Draco Malfoy stood rigid in the hastily cleared space of the Great Hall, a dueling arena materialized by professorial decree. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, completely out of sync with the script he had meticulously planned.
This wasn't supposed to happen!
The script dictated a secret rendezvous in a dusty trophy room, the excitement of a forbidden, midnight duel, followed by the satisfying sound of Argus Filch catching Potter red-handed, breaking curfew. The whole point was to lure the Boy Who Lived into a humiliating punishment, not to engage in a legitimate, supervised combat exhibition before the entire student body.
Why were they all staring like this? Why was there not a single whisper of support from his own Slytherin year mates? And why, worst of all, had Marcus Flint, the Captain, brought the very professor who had just docked ten points from Slytherin?
Malfoy swallowed, tasting a bitter metallic fear. He felt exposed, stripped of the comforting, shadowy anonymity of a private vendetta. Yet, the deep, inherited pride of the Malfoy line refused to let him falter. He tightened his grip on his sleek hawthorn wand, forcing his shoulders back into a posture of arrogant confidence.
I am the heir of the Malfoy family. My blood is purer, my education is superior. This Potter, this half-blood rescue project, stands no chance against centuries of inherited magical knowledge.
He waited for the professors' signal, trying to project a menacing calm. Come on, Potter. Let me show you what a true pure-blood wizard looks like.
Sebastian's voice cut through the silence, sharp and clinical. "This is a low-stakes conflict, simply meant to resolve the current disagreement. There will be no bowing, as neither of you has earned that courtesy yet. On my command, you will begin. Three… Two… One… Begin!"
Malfoy moved instantly, spurred by panic and the desire to overwhelm his opponent before his own courage failed. His first spell was a swift, clumsy flick, a weak Trip Jinx that shot toward Harry's feet.
"Collapsicus!" Malfoy yelled, his voice cracking with the effort of projection.
Harry, however, didn't respond with a counter-curse. He simply shifted his weight, taking a single, casual step sideways—a defensive movement drilled into him relentlessly by Sebastian during their late-night lessons on anticipation and non-verbal evasion. The weak jinx harmlessly dissipated on the stone floor where Harry's foot had been a moment before.
Impossible! Malfoy's mind screamed. He dodged it without even concentrating! He barely moved!
His surprise quickly curdled into desperation. He adjusted his stance and tried again, this time aiming higher for a more debilitating effect.
"Lumos Solem!" Malfoy shouted, attempting a painful flash of light to blind Harry.
Harry, already predicting the predictable follow-up, raised his left hand—the non-wand hand—just enough to shield his eyes, simultaneously executing a minute, rocking shift of his weight that made his body a blur. The spell grazed harmlessly past his ear.
Malfoy was breathing hard now, the rapid succession of spells draining his focus and his meager magical reserve. He had always relied on surprise, his sheer volume of curses, and the flanking intimidation of Crabbe and Goyle.
But here, in the bright, silent spotlight, his movements were over-exaggerated, his intentions painfully obvious. Every muscle twitch, every shift of his shoulder, broadcast his target long before the spell left his wand tip. He looked, to the trained eye, like a caricature of a proper duelist.
He watched Harry—still standing there, still utterly unscathed. Harry's expression was one of mild curiosity, perhaps even boredom.
The humiliation was instant and profound. Malfoy realized, with sickening clarity, that he was playing the role of the clown, dancing wildly while the audience simply waited for the main act. He was completely outmatched. His inherited power felt like dust in his hand.
A surge of raw, wounded pride erupted. He refused to be dismissed.
"Potter! Are you going to keep dancing and hiding like a cowardly mouse forever?" Malfoy roared, his voice thick with fury. "Fight back! Show us what your Savior title is truly worth!"
Harry looked genuinely surprised by the outburst. He had been conducting an instantaneous, low-stakes assessment: Opponent lacks subtlety, over-compensates with volume, and only knows simple jinxes. He realized that he had grossly overestimated Malfoy's ability, believing the reputation of the Malfoy name carried inherent magical weight.
With a slight shrug—a motion that felt like an insult in itself—Harry brought his wand up. He remembered Sebastian's final, ruthless instruction: When you strike, you must incapacitate. Do not fight fairly; fight to win, utterly and immediately.
Harry executed a perfect, silent wrist flick, the movement barely perceptible.
"Expelliarmus!"
The word was sharp, clean, and delivered with focused intent. A jet of blinding red light shot forth, striking Malfoy square in the chest.
The result was total and instantaneous. Malfoy's hawthorn wand flew from his grip, arcing high into the air. Before the wand even hit the ground, Harry's left hand, still trained from the endless, monotonous drills, performed a quick, precise gesture.
"Incarcerous!"
Three thick, magically conjured ropes—dark brown, heavy, and immensely strong—sprang out, coiling themselves around Malfoy's torso and legs, pinning his arms tightly to his sides. He hit the ground with a dull thud, immobilized and wandless, his face a perfect mask of shock and utter defeat.
The duel had lasted exactly two seconds and three spells.
A collective, long, sustained hiss swept through the entire Great Hall—the sound of hundreds of wizards holding their breath, then releasing it in astonishment.
Is that… the Savior's power?
The Gryffindor table erupted. Ron Weasley, his face beaming with manic pride, leaped over the bench and rushed forward.
