eyes widened.
*I wasn't talking about Dylan!*
He opened his mouth to retort, but Lockhart had already turned away, gripping Dylan's shoulder hard, clapping it twice, and shoving him forward.
"Go on, stand over there. Snape says you know duelling etiquette."
Dylan felt the force on his shoulder and stepped back, frowning slightly.
But he didn't argue—just took his spot across from Lockhart.
They raised their wands, holding them across their chests, and gave a slight bow.
Dylan kept it clean and simple—a textbook wizard's salute.
Lockhart, though, flailed his wand around like he'd been hit with a Confundus Charm, throwing in some extra flair before finally bending at the waist.
"See? That's duelling etiquette—easy as that," Lockhart said, straightening up and addressing the crowd.
"Now, I'll count to three, and Mr. Hawkwood and I will cast a spell at the same time. Don't worry—I won't use anything that'd take down a troll on him.
And you, Mr. Hawkwood—don't hold back. Hit me with everything you've got!"
Dylan quietly raised his wand.
Lockhart lazily lifted his own.
"Three—two—one!"
Dylan flicked his wand lightly.
"*Sectumsempra!*"
Truth be told, he didn't even need to say it out loud—he'd mastered the spell well enough for silent casting.
But he figured if he didn't name it, Lockhart wouldn't have a clue what hit him, so he voiced it anyway.
The moment the words left his mouth, the air warped.
An invisible blur ripped through the space, trembling as it shot forward.
*Splatter—!*
A massive spray of blood erupted from Lockhart's body.
The front row caught a whiff of rust, reminding some of that afternoon's Potions class, where Snape had them handling fire salamander blood.
A gruesome gash sliced from Lockhart's left shoulder down to his right hip.
The unseen blade tore his pristine white shirt to shreds, blood-soaked scraps flapping as crimson poured out.
It was oddly like the raspberry jam from the Halloween feast—sweet and sticky in a nauseating way.
Dylan blinked.
*Even his blood smells obnoxiously sweet?*
But before he could dwell on it, a piercing scream cut through the air.
"Ahh!"
Lockhart crumpled, knees hitting the ground before he collapsed entirely.
He fumbled for his wand, trying to heal himself, but the pain left him twitching uncontrollably.
His shaky resolve couldn't handle the agony.
Dylan hadn't even gone all out.
The second *Sectumsempra* hit, he'd pulled it back.
The wound looked nasty, sure, but it wasn't deep—just bled a little more than necessary.
No bones were touched—he'd been gentle, right?
He wasn't exactly trying to spare Lockhart.
He just didn't want to split the guy in half with *Sectumsempra*, only for Dumbledore to show up with Fawkes too late to save him—then drag Dylan into the Headmaster's office for a chat.
He wasn't ready for *that* kind of trial from the past headmasters.
Snape clearly knew it too.
That gash on Lockhart? A simple counter-curse would fix it right up.
But Lockhart just writhed on the floor, wailing, clutching his wand without ever casting a thing.
*(End of Chapter)*