In the corridor…
Harry was still ranting about everything Snape had ever done to him, but Sean could tell the edge was coming off it. Harry was starting to wonder: if Snape wasn't actually a Death Eater at heart and had helped him fight Quirrell last year, then why did the man hate him so much?
Then something clicked in Harry's head and his mood crashed.
"Voldemort put a piece of himself inside me," he mumbled, staring at the floor. "Sean… I'm like him."
Sean glanced at him. Classic Harry—letting Voldemort live rent-free in his head again.
"Oh come on, Harry," Justin said, strolling over with a handful of pilfered kitchen biscuits. "You made Voldemort disappear. And now you're worried you're like him? That's honestly hilarious."
Harry blinked, then actually cracked a tiny smile. He'd needed that.
Sean gave Justin a quick look—nice save. Both of them got it: nobody wants to share DNA (or soul fragments) with the guy who murdered their parents.
The hallway cleared out pretty fast after that.
A black cat slipped into the Ravenclaw dormitory instead.
While the rune brooch slowly recharged, practicing Animagus transfiguration was the perfect way for Sean to keep sharpening his soul-shaping skills.
[You have practiced soul transfiguration at the introductory Master tier. Master-level proficiency +3]
The notification chimed right as curfew hit, and the night slipped away.
Next day…
Everyone in the castle could feel Snape's mood. If he'd been strict before, now he was a walking rulebook with fangs.
Stir your cauldron half an inch too shallow? Boom—five points from your house.
Justin came out of double Potions looking shell-shocked. Hufflepuff had lost forty points. Ravenclaw wasn't far behind.
It was a house-point bloodbath.
Thank Merlin something else stole the spotlight that evening, or the whole school would've been camped outside the Great Hall staring at the hourglasses, trying to figure out who'd slipped a Dungbomb into Snape's office.
"Snape's lost it," Justin whispered over dinner, picking his words carefully. "Like, properly round the bend."
"We should probably keep our heads down," Hermione said, eyeing Harry, Ron, and Neville. "Especially you three."
Those three had always been Snape's favorite point-piñatas. Now? They were basically walking targets.
Owls swooped overhead with the evening post. Sean sipped pumpkin juice and glanced at the staff table. Snape was sneering at Dumbledore through a smile that looked painful. For once, Snape actually seemed to be winning whatever argument they were having.
Later that night, the Great Hall was packed again.
Sean had been practicing charms in the Shrieking Shack and only came because Justin practically dragged him. The long tables were gone, replaced by a long golden stage along one wall. Thousands of candles floated overhead, turning the place bright as day while the enchanted ceiling stayed a bottomless starry night.
The whole school had turned up—wands clutched tight, everyone buzzing.
"Who's teaching the dueling club? Who'd you see?" Hermione was on tiptoes trying to peer over the older students.
"If you can't see, Hermione, what makes you think the rest of us magically grew six inches?" Ron craned his neck anyway.
"As long as it's not—"
Harry never finished. He let out a wounded groan instead.
Because up on the stage strutted Gilderoy Lockhart in plum-colored robes, dazzling as ever, and right beside him—wearing his usual black—was Professor Snape.
Lockhart waved for quiet, then boomed, "Gather round, gather round! Can everybody see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!
"Professor Dumbledore has given me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves the way I have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works!"
Hermione's face fell so fast it was almost funny.
Harry spun on his heel to leave. Ron followed. Percy blocked them like a prefect-shaped wall.
"Class is starting. Back you go."
Shoulders slumped, they shuffled back into the crowd.
Lockhart was still talking. "Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape! He informed me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help with a small demonstration before we begin. Don't worry, you'll still have your Potions master in one piece when we're done!"
Snape's face promised murder. Lockhart noticed, gulped, and hurriedly added, "But before that—maybe a pair of volunteers to show what not to do? Anyone?"
He risked another glance at Snape, saw those black eyes glittering like chips of obsidian, and immediately looked away.
"How about… Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley?"
"Bad idea, Professor," Snape drawled, gliding across the stage like a giant bat with a grudge. "Longbottom can cause devastation with even the simplest spells. We'd be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley to the hospital wing in a matchbox."
Neville went scarlet. Justin and Hermione both rushed to reassure him—"He's lying, Nev, remember you came seventh in the year!"
Neville perked up a bit.
Then Snape's gaze locked onto the crowd.
"Sean Green," he said, voice flat and cold. Ever since yesterday, Snape had realized—again—that he'd completely underestimated this particular second-year. Some wizards simply refused to grow at a normal pace. "Come up here. And… Marcus Flint, you can be his opponent."