Draco stood at his designated spot, eyeing Harry across from him, calculating silently.
Potter, raised in a Muggle household, likely knew only a handful of spells—probably just the basics from Professor Levent's remedial lessons, maybe an early grasp of the Disarming Charm. Technique aside, there was the matter of dueling etiquette. Unlike Slytherin's refined pure-blood wizards, Gryffindors were reckless and crude, fighting with no regard for decorum, solely focused on winning. Their last duel had been interrupted by a professor, but Draco could tell—Potter's combat skills were slightly superior.
Despite practicing diligently over the Christmas break, barely taking time to relax, Draco still lacked confidence. This was Potter, after all! The boy who faced a troll in first year, confronted dark wizard Quirrell, and battled a basilisk in second year. External factors may have played a role, but those were real victories. As an ordinary second-year, who wouldn't feel intimidated?
Still, he was a Malfoy, a Slytherin, trained by Professor Levent. He had courage without being mindlessly barbaric. If he could wield the Malfoy family's cunning… he could win!
Draco took a deep breath, his expression complex but resolute, gripping his wand tightly.
---
Harry, too, was quietly sizing up Malfoy.
After nearly two years at Hogwarts and various incidents, he'd clashed with Malfoy but also served detention together in the Forbidden Forest. When Hagrid illegally raised Norbert, Malfoy hadn't snitched. He'd even volunteered as Slytherin's Seeker, proving a worthy rival. Just now, when Harry demanded Dobby's freedom, Malfoy agreed readily.
Perhaps Mr. Malfoy's schemes had nothing to do with his son.
Compared to his initial disdain, Harry's view of Malfoy had softened slightly. He decided to end the duel quickly, going easy to spare Malfoy too much embarrassment.
"One… two… three!"
Expelliarmus!
Harry snapped to attention, flicking his wand. A surge of magic burst forth, a red beam shooting toward Malfoy.
The Disarming Charm, taught by Professors Levent and Flitwick, was one Harry had only recently learned. His mastery was basic, its power unremarkable, but it felt unusually natural, as if his magic flowed perfectly with it.
Simultaneously, Malfoy cast the same spell. His speed couldn't match the professors' demonstrations, but among peers, it was impressively fast. Harry's battle-honed instincts told him Malfoy's charm was weaker.
Boom!
A dull explosion rang out as the two Disarming Charms collided precisely. Cast almost simultaneously, Harry's spell was faster and stronger, pushing forward even after the clash, detonating just five feet from Malfoy.
The closer blast meant higher risk and less reaction time. The advantaged side could respond faster, setting up the next attack.
From seventeen feet away, Harry saw Malfoy's stunned expression and wide eyes. Without hesitation, he launched a second attack.
Expelliarmus!
Another crimson beam streaked across the Great Hall, aimed at Malfoy's chest.
Malfoy countered instantly, his wand slashing. Bang! Their spells collided, exploding even closer to Malfoy—three feet away.
Before he could recover, Harry's third spell crossed the gap, its red tail blazing. Malfoy, out of time to think, blocked hastily. His incantation barely finished before the spells clashed, exploding nearly at his wand's tip.
"This won't do—I'll lose like this…" Draco's composure cracked. Three consecutive Disarming Charms overwhelmed him, leaving no room for the Malfoy wit to shine.
He couldn't keep trading spells head-on. Potter's Disarming Charm was absurdly fast and potent, crushing Draco's in every clash.
The triple explosion left Draco's head ringing. Panicked, with no counter-strategy, and wary of using dark magic like Serpensortia after last time's lesson, his jumbled thoughts converged on one desperate idea—fight him physically!
As Harry prepared a fourth attack, Draco, unable to keep up, glanced at his well-maintained hawthorn wand. Gritting his teeth, he hurled it at Harry's face.
The wand, heavy with its unicorn hair core, spun through the air with a faint whistle. His throw was sloppy—poor force and aim, veering slightly off-target. Still, the short distance kept it close enough.
Harry stared, surprised, as the stick struck his leg harmlessly, weaker than Fang's tail swipe. But it disrupted his casting.
Malfoy charged, abandoning pure-blood elegance and Slytherin dignity. Grabbing his robes, he slammed into Harry, their momentum sending them sprawling. The wizard duel turned distinctly unmagical as they grappled on the floor.
Returning to the Great Hall, Melvin witnessed this scene: two scrawny second-years locked in a scuffle. It was less a fight than a one-sided beatdown—Harry pinned Draco's arm, dominating effortlessly.
Draco, pampered from youth, had never brawled. Harry, seasoned by scraps with his burly cousin, a heavyweight boxer, outclassed him.
Glancing around, Melvin noticed the silence—no murmurs, just rapt spectators. Prefects, Professors Flitwick and Snape, and gawking students watched with gleaming eyes, none intervening.
Spotting Hermione, Melvin asked, "Why aren't you stopping them?"
"There's a wager," she whispered. "If Harry wins, he frees Dobby."
"Even so, they're wizards—fighting like this is absurd," Melvin groaned, finding it less dignified than last time's dark magic. "Harry's had remedial lessons. He could win properly. Where's his wand?"
