Sean's Troll Strength and Troll Spiked Hide were powerful talents, gifts from his system that set him apart in any fight. But they didn't make him invincible.
Magic's versatility and cunning outshone raw power in the wizarding world. Wizards had tamed creatures like giants and trolls not with muscle, but with clever spells and strategy. Sean's past victories—like against Quirrell and Voldemort's remnant—hinged on exploiting weaknesses. Quirrell was hobbled by Harry's love protection, his wand hand ruined by Sean's surprise attack.
Voldemort's shade, barely clinging to life through unicorn blood, was too weak to fight at full strength. Even then, Sean's Troll Strength had only tipped the scales, not won the day outright.
Magic's potential dwarfed his current abilities. To triumph, Sean had to weave his physical power with spellwork, each amplifying the other. One day, if his system unlocked Giant Strength or Giant Skin from a true giant, he might crush a wizard with a single blow. For now, he had to fight smart, blending brawn with brains.
Facing Schiller's shredded vines, Sean swept his wand in a broad arc. "Vineforge Shield!" he cast, a non-canon spell. The severed vines spun before him, twisting and knitting together like a rogue Whomping Willow. They formed a massive, thorny shield, its spikes gleaming under the dueling room's flickering, charmed torches.
Tucking his wand behind his back, Sean seized the shield with both hands. His muscles flexed, Troll Strength coursing through him like a surge of magic. He charged at Schiller like a Chaser diving for the Quaffle, the platform trembling beneath his heavy steps.
The Beauxbatons students gasped, their whispers buzzing like startled owls. A wizard crafting a magical shield to charge his opponent? It was unthinkable. Most would trade spells from a safe distance, not storm forward like a rogue Bludger on a rampage.
"What's he up to?" a student muttered, wide-eyed.
Barre, who'd just arrived with Fleur, leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "It's like Schiller's Crystal Wall Imprisonment trick, pushing foes off the platform. For most wizards, it's pointless—but with Sean's Strength, the kind that shattered Schiller's wall? It's a whole different spell."
Fleur nodded, her Veela charm overshadowed by keen interest. "He's making his physical power a weapon, using magic to pave the way."
Schiller, unfazed, unleashed a flurry of spells. "Reducto!" he bellowed, the orange-red arc slamming into the vine shield. Thorns splintered, fragments scattering like startled Fizzing Whizbees. A swift "Diffindo" followed, slicing the shield into tattered ribbons.
But Sean was already there. He'd closed the distance, his speed defying the platform's narrow bounds. Schiller raised his wand, his voice sharp. "Stupefy—"
"Too late!" Sean interrupted.
In one swift move, Sean snatched Schiller's wand with his left hand, his grip like a troll's vise. His right hand clamped Schiller's neck, firm but controlled. Stepping forward, Sean hooked his foot behind Schiller's, executing a neat trip. With a gentle push, he pressed Schiller to the ground. The fifth-year hit the platform with a dull thud, eyes glazed, mouth hanging open, dazed like a confunded Puffskein.
Sean flicked Schiller's wand off the platform, where it skittered across the stone floor like a startled Bowtruckle. Rising, he looked down at Schiller, his voice calm but resolute. "You lose."
Silence gripped the dueling room, the crowd's earlier cheers snuffed out. Schiller blinked, his senses creeping back. He struggled to his feet, wincing, his pride stinging more than his bruises. A fifth-year challenging a first-year was bold enough; losing to one, and so decisively, was unimaginable. He'd planned to overpower Sean, then offer a generous concession to save face. But Sean's skill—and terrifying Troll Strength—had torn that plan to shreds.
"I… I did lose," Schiller admitted, his voice rough. "But that doesn't mean Beauxbatons' wizards are beaten! I'm just an average fifth-year. There are plenty stronger than me—though they're not here now."
Sean arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And? I've just finished my first year. Next term, I'll be a second-year. You've got stronger wizards at Beauxbatons? Hogwarts has plenty stronger than me, too. What's your point?"
Schiller froze, caught off guard. His attempt to salvage pride sounded feeble. Boasting about Beauxbatons' absent champions after a first-year had floored him? It'd only draw mockery, branding him a sore loser. A fifth-year defeated by a first-year in a fair duel—what could he say?
Sean studied Schiller's faltering expression, reading his intent. Schiller wanted an escape, a way to avoid further challenges while saving face. Sean could've crushed that hope, leaning on his first-year status to silence any talk of future duels. But his system thrived on conflict—each duel was a chance to earn "gift packs," to grow stronger. More challengers meant more rewards. Why shut the door?
He met Schiller's gaze, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. Let them come. His Troll Strength, Troll Spiked Hide, and spellwork were just the beginning. The dueling platform's scorched marks and scattered vine shards stood as proof of his victory, a challenge to anyone foolish enough to underestimate him.
The crowd murmured, some in awe, others in disbelief. Jason, standing with Aldridge near the platform, grinned broadly, his faith in Sean unshaken. Aldridge's expression remained stoic, but his eyes gleamed with quiet approval. Fleur and Barre exchanged glances, their earlier analysis proven right—Sean was no ordinary first-year.
"Schiller," Sean said, his voice clear and deliberate, "I get what you're saying. I'll give you a chance." He lifted his chin, scanning the Beauxbatons students surrounding the platform. Their eyes narrowed, some clutching wands, others whispering furiously. "Dueling sharpens your skills. If anyone thinks they can beat me, show up here at ten o'clock every morning. I'll be waiting, right on time."
He paused, letting the words sink in, then added with a sly smirk, "Surely, in a grand school like Beauxbatons, there are plenty who can take me down, right?"
The crowd bristled, their glares sharp enough to rival a Stinging Hex. Sean's taunt, delivered with the cunning of a Slytherin, struck deep, challenging their pride. He didn't need to say more—the gauntlet was thrown. With a leisurely step, he descended the platform, unfazed by the angry stares. Jason and Aldridge fell in behind him, Jason's grin wide, Aldridge's face impassive but his eyes alert. Sean strode out of the dueling room, the platform's scorched marks and scattered vine shards a testament to his victory, and headed straight for Beauxbatons' library, eager to dive back into his alchemy texts.
As the door swung shut, the dueling room erupted in heated whispers. The charmed torches flickered like mischievous pixies, casting dancing shadows over the students' faces. Some shook their heads, muttering about Sean's arrogance; others clenched their fists, already plotting to take him on. The atmosphere buzzed, charged with the promise of future clashes.
Fleur Delacour, standing near the platform with Barre Garcia, watched Sean's exit with a flicker of keen interest in her eyes. Her Veela charm shimmered subtly, but her focus was on the boy who'd just turned the room upside down. She kept her expression neutral, betraying nothing, and turned to Barre. "Barre, in the next month, some of our old friends might return to school. If Sean were a Beauxbatons student, it'd be one thing—but he's from Hogwarts. Until someone beats him, those hotheads won't let him off easily."
Barre crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "Can you blame them? His words were downright provoking."
Fleur's lips curved slightly, a thoughtful glint in her gaze. "Capable people often are. But I'm puzzled. Is the Sean who discussed Potions with us so calmly, so thoughtfully, the real him? Or is this Sean, strutting off the dueling platform like he owns it, the true one? Who is Sean Bulstrode?"
Her question hung in the air, unanswered. Barre shrugged, glancing at the platform where Schiller still stood, dusting off his robes with a scowl. The fifth-year's defeat was a bruise on Beauxbatons' pride, and Sean's parting words had fanned the flames. The next month promised to be anything but quiet.
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See you in the next chapter!