"Harry! Merlin's beard, that was brilliant! How did you do that? The way you dodged—and three spells at once, then the ropes! Tell me, how are you so strong?"
"Yes! The dodging! The quick, silent spellwork!" Hermione Granger, practically vibrating with academic excitement, pushed Ron aside to get a closer look at Harry. "You must tell us the technique! It was an exemplary display of defensive movement!"
The students from all houses—Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and even the stunned Slytherins—converged on the center of the hall, Snape and Sebastian suddenly finding themselves abandoned at the periphery, watching the tidal wave of admiration engulf Harry.
Harry, profoundly embarrassed by the attention, could only manage a quiet, mumbled truth. "I—I only know simple things. Professor Swann taught me the basics of evasion."
In a heartbeat, the crowd pivoted. Harry was instantly forgotten as the student body, realizing the true source of this unparalleled magical athleticism, swarmed Sebastian.
"Professor Swann! You can't be biased! We are your students too!"
"We demand tutelage! Show us the secret of the non-verbal evasion!"
"Professor, please! We need to know how to duel properly! Will you teach us?"
The sheer, overwhelming demand was exactly what Sebastian needed. This single, public demonstration of Harry's skill—skill directly attributable to Sebastian's influence—was the most effective marketing campaign he could have run. It was a perfect, organic opportunity to implement his most critical, early-stage plan.
Excellent, Sebastian thought, suppressing a triumphant smile. They will flock to me. I don't have to force them into training; they will beg for it under the guise of rivalry. He knew, better than anyone, that these children would eventually be the foot soldiers in the coming war. They needed more than theoretical defense; they needed practical, reflexive combat skills.
He raised both hands, a powerful, unspoken command for silence emanating from him. The crowd instantly hushed.
"Silence!" Sebastian's voice carried easily, warm but firm. "Since there is such a clear, overwhelming, and wholly unexpected enthusiasm for proper magical combat… I have decided to act upon it. I will open a Dueling Club."
A collective gasp swept through the students, followed by joyous, excited shouting.
"The first meeting will be this Friday evening at 8:00 PM in the Great Hall. Attendance is strictly voluntary but highly recommended for those who seek strategic superiority." Sebastian's eyes swept over the ecstatic crowd, locking onto the Weasley twins with a slight nod. "Now, disperse! The hall must be reset. I have pressing business with the defeated party."
The students eventually dispersed, the promise of sanctioned violence overriding their immediate curiosity. Draco Malfoy, now magically released from the ropes by Snape's quiet charm, stood alone in the center of the now-empty dueling circle.
He was silent, his head bowed, the pristine silver of his House badge seeming to mock him. His prior arrogance was utterly gone, replaced by a hollow-eyed, silent defeat. The shame was physical. He had been defeated—effortlessly, publicly, and quickly—by the one person he was genetically programmed to hate and defeat. And he had been defeated while relying on his name, while Potter had relied on skill.
Sebastian walked over to the boy, Snape lingering silently a few paces back, observing. Sebastian knew this was the pivotal moment for Draco Malfoy's life.
Sebastian had always held a complex view of the young wizard. In the original timeline, Malfoy was an insufferable bully, a pure-blood snob whose first reaction was always to demand, "Wait until my father hears about this!" His pride was toxic. Yet, this same pride was brutally shattered by the rise of Voldemort. He watched his once-proud father, Lucius, cringe before the Dark Lord.
He watched his own magnificent manor turned into a headquarters of fear. And in that crucial, heartbreaking moment at Malfoy Manor, Sebastian recalled, he had publicly claimed he did not recognize Harry, saving the lives of the Golden Trio and his own family. Malfoy was not inherently evil; he was tragically weak and misguided.
Blood alone doesn't grant talent, Draco. Only work does. The time for blind prejudice and inherited arrogance is over, Sebastian thought, looking down at the defeated boy. He intended to train Draco—not just to save him, but to utilize his potential. Draco was brilliant, cunning, and fiercely driven. He was the perfect, malleable resource. He should be carrying the Slytherin banner, not acting as a spoiled caricature.
The duel was a divine gift, a perfectly timed act of destruction and purification. Harry had shattered Malfoy's protective shell of arrogance. Now, Sebastian could start the true work of building a resourceful Slytherin strategist beneath the rubble.
Sebastian gently placed a hand on the boy's slumped shoulder.
"Draco," Sebastian said, his voice surprisingly soft, devoid of the earlier theatricality. "Your duel was predictable, your movements were wasteful, and your confidence was based on historical lies, not current ability."
He paused, letting the truth sink in.
"But the fire in your gut—the need to challenge, the refusal to run—that is valuable. It is what we, as Slytherins, build upon. This ends here, in this hall. Come with me."
Sebastian turned toward the archway leading to the dungeons.
"We'll go to my office. We need to have a proper, strategic conversation about what it means to be the Head of a Pure-Blood Line in a rapidly changing world. And we need to discuss how you will, from this day forward, earn the power you clearly desire."
Snape watched them leave, a slow, knowing twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. He picked up Malfoy's discarded wand, examining the craftsmanship. So, the reformation begins. Good. Less chaos for me to deal with.
What do you think Sebastian's first lesson for Draco will be now that his pride has been broken? Do you think he'll focus on skill or strategy?