"Malfoy chose to brawl," Hermione replied.
Melvin fell silent. This was the peacock-proud Malfoy? Had he influenced this? Last term, encouraging Draco to vie for Seeker with courage—had he turned a Slytherin into a Gryffindor?
---
Draco's courage had a time limit. As his adrenaline cooled, rationality returned. Glancing at the watching professors and students, shame flooded him. This felt familiar—like last term, volunteering before Snape, acting on impulse only to regret it later. But last time, only Snape saw. Now, it was practically the whole school.
Realizing Levent's teachings were flawed—courage didn't always work—Draco cursed inwardly. Last time, it won him the Seeker spot; this time, it cost the Malfoy name its dignity, making him look like a Gryffindor oaf.
This farce had to end.
Draco exhaled, loosening his grip for a moment. As Harry eased up, Draco surged, nearly breaking free. But Harry swiftly re-pinned his arm, twisting it at a painful angle.
"Let go! Let go!" Draco hissed.
"You surrender?" Harry eased his hold slightly.
Draco's brow furrowed. He'd already lost face once; surrendering would double the humiliation. "No way!"
"Then I'm not letting go."
Draco struggled, but Harry's grip tightened, the pain sharpening. Exhausted, Draco's expression dulled, almost numb. Potter, a Gryffindor, cared nothing for decorum—just winning and freeing that house-elf.
House-elf? An idea sparked. Lowering his voice so only Harry could hear, Draco said, "Let me go, concede the duel, and I'll transfer that house-elf to you."
"I win, you're supposed to free Dobby anyway," Harry countered.
Draco stopped struggling, sneering. "True, but do you really want to risk it?"
Harry froze, memories of Dobby's scars and tales of brutal punishments—irons, wall-bashing, whippings—flashing through his mind. To pure-bloods, house-elves were less than slaves. Angering Malfoy could mean worse torment for Dobby. Annoying as Dobby was, his heart was kind.
Frowning, Harry loosened his grip. "If I concede, you won't hurt Dobby and will hand him over?"
"I swear on the Malfoy name."
"Fine."
Malfoys are all rotten, Harry thought. Releasing Draco, he stood, expression complex, and bowed with his wand. "I lose this duel."
Draco staggered up, panting, completing the dueling formalities without a trace of triumph. He stumbled out of the Great Hall toward the Slytherin common room. Levent's teachings weren't universal—most times, Malfoy cunning was the better tool.
Flitwick's amused voice rang out, "That's all for today's Dueling Club. Instructions for practicing Disarming and Shield Charms will be recorded and given to prefects. Review them on the Shadow Mirror, practice, or ask me, Snape, or Levent with questions."
The prefects nodded.
Last term, inspired by Melvin, each house common room got a small Shadow Mirror, with professors providing memory footage for study aids. Mention of the Mirror sparked chatter.
George Weasley called out, "Professor, can we link the Mirrors to the Floo Network?"
"That involves school security," Flitwick said, shaking his head. "I can't decide—ask Dumbledore or McGonagall."
Scanning the hall for further questions, Flitwick dismissed the club. "Same time next week, here. Dueling Club welcomes all."
George and Fred exchanged glances, eyes gleaming, and hurried out, likely to find McGonagall.
---
After dismissing the students, Melvin stayed to help Flitwick tidy the Great Hall. Candles and furniture floated and spun under Levitation Charms. They chatted, one moment griping about Dumbledore's staff exploitation, the next swapping tips on Levitation techniques. Melvin enjoyed the banter.
Extinguishing torches and bidding Mrs. Norris farewell, they headed upstairs to their offices. Near curfew, the corridors were empty, portraits asleep. Passing the third floor, they ran into McGonagall descending.
"Melvin, Filius…" she greeted, her gaze lingering on Melvin. "Free tomorrow? I need you in Hogsmeade to settle some accounts."
Flitwick glanced at Melvin—they'd become the go-to pair for such tasks. But Melvin shook his head. "Sorry, Professor, I've got a business meeting tomorrow… personal business."
"Not in Hogsmeade?"
"Newcastle."
"Then my weekend's claimed," Flitwick sighed, drawing a chuckle from McGonagall. Neither pressed why Melvin's business was in a North Sea coastal city.
Melvin smiled. "Why were you upstairs, Professor?"
"The Weasley twins requested linking the house Mirrors to the Floo Network. I checked with the Gryffindor prefects for their thoughts."
"You agreed?"
"I think it's fine for weekends and holidays, but I'd like your opinion, Melvin."
In a boarding school starved for entertainment, exposing students to TV-like programs? Melvin's expression turned odd. "You're half-blood, right, Professor?"
"My father was a Muggle—a Caithness pastor."
Melvin nodded. TVs weren't common then, and pastors were traditional. McGonagall likely hadn't seen teens glued to screens. "Why ask? Does my background matter?" she said, curious. "Shouldn't the Mirrors connect to the Floo on weekends?"
"If you insist…" Melvin paused. "I think it's worth a try."