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"Now, defensive demonstration!"
Snape reacted with astonishing speed.
With a sharp flick of his wand, he traced a perfect silver arc in the air before him. In the very next instant, a shimmering silver Shield Charm materialized, forming a flawless protective barrier. The flock of enchanted birds crashed into the shield one after another, setting off a series of continuous bang bang bang sounds as if firecrackers had been lit, with sparks exploding in all directions.
But the same could not be said for Lockhart, who was standing right beside him.
The magical birds pelted him like a storm of stones, thudding into his body with heavy, painful impact. He let out a shrill scream, flailing as he tried to dodge them, his arms thrown over his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself.
His high-pitched cries blended with the piercing screeches of the magical birds into a chaotic, almost comedic symphony. His meticulously styled golden hair was soon reduced to a frizzy mess, and within moments, his face was swollen and bruised, blotched with purples and blues like he'd walked straight into a hornet's nest.
"The essence of defense lies in understanding the threat you're facing," Sargeras's voice rang out clear and forceful above the commotion, effortlessly cutting through the noise. "From protective enchantments to counter-spell systems, the exact method you choose depends entirely on the situation at hand. And while defending, you must also build up your strength… otherwise, you'll be stuck in a cycle of endless passive defense, never seizing control of the fight—"
Across from him, Snape drew a swift circle with his wand in front of his chest. A powerful surge of magical energy began to gather behind the curved surface of his shield. A ruthless gleam flashed across his eyes. Then, with a sudden thrust, he stabbed his wand forward, and a beam of curse-light shot out like a silver arrow, hurtling straight toward Sargeras at lightning speed.
"Which brings us to the final piece… attack!"
As he spoke, Sargeras flicked his wand almost lazily, casually drawing a shining arc of silver in the air. The incoming curse-light slammed into an invisible shield that had appeared in front of him just moments earlier, stopping it in its tracks with a sharp crackle.
"An offensive spell isn't limited to just those designed to harm or injure," his voice echoed through the Great Hall, calm and resonant, carrying a quiet authority. "It refers to any magic that can break through a defense or create an opportunity to turn the tide of battle."
As his words faded, two thick beams of crimson-red light erupted from the tip of his wand like twin bolts of lightning.
Snape's pupils shrank in an instant. His wand whipped through the air in a blur as he raised it to counter the spell. He managed to block one of the incoming blasts just in time, but the sheer force of the magic sent his black robes billowing wildly, flapping like sails caught in a storm.
But Lockhart… once again… was not so lucky.
One of the spell-beams struck him square in the chest. He was thrown backwards violently, spinning through the air like a rag doll, completely limp and helpless.
"The Disarming Charm can strip an opponent of their wand," Sargeras began calmly, his tone steady even as the chaos unfolded around him, "but remember—"
As he spoke, he gave his wand a slight upward flick, and with that simple motion, Lockhart — still midair — was yanked back to his original position as though pulled by an invisible rope.
"—a wizard without a wand can still be dangerous. For example, graduates of the Uagadou school in Africa are tested entirely on their ability to cast spells without wands."
He continued his demonstration without pause. Another swift movement of his wrist, and two more streaks of spell-light tore through the air like burning comets. The speed with which he cast them was utterly astonishing… it was as if he didn't even need to speak the incantations, as though the spells leapt from his wand with mere thought.
"The Petrificus Totalus and the Stupefy," he explained, his voice effortlessly keeping pace with the rapid succession of attacks. "Both are excellent for disabling an enemy without causing lasting harm. They're ideal tools for controlling the flow of battle… and just right for your level."
Snape, who had just been preparing a counter-spell, was forced to abandon it midway. Caught off guard, he hastily raised a Shield Charm to block the incoming spells.
The next moment, the magical shield collided with the twin beams of light, bursting in a shower of brilliant sparks. The force of the impact drove Snape back half a step, his feet sliding across the polished stone floor as he struggled to hold his ground.
