The Duel
"Both parties acknowledge each other…"
On the candlelit platform, Snape raised his wand in a bow across from Melvin. His wand was unusually long—thirteen and a half inches, birchwood, naturally light but darkened to a near-black sheen, likely from years of polishing with tung oil and potions.
Snape's wand was shrouded in mystery. Even Flitwick and Sprout didn't know its details. Students whispered it might contain a snake's nerve or a vampire bat's wing membrane, fitting the Slytherin head's persona. But in Britain, only Ollivander's sold wands, using just three cores: phoenix feather, unicorn tail hair, and dragon heartstring.
Unicorns repelled dark magic, and dragons favored volatile spells—neither suited Snape's temperament. Melvin leaned toward phoenix feather.
Sparse cheers and shouts of encouragement rose from the crowd.
Melvin listened closely, pleased. Most students were rooting for him, even some Slytherins. The young witches and wizards had good taste.
Flitwick grinned, relishing the spectacle. "Both professors are ready to duel, but I must remind you: today's demonstration is to showcase the Disarming Charm and Shield Charm. Try to avoid other spells, especially dark magic. Agreed?"
"Of course, Professor Flitwick," Melvin replied with a smile.
"…" Snape only nodded slightly.
"Ready—one, two, three!"
Expelliarmus!
Snape's eyes sharpened, sidestepping as he flicked his wand, launching a swift Disarming Charm.
Buzz!
A brief white light halted midair, ripples of silvery glow spreading outward.
"Professor Levent's Shield Charm is exceptional!" Flitwick's amplified voice echoed through the hall. "Notice how it works—formless, colorless. If cast quickly, it's hard for opponents to detect, thwarting their attacks unexpectedly.
"But, Professor Levent, this is a dueling lesson. Try to avoid wandless or silent casting—neither the students nor Professor Snape are prepared for that."
The watching students burst into laughter. "Hahaha…"
Ignoring Snape's darkening expression, Melvin nodded apologetically. "Understood, Professor."
Expelliarmus!
Snape launched another attack, his wand a blur, firing rapid Disarming Charms that could've covered half the hall if not confined to the platform.
He aimed to overwhelm Melvin's Shield Charm or force a mistake, hoping to knock out this impertinent young colleague in one strike.
But a series of soft clinks filled the air as a dozen charms struck Melvin's shield, producing a dense, metallic hum.
Melvin chanted softly, raising his wand. A single Shield Charm enveloped him, blocking every attack—whether aimed at his chest or feet—striking an unbreakable magical barrier with low, resonant clangs.
"Many wizards think the Shield Charm summons a small shield for a single spell," Flitwick explained. "But Professor Levent proves that wrong. The incantation, Protego, means 'armor protection.' It can guard the entire body like sturdy armor, deflecting spells as it would arrows or axes."
Clang, clang…
The dull impacts continued.
Snape's face remained impassive, but his eyes grew colder. He'd noticed during their last duel: Melvin's Shield Charm wasn't just armor—it was a turtle shell, protecting not only his body but even deflecting spells that grazed past.
Snape had tested with a few off-target charms, veering far from the platform, yet they were still blocked.
Solid, reliable, impregnable.
But as he eased his assault, an ominous feeling hit. His pupils constricted at the shift ahead.
His last wave of Disarming Charms was blocked, but instead of fizzling out, they shimmered, reversed direction, and surged back toward him.
Flitwick's commentary grew excited. "Watch closely! The Shield Charm doesn't just defend—it can counterattack. Skilled wizards can use it to reflect spells back at their foes."
The students' eyes widened. Melvin had shown this trick before, but never so vividly. They now realized his Shield Charm could reflect spells across a wide range.
On the platform's left, Snape's brow furrowed. To probe for weaknesses, he'd cast charms across a broad area. His own Shield Charm wasn't as refined as Melvin's, and the hastily conjured barrier could only block frontal attacks.
In a real fight, he'd Apparate away. But on this platform, he was trapped.
His own aggressive onslaught left him vulnerable.
As the reflected charms closed in, Snape adjusted his Shield Charm's angle with seasoned precision. A former Death Eater and Slytherin head, he had ample dueling experience, even at a disadvantage.
Clang, clang…
The frontal charms hit his shield, a mirror-like silver flash redirecting them—not toward Melvin, but toward the other incoming spells.
Light burst as the charms collided, the shockwave making candles flicker and sparks fly like fireworks.
Both professors paused, bowing again, earning thunderous applause.
George and Fred led with whistles and cheers, nearly shaking the hall's roof, deafening the crowd.
Unnoticed in a corner, a spark landed on Flitwick's robe, nearly igniting it. He frantically patted it out, startled.
"Hm…"
Flitwick eyed the retreating professors suspiciously, unsure if it was an accident or deliberate.
Was pulling them as guest instructors worth burning his robe?
"Ahem…"
Flitwick cleared his throat, quelling the lingering cheers. "Thank you both for a splendid demonstration. However, their techniques aren't practical for teaching. You can learn from their ideas, but don't try replicating them. Normally, wizards don't fire a dozen Disarming Charms in a row or cast a Shield Charm that wide."
