Fleur and Barre were the first to leave, their footsteps echoing in the near-empty Great Hall. Sean sipped his elderflower cordial, its fizz tickling his tongue, then stood, motioning for Aldridge and Jason to follow. The hall's charmed ceiling twinkled like a starlit sky, casting a soft glow over the round tables.
As they stepped into the corridor, a voice called out, sharp and taunting. "Are you the guy from Hogwarts?"
Sean turned, sizing up the speaker. The boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen, had the lanky build of a fifth- or sixth-year. His face was familiar—Sean recalled him lingering near the Quidditch pitch earlier, part of the group that had hurled the Quaffle at them.
"You were with those Quidditch Kids?" Sean asked, his tone even.
"Kids?" The boy's eyes flashed, offended. "We're not kids!"
Sean smirked. "But your reasons for picking a fight are pretty childish. Let me guess—Professor Maupassant punished you for disrupting lunch, and you're too scared to challenge him. So, you target me, the outsider who was there.
Your big plan? Smack me with a Quaffle on the pitch. Except it missed, and when I tossed it back, it snapped someone's broom. Now you're here, waiting for me—after Fleur and Barre left, because you didn't dare face me with them around.
So, what's next? You want revenge for your bruised pride. Beauxbatons probably bans private fights, but I bet dueling's allowed under specific rules. You're here to challenge me to a duel, thinking you'll humiliate me and feel better about yourself. That's your plan, right?"
The boy's jaw dropped, his face flushing as Sean laid bare his every thought. He stammered, trying to respond, but no words came. It was as if Sean had cast Legilimency, though his wand remained untouched. The boy's plans, motives, even his insecurities, were exposed like a botched Disillusionment Charm.
"You… you…" he sputtered, then rallied, sneering. "All that talk just to dodge a duel. You're scared, aren't you?"
Sean's eyes glinted. "Scared? No—I accept your duel."
Inside, he was buzzing with excitement, like a Firebolt revving for a race.
He'd been itching to test his skills, bolstered by the "gift packs" he'd earned through his system. A duel handed to him on a silver platter? Only a fool would pass that up. On the surface, though, he kept his cool, his face a mask of calm confidence.
"When's the duel?" Sean asked, his voice steady.
The boy blinked, thrown off. He'd expected resistance, not eagerness. A first-year—technically a second-year by next term—more excited for a duel than a fifth-year? Something was off. "You… you're really agreeing to this?"
"Don't waste my time," Sean said, frowning. "When and where?"
The boy hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock, in the dueling room on the first basement level."
"Got it," Sean said, waving a hand. He turned and walked away, Aldridge and Jason trailing him, without a backward glance.
The boy watched them go, unease settling in his chest. He'd secured the duel, a chance to show up this Hogwarts kid, but victory felt hollow. Why did it seem like he was the one challenged?
Back in their dormitory, Sean changed into comfortable robes, the room's charmed windows casting mountain shadows across the floor. He settled at his desk, pulling out an alchemy book from the library. Its pages smelled of old parchment and magic, but his focus wavered, the duel lingering in his mind.
He noticed Aldridge standing nearby, unusually still. Normally, Aldridge busied himself with reading or jotting in a journal, but now he hovered, his silence loud.
Sean set down his quill. "Aldridge, what's on your mind? Just say it."
"Master," Aldridge said carefully, "are you truly dueling tomorrow?"
"Of course," Sean replied, grinning. "I'm not missing it."
Aldridge's brow furrowed, concern flickering. Sean softened, understanding his worry. "You're new to my side, Aldridge. Some things you don't know yet. Tomorrow, you'll see."
Aldridge nodded, stepping back. Gideon had bound him to Sean with unshakable loyalty, and Sean's decision was final. Questioning further wasn't his place—his duty was to serve, not to doubt.
The next morning, Sean woke at eight, yawning. He'd stayed up late wrestling with alchemy's dense theories, and the duel loomed at ten. No rush—he'd slept an extra hour, planning to wash up, eat, and head out.
By 9:40, Sean, Aldridge, and Jason descended to Beauxbatons' basement, its stone walls cool and lit by charmed torches that flickered like mischievous pixies. A student waited at the stairs, clearly sent by Sean's challenger, and guided them to the dueling room.
Jason walked with a spring in his step, his confidence in Sean unshaken. As a Slytherin, he knew Sean's dueling record—how he'd gone from an outcast to a respected figure in their house, earning his place through skill and grit.
Jason had heard tales of Sean and the Savior—Harry Potter—thwarting Quirrell's plot to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Sure, some called Quirrell a bumbling fool, but scheming to nab a legendary artifact took cunning. If Sean could handle that, these Beauxbatons students were no match.
The dueling room was a long rectangle, its centerpiece a raised, narrow platform like a duelist's runway. Torches cast dramatic shadows, and the air hummed with latent magic. A small crowd had gathered—not just the Quidditch group from yesterday, but other Beauxbatons students staying over the holidays. Sean spotted Barre among them, who gave a friendly wave, which Sean returned with a nod.
Sean's challenger approached, his expression smug. "Last chance to apologize and back out," he said. "Otherwise, you'll be limping to our hospital wing."
Sean smirked, unfazed. "I'm in a hurry to hit the library. Quit talking and let's duel."
"Who am I dueling with?" Sean asked, scanning the crowded dueling room.
His eyes locked on a figure rising from the Beauxbatons students. Recognition dawned, and Sean nodded slightly. "So, it's you."
The boy stepped forward, chin high. "Beauxbatons, Schiller Cavill!"
"Hogwarts, Sean Bulstrode," Sean replied, his voice steady.
They shook hands, a formal gesture charged with tension, then ascended the dueling platform from opposite ends. The platform hummed faintly with residual magic, its surface polished by countless spells. In the center, Sean and Schiller bowed, their wands at the ready, then turned and paced to their respective ends.