But Lockhart, once again, fared far worse.
This time, he didn't even manage a scream.
The instant the spell hit him, his entire body froze in mid-motion, stiffening into a grotesquely exaggerated pose: one leg comically raised, arms stretched forward like a stage actor in mid-dramatic gesture, and his face frozen in a look of utter terror — wide eyes, gaping mouth — as if he'd been turned into some poorly sculpted piece of modern art.
Around the hall, the young witches and wizards were wide-eyed with awe, their gazes locked onto the scene, unblinking. Some of them were holding their breath without even realizing it, too mesmerized to exhale.
Never before had they witnessed such a dazzling magical duel — spells bursting like fireworks across the stage, every move accompanied by sharp, clear tactical explanations that made even the most advanced magic feel thrillingly accessible.
More than a few students couldn't help but raise their fingers, unconsciously mimicking the wand movements in midair, as if hoping to grasp even a fraction of what they were witnessing. But the moment their eyes fell on Lockhart — bruised, battered, and ridiculous, with hair blown into a chaotic mess — they quickly dropped their hands and tried to compose themselves, as if they had never moved at all.
Sargeras's wand moved like a spring that never ceased to flow, constantly in motion, each flick releasing another spell in a mesmerizing and relentless rhythm.
He continued to explain as if he had all the time in the world, his voice calm and composed, even as he effortlessly unleashed a brilliant, multicolored storm of spells that lit up the air like a magical symphony in motion.
Caught in that storm of spells, Snape was clearly struggling. His black robes fluttered wildly around him, flapping like the wings of a bat trying to escape a hurricane. He stumbled this way and that, barely managing to hold his ground. Any attempts at a counterattack — one or two hurried streaks of spell-light — were effortlessly neutralized by Sargeras, who brushed them aside with the ease of someone swatting away a speck of dust.
"Watch closely," came Sargeras's voice, cutting through the blasts and explosions of spellfire like a blade of calm. His tone remained steady and impassive, devoid of any mockery or triumph, "Professor Snape is demonstrating a range of evasive maneuvers and defensive spells. These are exactly the techniques you'll be focusing on in the future. They might look a little messy right now, but believe me… they're very practical and effective."
Even before his words had fully settled, he gave his wand a delicate tap, and the floor of the stage suddenly rose up with a rumble, forming a solid stone wall. The newly formed barrier appeared just in time to block a hastily cast Stunning Spell from Snape, which struck the wall with a sharp thud.
In the very next moment, with a subtle motion of Sargeras's hand, that same stone wall dissolved into a swirling cloud of butterflies, their wings scattering shimmering flakes of light as they danced in the air and clouded Snape's line of sight.
Snape responded immediately, casting a Scouring Charm to blow away the sparkling scales. But before he could catch his breath, the fluttering butterflies in front of him suddenly transformed again, this time turning into a swarm of razor-sharp spikes that shot toward him like a volley of tiny spears.
He was forced to raise a Shield Charm once more, his protective spell shimmering just in time to absorb the attack. But by now, the hand holding his wand had begun to tremble faintly, his stamina clearly wearing thin.
Still, Sargeras did not slow down.
He gave his wand a graceful twirl, and from an oblique angle, another flash of crimson spell-light burst forth like a predator lunging from the shadows.
Snape threw himself to the side in desperation, diving behind the nearest object he could find for cover.
That object happened to be Lockhart… still frozen in place like a statue, stuck in the exact pose he'd been petrified in, arms outstretched and one leg awkwardly lifted, looking utterly ridiculous and entirely unaware of how he was being used as a human shield.
"Transfiguration isn't just about turning teacups into mice," Sargeras went on, still speaking with the same measured clarity, as if giving a simple lecture. Behind him, the wall he had raised continued to shift and morph in midair, its form changing constantly like sculpted clay come to life. "When used well, even the bricks and stones around you can become powerful tools in both offense and defense on the battlefield."
