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American Fast & Furious NSFW
America's #1 Scumbag NSFW
Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed. Well, Lockhart bowed, with a ridiculous flourish of both hands like he was auditioning for the Weird Sisters. Snape just glared like he was trying to set the man on fire with his mind.
They raised their wands like swords in front of their chests.
"As you can see," Lockhart said to the silent crowd, trying to sound confident, "we're holding our wands in the accepted duelling position. On the count of three, we'll cast our first spells. Neither of us will be killing the other, of course."
"Will he though?" Ron whispered, swallowing hard.
"One—two—three—"
Both whipped their wands overhead.
"Expelliarmus!" Snape barked.
A blinding red flash. Lockhart got blasted off his feet like he'd been hit by a Bludger on steroids.
He flew backward off the stage, slammed into the wall, and slid down in a heap. His hat was somewhere across the hall, and his perfect wavy hair was sticking up like he'd stuck his finger in a Vanishing Cabinet.
A bunch of Slytherins (Malfoy loudest) whooped and clapped.
Sean was already sighing. Yeah, Snape wasn't planning on going easy.
"See? He's fine," Hermione said, relieved.
"I've got a bad feeling this isn't over," Justin muttered.
Lockhart staggered back onto the stage like a drunk mountain troll, grinning through the pain.
"There we are!" he announced shakily. "That was a Disarming Charm—as you can see, I've lost my wand—ah, thank you, Miss Brown! Excellent idea to have Professor Snape demonstrate, though if you don't mind me saying so, your intention was perfectly obvious. I could've blocked it without breaking a sweat. I just thought the students should see—"
Snape wasn't even looking at him anymore. His eyes had gone flat and deadly.
A second later Lockhart crumpled like someone had cut his strings. Gasps rippled through the hall—everyone thought the first spell had finally caught up with his skull.
Sean knew better. Snape had layered at least two curses in the same heartbeat.
"Is he… dead?" Ron asked, way too hopefully.
"Fingers crossed," Harry muttered.
"Stop it!" Hermione hissed, but she didn't sound super upset.
Anyone who'd actually read Green's Notes knew how good Snape was at potions. Losing the best potions professor in Britain because of one fraud? Hard pass.
Lockhart got carted off to the Hospital Wing. Nobody had any idea when—or if—he was coming back.
Down on the floor, Sean was thinking: the Defence curse was scary efficient.
He'd accidentally pissed Snape off, Lockhart had conveniently started a duelling club, and then Lockhart had poked the bat in the exact way guaranteed to make him snap. Too many "coincidences."
Magic was deep, weird stuff. Sean couldn't even begin to guess how the curse actually worked.
He glanced at Snape. The man still looked like he'd swallowed a lemon, but the murderous aura had dialled down from "imminent homicide" to merely "mildly homicidal."
"Pair up," Snape snapped. "Now."
He started sorting people with vicious efficiency.
Harry got Malfoy.
Ron got Goyle.
Hermione got Pansy.
Justin and Neville got each other (the only pairing that wasn't personal).
Sean? A perfect circle of empty space appeared around him. Nobody was suicidal enough to volunteer.
Marcus Flint lasted exactly one minute against Sean and still had no idea what spell had hit him.
"Green. With me."
Snape didn't wait—just spun on his heel and stalked off. Sean had to jog to keep up.
"Weird," Hermione whispered to Justin. "It almost feels like Snape and Sean are—"
The rest of the duels turned into glorious chaos.
Green smoke everywhere.
Ron tried to Transfigure Goyle's shoelaces into snakes; Goyle just charged like a rhino and tackled him.
Hermione ended Pansy with a clean Stupefy.
Justin and Neville put on the prettiest duel of the first- and second-years—shields flashing, spells flying, proper back-and-forth.
Harry and Malfoy? Pure carnage.
Harry started polite, raising his wand properly. Malfoy attacked on "two."
A jet of light smashed into Harry's face—he felt like he'd been clocked with a frying pan. Stumbled, shook it off, pointed straight at Malfoy and yelled, "Rictusempra!"
Silver light slammed into Malfoy's stomach. He dropped, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
Harry hesitated—felt bad about hitting a guy on the ground.
Big mistake.
Malfoy, still wheezing with laughter, aimed at Harry's knees and gasped, "Tarantallegra!"
Harry's legs started dancing the world's fastest jig.
Sean had been trailing Snape, listening to him dissect upper-years' duels with surgical precision—how to block with the least effort, how to punish sloppy footing. Fascinating stuff.
They ended up right behind Harry and Malfoy just as Malfoy (still on the floor) roared, "Serpensortia!"
His wand exploded. A long black snake shot out, hit the floor between them, and reared up, hissing.
The crowd screamed and stumbled back.
"Don't move, Potter," Snape said lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry frozen stiff in front of an angry viper.