Cedric's squad succeeded, but they only managed to defeat the third statue. When they faced the fourth, they were swept aside just as decisively as before.
Still, it was enough to make them proud. They had taken down three statues in a row, becoming the first squad to conquer all three.
Most importantly—
"Geez, Davies. I told you to join our team back then, but you insisted on finding your own squad."
George slumped on the ground, exhausted and catching his breath, yet still managing to throw out a snarky remark.
Davies grimaced.
The first statue was actually simple—just a warm-up target. As long as you didn't shake in fear, you could defeat it without much trouble.
The second one was where the difficulty began, requiring coordination within the squad; without it, they'd be picked off individually.
The third was the hardest so far. It demanded teamwork, steady execution, and absolutely no major mistakes, or the statue would counterattack in an instant.
Davies's squad—and most others—fell at this stage.
So by the end of class, only Cedric's team had managed to defeat the third statue.
Tver had expected this result. The statues' strength was calibrated on purpose. For each grade, their difficulty scaled with the students' abilities. Typically, only one or two squads in a class earned rewards, plus a few first- and second-years who did well in the Light Ball game.
This way, he had far fewer gifts to prepare than last year.
Feeling smug, Tver hummed as he cleaned up the arena, returning to the castle with noticeably lighter steps.
At the notice board, he found a crowd of young wizards packed together, each trying to squeeze closer. Tver didn't even need to look; listening to their chatter was enough.
"Tonight at eight, the school's holding a Duelling Club in the Great Hall!"
"Dueling! Will Professor Fawley or Professor Flitwick be teaching us?"
"Be bold—maybe both professors together?!"
"I say, as long as it's not Professor—?" Harry turned his head, only to find Professor Fawley smiling right behind him.
"Professor, what can we expect at tonight's Duelling Club?" Ron asked eagerly.
"Well," Tver recalled Lockhart's disastrous performances, "it should be interesting."
If he treated it like a comedy show, he honestly was looking forward to it.
Unfortunately, the young wizards completely misread his meaning. They assumed something truly exciting was coming—at the very least a duel as spectacular as last year's. Their excitement spread instantly, and in moments, every student in Hogwarts had heard the news.
So by eight o'clock that evening, when Tver rushed into the Great Hall, it was already packed with students bursting with anticipation.
He had discovered a delicious cranberry biscuit at dinner, but there hadn't been many. He'd had to run to the kitchen and ask the Cornish Pixies for another packet.
Standing unnoticed in a corner, Tver munched on the biscuits, watching like a casual spectator waiting for the show to begin.
A quick look around told him that aside from a few who disliked crowds, practically every student in the castle had come. Just like last year, the four House tables had been pushed aside. Everyone crowded around the gilded stage that had appeared against one wall, voices buzzing in a constant hum.
After a while, the students suddenly let out a collective sigh of disappointment—so synchronized it was almost rehearsed.
Lockhart strode onto the stage in a dazzling magenta robe, standing in sharp contrast to Snape beside him, still dressed in black. But neither of them met the students' expectations.
In that moment, the students desperately wanted to shout: "Damn it, refund!"
Seeing their disappointed faces, Lockhart's otherwise perfect smile stiffened slightly. Thankfully, he had already steeled himself; otherwise, he never would have attempted this stunt, dragging a Potions professor along to serve as his stepping stone.
Originally, they had planned to choose the shortest professor, Professor Flitwick. But when they heard he'd been a dueling champion in his youth, Lockhart got so frightened he didn't dare consider him again.
Fortunately, there was still Snape.
Though he'd heard the usual flattery about Professor Snape's strength, the students all said they'd never actually seen Snape fight. Which was understandable—he was a Potions professor. How powerful could he really be? If every rumor were true, he'd have become Minister of Magic by now.
With his smile restored, he strode enthusiastically to the center of the stage.
"Good evening, everyone."
"Given the atmosphere of panic in the castle, and considering my own superb dueling expertise, Headmaster Dumbledore has gladly permitted me to host this rare Duelling Club event."
"And as for Professor Snape, he claims to know a thing or two about dueling. After my repeated assurances, he has generously agreed to help me with a small demonstration!" He grinned broadly.
Snape's lips curled ever so slightly, his raised gaze full of disdain, as though he were watching a clown's performance.
A chill ran through the young wizards.
Even if they disliked Lockhart, they couldn't help silently praying for him.
"May Lockhart stay in the hospital forever," Ron muttered, eyes closed and fists pressed together.
Hermione huffed. "How can you think that? Lockhart is still our professor!"
Ron blinked his eyes open, confused.
"But that way Professor Fawley can keep teaching us."
"…Then just wish Lockhart gets kicked out of school!"
"No need," Harry said excitedly, patting Hermione on the shoulder. "Snape's already about to start!"
Onstage, Lockhart and Snape stood at opposite ends, taking on standard dueling stances—something they'd witnessed last year and reenacted in their heads hundreds of times.
"One… two… three!"
"Expelliarmus!"
Snape fired instantly. Before Lockhart even moved, a red flash struck him squarely.
His whole body flew backward off the stage, slammed into the wall, and fell curled on the floor.
The force of the impact was obvious from the sound alone. Even the Lockhart skeptics winced for a second.
Fortunately, Lockhart's body was just as thick-skinned as his face. Within moments he groaned and staggered upright.
Bloody hell—had the Potions professor given up brewing entirely to practice spells instead?!
"Thank you, Miss Brown," he said, retrieving his fallen wand and smoothing his messy hair, contorting his face into a painful smile. "As you can see, that was a Disarming Charm!"
"But Professor Snape's intention was far too obvious. I'd bet he spent at least a week preparing that spell. So, so as not to disappoint him, I chose to take that gentle little hit—and also let you all—"
"I believe," Snape said for the second time, his voice cold as the winter wind, "it would be better to let someone competent demonstrate how to defend against my magic."
His gaze shifted toward a corner, and the students all turned their heads.
Professor Fawley was there, happily munching away.
"Crunch, crunch."
Tver blinked at the staring crowd. "Is eating cookies against school rules?"