Then, with a sudden forward thrust of his wand, he launched his final move.
A surge of stone erupted like a tidal wave, transforming into a roaring flood of transfigured debris that crashed toward the center of the stage with a deafening explosion. The force of the blast was so immense it shook the floor beneath them, sending a shockwave reverberating through the hall.
The young witches and wizards screamed and clapped their hands over their ears. As the dust settled, two silver ropes — slithering like serpents through the air — shot out from the heart of the smoke cloud. They coiled around Snape's exhausted body in a flash, binding him tightly like a wrapped parcel, and in passing, added a second layer of "protection" to the already petrified Lockhart, securing him like a bundled statue beside his fallen 'comrade.'
By the time the smoke had fully dispersed, Sargeras had already straightened his sleeves with meticulous care, as though the entire dazzling display of magic he had just performed had been nothing more than a simple routine — barely worth mentioning.
"Remember," his voice rang out, crisp and steady, reaching every corner of the hall and drilling into the minds of the stunned students like a final incantation. "Wizard duels are not about standing still and trading spells. They are a dynamic contest of movement, evasion, defense, and overwhelming offense. Victory depends on three crucial factors—"
As he began to slowly pace across the stage, he didn't spare even a glance for Snape, whose face was now dark with barely concealed frustration. Instead, his eyes swept over the crowd of young witches and wizards, all of whom were still wide-eyed and breathless with excitement.
He raised one slender finger.
"First — Magical Power. This determines whether you have the strength to sustain high-intensity, continuous spellcasting."
He let that sink in for a moment. Then he raised a second finger.
"Second — Spell Repertoire. The breadth of spells you've mastered decides whether you can keep up with the constantly shifting conditions of a real battlefield."
And finally, he lifted a third finger.
"Third — Tactical Foresight. It is this that decides whether you're the hunter… or the prey."
He came to a stop at the very edge of the stage, standing tall as he looked down at the sea of eager, breathless faces below him. His voice softened a little, taking on a quiet gravity, as though he were passing on something precious.
"And you must remember this: true duelists — those who've reached the top — no longer draw clear lines between types of magic. Their spells shift seamlessly between attack and defense, between control and counter. Everything flows. Everything adapts. And by the time you realize what they're doing… it's already too late."
He paused for a beat. Then his voice cooled ever so slightly.
"But you're still far from that level…"
As he spoke, he casually lowered his wand until the tip rested lightly against Lockhart's stone-frozen forehead. A faint shimmer of murky spelllight flickered, barely noticeable, and in the next instant, Lockhart came back to life with a startled gasp, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed to his knees, blinking in confusion.
"I'll be requesting to take over this club from Dumbledore," Sargeras announced, standing squarely on the stage again, his expression unreadable. "If I'm granted permission… then I'll teach you some real skills."
Then, without waiting for applause or acknowledgment, and ignoring the cheers that were already beginning to swell across the hall, he knelt gracefully beside the two immobilized professors. With a simple, fluid motion, he drew his wand lightly across the space between their necks.
No blood was drawn. And yet the gesture — clean, effortless, like the final stroke of a blade — sent a chill down the spine of every young witch and wizard watching. For a brief, breathless moment, the air itself seemed to freeze.
"The final lesson for today…" Sargeras said softly. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. Every student in the hall heard it as clearly as if he had whispered directly in their ear.
"Always remember to finish the job off."
His wand paused — just for a breath — at Snape's temple, a touch so light it might have been imagined. Then he added in an even quieter voice, one meant for only a few to catch:
"Especially when the one you're facing… wants you dead."
Snape's glare burned with fury, but Sargeras didn't even glance his way. He stood up smoothly, then snapped his fingers.
In a flash, the ropes binding both professors vanished without a trace.
"This," he said, turning back to the watching students, his voice returning to a level calm, "is a truth I would rather teach you myself… before your enemies do."
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[Chapter End's]
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