"...Next, feel free to move around."
In the dueling class classroom, William, having finished teaching, reclined in a chair, unscrewed the lid of his teacup, and gently blew on it. Although the content prepared for the Defense Against the Dark Arts a hundred years ago is no longer useful, to be honest, the job Dumbledore arranged for him is really simple for him—
Wizard's Curse practical application teaching...
What he has no shortage of is practical experience.
Watching the little wizards in the classroom begin to pair up in preparation for dueling, William couldn't help but sigh—life...
"—Don't cause any casualties, Mr. Longbottom—put the mandrake away!"
Just when he was half a hands-off boss, William "whoosh" sat up, watching Neville who was pulling a magical little prop out of his "pants," and a piece of chalk in his hand had been thrown out.
"...Oh."
Hit in the head with a piece of gold, Neville nodded somewhat miserably, covering the mouth of the mandrake that was about to start howling, and stuffed it back into his pocket. Then, he gave his opponent, whom he had "drawn" his lot against, a "harmless" smile.
Malfoy: "..."
How did this little chubby kid turn out like this?
To be honest, although Malfoy now understands (was forced to understand) that he really wasn't a good person before—does their grudge really run that deep?
"Look, Malfoy's hand is shaking—"
At this moment, Malfoy's ears were suddenly filled with the voice he hated the most... nothing else came close, turning his head, sure enough, there was that Weasley with the stupid red hair unhesitatingly "whispering" a taunt... alright, not really whispering.
The boy's taunting voice almost filled the whole classroom, but it's known to all that tolerating insults isn't Malfoy's style, and almost without hesitation, he shot back, "Yes, it's trembling, because I never thought I'd be in the same room with a beaten dog—"
"!" Ron's face turned beet red, and he instantly remembered that night full of humiliation.
"You only won that once! You think you can beat me now?"
Ron tightly gripped his magic wand, shrugging off Harry's hand trying to grab his shoulder, and strode towards Malfoy, "In a year, is there anything else you can say besides that?"
"A beaten dog's barking is just that, barking."
Malfoy kept both hands in his pockets, a smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"Ron, this is a classroom—"
Hermione's scream almost pierced the ceiling—Ron was already in front of Malfoy, right hand clenched into a fist, raised high—
Draco Malfoy's eyelid twitched slightly—he regretted saying that immediately, not out of fear of being hit, but because, according to dueling club tradition, what comes next...
"Enough!"
William's voice wasn't loud, yet it mysteriously drowned out all the noise, carrying an indisputable authority, and the classroom instantly fell silent, leaving only Ron's somewhat heavy breathing and Malfoy's light inhalation.
William still lay lazily against the back of the chair, but his head leaned forward slightly, his gaze swept over the two disruptive little wizards, a curve slowly forming at the corner of his mouth—
"..."
Seeing this smile, Malfoy sensed something bad was coming, while Ron was still dumbly staring, seemingly waiting for William to continue.
"Arguments? Arguments solve nothing, gentlemen."
William slowly began, his tone as relaxed as discussing the weather, "You can't really kill each other like this... cough, trust me, Hogwarts has places far more suitable for settling disputes than corridors, and ways more effective than fists—like," he paused, twirling the magic wand skillfully between his fingers, "here?"
With a light tap of his wand, the originally flat wooden floor between Ron and Malfoy quickly shook and rose.
Squeaking sounds could be heard as a rectangular dueling platform, about sixteen feet long and three feet wide, formed instantly.
"Come on, you two."
William's voice carried a teasing sort of encouragement, "Since emotions and magic power run so high, why not channel them into something more constructive? Practice makes perfect..." he shrugged exaggeratedly, "and even friendships are deepened through genuine exchanges, right?"
With that, William snapped his fingers lightly, and George immediately bounced onto the platform, "The rules are simple." George announced loudly, "Anything but dark arts goes, until one side is effectively disarmed, subdued, unconscious... or realizes their impulse might lead to a big mistake and voluntarily admits defeat—"
Beneath the stage, Fred quickly pulled out a small suitcase, cradling it in his arm, "Come bet, Ron Weasley versus Draco Malfoy, odds one to three! Place your bets, place your bets!!"
The little wizards eagerly pulled out their cash.
"..."
What's happening?
Just moments ago, Ron was unbelievably angry but now he blinked in confusion, all eyes in the classroom focused on them.
"This is a tradition of the duel club... the betting, that's just the professor hadn't paid attention."
Malfoy "kindly" assisted in explaining, drawing his magic wand from under the cloak, "What, scared now, Weasley?" "Me, scared?!" Hearing this, Ron instantly gritted his teeth, stepping up onto the stage, which made a dull thud.
"Three, two, one... BEGIN!"
Seeing the two ready, George waved his hand grandly.
As his voice fell, two beams of red light almost simultaneously shot out!
Skipping any courteous bowing, their spells collided in midair, forming a line of red light that dissipated at the same time—then, Ron seemed to have completely abandoned defense, venting his anger—
But Malfoy was doing the opposite, becoming cautious, even overly conservative, following the failed first attack—countless Iron Armor Spells seemingly endless, kept the boy well protected—
The scene wasn't thrilling, somewhat boring—a reckless attack like a storm but lacking strategic thought, a defensive stance that seemed half-hearted.
Sparks flew from their spells clashing, rippling against the temporary protective runes William set, Malfoy's robe edges starting to scorch, but Ron's condition appeared worse, the red-haired boy panting heavily, sweat forming on his forehead—
"It's over."
Harry sighed, instinctively glancing at Fred not far away—his sickle was probably lost.