A week later, the buzz in the corridors was all about one thing: Gilderoy Lockhart's grand new project. The professor himself, resplendent in robes of plum velvet, stood at the head of the Great Hall and declared to the assembled students, "Welcome, welcome, all of you, to the inaugural meeting of the Hogwarts Dueling Club! Designed to teach you the fine art of wizardly combat, as demonstrated in my many published works!"
The announcement was met with a mixture of excited chatter and collective dread. The memory of Justin's petrified form was still fresh, making the need for defense feel urgent, but the fact that it was Lockhart in charge promised spectacular failure.
By the time the Great Hall filled with students, Shya was already predicting disaster, her arms crossed. "Place your bets now. How many seconds before he accidentally vanquishes his own trousers?"
She wasn't wrong.
The demonstration between Lockhart and Snape was brutally short. Within thirty seconds, Snape had disarmed him with a single, contemptuous flick of his wand, sending Lockhart flying backwards to crash into the floor. Dust rained from the enchanted ceiling.
Roman, his mood lightened by the prospect of chaos, nearly fell over laughing. "That's the best thing I've ever seen! Worth the price of admission!"
When it came time for students to pair up, Cassian found himself facing Harry Potter—Snape's doing, obviously, a little Slytherin versus Gryffindor theater.
The duel began.
Cassian's wandwork was everything Snape's was: clean, calculated, and mercilessly precise.
Harry's was all Gryffindor impulse—quick, brave, but fundamentally reckless.
Within two spells, Harry's wand flew from his hand, clattering across the stone floor.
"Oof," Shya exclaimed loudly to Talora, as if afraid the whole room won't be able to hear her. "The 'Chosen One' can't even beat a competent second-year. Maybe next time he should request a duel with poor Neville—give himself a fighting chance."
The girls snorted, the dark mood of the past week momentarily lightened by the sheer absurdity.
The Slytherins snickered; even a few Ravenclaws joined in.
Even Cassian looked faintly amused for a fraction of a second before his expression cooled again. He raised his wand, murmuring something under his breath.
A sleek, black snake burst from his wand tip, hissing as it coiled on the flagstones.
A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd. The snake, agitated, reared back as a brave 3rd year Hufflepuff , stepped forward—until Harry stepped in front of him and hissed something soft, strange, and unmistakable.
The creature froze, then docilely slithered aside.
Silence. Pure, electric, horrified silence.
"Did he just… talk to it?" Lisa whispered, her eyes wide.
"Parseltongue," Padma murmured, her voice laced with both awe and fear. "Salazar Slytherin's own gift."
Shya blinked, the irony striking her deeply. "Of course he did. Because the golden hero doesn't get enough attention. He needs bonus, dark-arts-adjacent powers too."
Talora groaned, rubbing her temples. "Overachiever."
Roman, still grinning but with a new, sharper edge, added, "And yet, for all his fancy snake-charming, those powers didn't help him win the actual duel."
Before the tension could curdle into something uglier, Snape, perhaps to restore order—or just to indulge his own amusement—sent a flickering jinx toward Lockhart, who yelped and was thrown into a hanging banner once more, getting thoroughly tangled. The crowd howled with laughter as Lockhart sputtered, and the dangerous moment broke, leaving behind only a buzz of nervous gossip and unsettled hearts.
***
The castle was steeped in the deep quiet of a late weeknight. Shya and Talora were trudging back from a particularly grueling study hour in the library, the elegance of their Birkins matched only by the weight of Shya's complaints.
"It's not fair," Shya grumbled, kicking at a loose stone on the flagstone floor. Moonlight streamed through the high windows, painting silver puddles on the floor. "Why do I have to care about the proper balance for Mandrake compost? It's a plant. It should be happy with dirt and water and not being screamed at."
Talora, ever the peacemaker, nudged her shoulder. "It's not just a plant, Bob, it's a vital restorative. And you'd care a lot if you got petrified."
"I'd rather be petrified than write another twelve inches on the difference between dragon dung and hippogriff manure," Shya retorted, but her heart wasn't in it. She sighed. "I just don't get it. You make it look so easy. Your pots in the greenhouse are always… perky."
"That's because I listen to Professor Sprout instead of drawing caricatures of her in my notes," Talora said, a smile in her voice.
"They're very good caricatures! The hat is anatomically accurate!"
They rounded a corner, their laughter fading into the vast, silent corridor. It was then that Talora stopped dead, her hand flying out to grip Shya's arm.
"Bob," she whispered, her voice tight.
"What? If this is about the Herbology essay, I swear I'll—"
"Look."
Shya followed her pointed finger. A dark, shimmering trail was moving along the base of the wall. Not dust, not shadow. Spiders. Hundreds of them, moving in a single, unnervingly perfect line, flowing like a liquid shadow toward a crack in a dark corner.
Talora went rigid. "No. Nope. No, I'm not doing this."
"They're… they're just bugs," Shya said, though her own voice had shot up several octaves. "Friendly bugs! Just… eight-legged citizens going about their business—"
"BOB, they're marching!" Talora squeaked, backing up.
Shya's brave facade shattered as a particularly large spider scuttled directly over her shoe. She let out a strangled yelp. "Oh, hell no—RUN!"
They bolted. Decorum abandoned, they fled down the corridor, their synchronized screams echoing off the ancient stones. They didn't stop, didn't look back, until they crashed bodily through the first unlocked door they found, slamming it shut behind them.
They stood panting, hearts hammering against their ribs, and looked around. The room was dim, illuminated by a single, flickering lantern. Water dripped monotonously from a cracked ceiling fixture, pooling on the flooded mosaic tiles. A large, cracked mirror reflected their terrified faces.
"The second-floor girls' bathroom," Shya breathed, leaning against the door as if to barricade it. "Of course it is."
A high, wailing voice echoed from a stall. "Who's there? Come to throw something at me again?"
Shya and Talora exchanged a wide-eyed look of pure dread. They'd escaped the spiders only to find themselves in the haunted bathroom. With Moaning Myrtle.