The Beauxbatons student acting as referee began the countdown, her voice sharp. "Three… two… one—duel!"
"Petrificus Totalus!" Sean shouted, flicking his wand.
His petrification spell, honed to near-perfection among his arsenal, surged forth in a gray-white beam, its speed and power ideal for seizing the initiative. The light streaked toward Schiller.
But Schiller was quick. A red flash—Expelliarmus—burst from his wand, meeting Sean's spell mid-air. The two collided in a shower of sparks, dissipating harmlessly.
Sean didn't hesitate. With a sharp wave of his wand, he summoned the room's tables and chairs, levitating them in a whirlwind. "Wingardium Leviosa!" he thought, though the incantation was unspoken, his focus razor-sharp. The furniture hurtled toward Schiller like a swarm of angry Cornish Pixies.
Schiller's eyes narrowed, unperturbed. He swung his wand, unleashing an orange-red arc—Reducto. The spell sliced through the air, and wherever it touched, tables and chairs exploded into splinters, scattering like startled Fizzing Whizbees.
Not stopping, Schiller pointed his wand at the debris. "Avis Transforma!" he incanted, a non-canon spell Sean didn't recognize. The splintered wood morphed into a flock of crows, their beady eyes glinting as they swarmed toward Sean in a dark, cawing cloud.
"Stupefy Barrage!" Sean countered, his wand slashing. A rapid-fire volley of stunning spells erupted, each bolt scattering the crows. For good measure, he followed with "Incendio!" Flames roared from his wand, forming a fiery cloud that engulfed the remaining birds, reducing them to ashes that drifted like snow.
Seizing the moment, Sean waved his wand again, directing the flames toward Schiller. His Transfiguration skills couldn't yet shape fire into precise forms, but he could guide its raw fury. The blaze surged, crackling like a dragon's breath, forcing the onlookers to retreat, their gasps drowned by the fire's roar.
Schiller's face tightened, caution replacing his earlier confidence. He took a deep breath, the air hot and heavy, and thrust his wand forward. "Crystal Wall Imprisonment!"
A shimmering, crystal-like light burst from his wand, solidifying into a translucent wall before him. The flames slammed against it, hissing and spitting, but the barrier held, deflecting the magical energy with ease.
Sean recognized the spell's strength. The Cavill family's signature magic, passed down through generations, was tailored to block energy-based spells like Stupefy, Expelliarmus, or Incendio. Against physical attacks, though, it was rumored to be weaker—a flaw Sean filed away.
"Diffindo!" Sean cast, followed by "Petrificus Totalus!" The cutting spell and petrification beam struck the crystal wall, but the barrier absorbed them without a scratch.
Schiller smirked, seizing his chance. With a flick of his wand, he sent the crystal wall sliding forward, its massive bulk rumbling across the platform toward Sean. The Beauxbatons crowd cheered, recognizing Schiller's tactic. In formal duels, this move often forced opponents off the platform, securing victory without direct harm. Schiller's confidence soared, his smile proclaiming triumph.
My wall's physical defense may be weaker, Schiller thought, but a first-year like you can't break it.
A deafening crack shattered his certainty.
The crystal wall fractured, shards exploding outward like a dropped Remembrall. Schiller's smile froze, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Sean shook out his fist, frowning as if disappointed. "Your spell's impressive for defense," he said, his tone casual but biting, "but it's flimsy against physical hits. It broke before I even hit it hard. Nearly startled me off the platform."
His words were half-true, designed to rattle Schiller. The punch had taken effort, but Sean's strength—bolstered by his system's enhancements—made it look effortless, a psychological jab as sharp as any spell.
Schiller gaped, his composure crumbling. "You… you're a monster! You smashed my crystal wall with one punch?"
He recalled Sean's Quaffle throw, which had snapped a broom mid-air. That strength wasn't normal. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Was Sean part magical creature? Like their headmistress, rumored to have giant blood? The idea was absurd, but Sean's power fueled wild speculation.
Schiller shook off his shock, his wand snapping up. "Stupefy!" he cast, firing a barrage of stunning spells.
Sean alternated between "Protego" and "Petrificus Totalus," his shield spell deflecting Schiller's attacks while his petrification attempts kept Schiller on edge. For a moment, they were locked in a stalemate, wands flashing like dueling fireflies.
Sean's mind raced. He could end this with the Smoke Rope Curse, a spell he'd gained from Voldemort's residual soul. Its black, coiling tendrils would overwhelm Schiller instantly. But the spell's dark origins made it risky. If anyone recognized it—someone who'd seen Voldemort wield it—questions would follow. A first-year casting a spell that advanced, that evil-looking, would raise suspicions. Am I hiding a second face? Sean thought wryly, imagining the gossip. He'd save it for a dire moment, not a school duel.
A snap echoed as their spells clashed, sparks flying. Sean angled his wand downward. "Thornvine Surge!" he cast, a non-canon spell inspired by Devil's Snare. Thorny vines erupted from the platform, writhing and multiplying, their spikes gleaming as they snaked toward Schiller in tangled layers.
Schiller countered with "Diffindo," his cutting spell sharper and faster than Sean's. The vines fell in shredded heaps, unable to reach him.
Sean weighed his options. His system-enhanced strength, likened to a troll's thorny skin, gave him natural spell resistance. On open ground, he could dodge and close the distance, relying on physical power. But the narrow platform offered no room to maneuver. Charging head-on risked taking a direct hit, and if Schiller's spells landed, Sean could lose the upper hand.
Watching Schiller slice through the vines with ease, Sean's eyes narrowed. An idea sparked, bold and risky, but perfectly suited to turn the duel in his favor.
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