"Now, let's start group practice."
"…"
As a guest instructor, Melvin mingled with the students, guiding their practice and chatting with Snape.
Having been slightly outmaneuvered, Snape was cool but not angry, his barbs sharp as ever, though that was just his nature.
Melvin didn't mind. "Dueling lessons are weekly now. Will you keep assisting, Professor Snape?"
"It's Filius's club, not mine," Snape replied, correcting a Slytherin student's wand angle. After three ignored instructions, he rolled up his sleeve and tapped the student's head, ordering him to hold it steady.
Snape's glare was intimidating, leaving the student quivering like a quail, wand trembling.
While chatting with Melvin, Snape kept an eye on the student. "We've covered Disarming and Shield Charms. Next time, let McGonagall demonstrate Transfiguration in duels."
"I agree."
Melvin noticed the student's shaking hands and miserable expression, almost in tears. Kind-hearted, he couldn't bear to see a student punished, shook his head, and walked away.
Moving among the students, correcting their casting, Melvin suddenly paused, his eyes brightening as if receiving good news. He strode quickly out of the hall.
…
"Harry Potter!"
The platinum-blond wizard raised his hawthorn wand, his face set with determination to face his rival. At ten inches, with a unicorn tail hair core, it reflected magic's essence, resistant to interference.
"Draco Malfoy," Harry replied, gripping his fated wand, his expression equally resolute. "You've been looking forward to this duel, haven't you?"
"Yes, and I know you have too."
"…"
Harry's lips tightened, a flicker of guilt in his eyes.
Truthfully, he wasn't that eager. After days in the hospital wing, he'd spent his recovery goofing off. When he had free time, his mind was on the basilisk, the Chamber, and the professor's plans—not this duel.
"What do you mean? Why aren't you saying anything?" Draco demanded, pointing angrily.
"Ahem…" Harry cleared his throat. "Right, I've been looking forward to it too."
"…"
"But starting the duel like this… don't you think something's missing?"
"What?" Draco frowned.
"Famous wizard duels always have stakes. The loser pays a price," Harry said gravely. "I think this duel needs a serious wager."
"You… what do you want to bet?"
Draco's heart raced, his mind flashing through dramatic stakes from storybooks: a broken wand, swearing off magic forever; lifelong servitude; a branded mark of shame.
"I want your house-elf."
"Dobby?"
Draco was incredulous. All that buildup for this?
"Exactly, Dobby. What do you want?"
"…"
Draco thought it over. The Potters made their fortune in hair potions, but generations of wealth didn't match half a year of Malfoy income. What could Harry have that he wanted?
"Haven't decided. I'll tell you later. Let's duel!"
"Deal!"
Harry figured it didn't matter what Draco wanted—he wasn't going to lose.
"Ready—one, two, three!"
…
Melvin walked along the corridor to the courtyard, strolling under moonlight. Unmelted snow mixed with muddy water, staining the ground. A faint, earthy mist hung in the cool night air.
The students were in the hall practicing spells, leaving the courtyard silent. Each step crunched audibly in the snow.
He could hear others approaching—like the headmaster, who often grabbed a hot cocoa from the kitchen before bed, partly to avoid troubling the house-elves, partly to wander. Hogwarts at night was full of surprises.
Melvin found a quiet corner to sense the Ouroboros mark's vibrations. Before he could close his eyes, he heard Dumbledore's footsteps.
"Melvin, what are you doing out here so late?" Dumbledore approached, chuckling, the scent of cocoa wafting over.
"Moonbathing," Melvin replied dryly.
"Hm…"
Dumbledore glanced up. It was the day after the full moon, still round and silvery. Melting snow's vapor formed clouds, drifting slowly, enhancing the moon's cold beauty.
"Gorgeous…"
Dumbledore sighed softly. "I don't like a full moon. It stirs less pleasant memories."
"Actually, good memories outnumber the bad, but negative emotions leave deeper impressions, so bad ones stick more," Melvin said, in no rush. Whether it was Rita or Peter, the news could wait a few minutes.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Muggle psychology?"
"Neuroscience, actually."
Melvin explained, "The hippocampus handles memory, but recall involves the prefrontal cortex and amygdala. The amygdala governs emotions, especially fear and anger, making them vivid. Grief, sadness, despair work similarly…"
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should store happy memories separately, revisiting them in the Pensieve on full moons?"
"…"
Melvin didn't comment.
As Dumbledore's figure vanished around the corridor, Melvin closed his eyes, sinking into the Ouroboros mark.
His consciousness flowed with the magic. He stood in Hogwarts' courtyard, yet felt weightless, the castle walls melting like snow, space dissolving into nothingness.
No tangible forms, only vague gray mist.
Within it, several silver lights flickered—Apparition anchors. One was dim but sharply defined: a spinning Ouroboros, pulsing with intense emotion.
Melvin focused his mind on the light.
A salty sea breeze hit him, waves crashing against rocks. In the misty, deep-blue tide, a short, stout man clung to a wooden plank, teetering as if about to plunge into the sea.