The announcement of a Dueling Club had been met with a fervor that bordered on the desperate. In a school where an unseen horror was stalking the corridors, the promise of learning to defend oneself was a powerful lure.
Ashlyn, flanked by Alex and Addam, arrived early to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished, replaced by a golden stage that ran the length of the room. The ceiling was a dark, brooding velvet, reflecting the somber mood of the student body.
"Lockhart?" Addam muttered, staring at the stage with a look of profound Ravenclaw skepticism. "They've put the man who spends more time on his hair than his hexes in charge of teaching us to fight?"
"It's a PR move," Ashlyn replied, her eyes scanning the crowd. "The school looks like it's doing something without actually having to change the curriculum. It's theater, Addam. Pure and simple."
Ashlyn's Inner Monologue:
Theater it may be, but this is a pivotal scene. This is where the 'Heir of Slytherin' rumors stop being a whisper and start being a roar. I need to position us far enough back to avoid any stray sparks, but close enough to witness the fallout. The script is reaching a crescendo, and I have to make sure my brothers don't get caught in the debris.
Gilderoy Lockhart swept onto the stage in robes of deep plum, followed by a sour-faced Professor Snape. The contrast was almost comical—a golden peacock trailed by a giant bat.
The "demonstration" was a disaster for Lockhart, who ended up flat on his back after a single Expelliarmus from Snape. Alex let out a sharp, bark-like laugh.
"See? That's what I was talking about in The Footnote," Alex whispered to Ashlyn. "Precision. Snape didn't even break a sweat."
"Watch the footwork, Alex," Ashlyn murmured, her analytical mind already cataloging the movements. "Snape isn't just casting; he's controlling the space. Lockhart is all flourish and no foundation."
The club quickly devolved into chaos as the students were paired off. Ashlyn found herself across from a frantic Hufflepuff who seemed more likely to drop her wand than use it. Ashlyn kept her movements minimal, parrying a weak Tickling Charm with a flick of her wrist that she had practiced a hundred times.
"I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells," Lockhart cried out, sensing the room was slipping away from him. He beckoned Harry and Malfoy to the stage.
The air in the Great Hall changed instantly. The casual chatter died down, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. Snape whispered something into Malfoy's ear, a smirk playing on his thin lips.
"Serpensortia!" Malfoy yelled.
With a sound like a gunshot, a long black snake erupted from the end of Malfoy's wand, hitting the floor with a heavy thud and rearing up, hissing with unmistakable malice.
Ashlyn's Inner Monologue:
Here we go. The inciting incident. The moment Harry loses the benefit of the doubt. I can feel the tension in the room rising like a tide. It's a biological reaction—hundreds of students suddenly confronted with the very symbol of the terror that's been haunting them.
Lockhart tried to dispose of the snake, but only succeeded in blasting it into the air, making it angrier. It landed near Justin Finch-Fletchley, coiling itself to strike.
Then, Harry moved forward.
He didn't look like a hero. He looked like he was in a trance. He spoke, but the sound that came out wasn't English. It was a low, sibilant rasp—a series of hisses that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of Ashlyn's bones.
The snake slumped back to the floor, docile as a kitten. Harry looked up at Justin, a grin of relief on his face, clearly expecting a thank you. Instead, Justin looked horrified.
"What do you think you're playing at?" Justin shouted, backing away before bolting from the hall.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the usual rustle of robes had ceased.
Ashlyn's Inner Monologue:
And just like that, the 'Golden Boy' becomes the 'Grisly Heir.' The logic is simple for the masses: Slytherin was a Parselmouth, Harry is a Parselmouth, therefore Harry is the Heir. It's flawed, it's reactionary, and it's exactly what the plot requires.
"Ash," Alex whispered, his voice trembling. "Did he just... was he talking to it?"
"It's called Parseltongue, Alex," Addam said, his voice uncharacteristically grim. "It's the mark of a Dark Wizard. Always has been."
Ashlyn looked at Harry, who stood alone on the stage as the crowd began to pull back, creating a literal void around him. She felt a flicker of pity for him, but she quickly suppressed it.
Ashlyn's Inner Monologue:
I can't defend him. If I stand up for Harry Potter now, I become part of his story. I draw the eyes of the school, the eyes of the staff, and eventually, the eyes of the diary. My family's safety depends on our invisibility. We are the Fawleys—the background Ravenclaws who survived the Chamber of Secrets because we were too boring to be noticed.
"Let's go," Ashlyn said, her voice firm. She took Alex and Addam by the arms, steering them toward the exit before the inevitable shouting match began. "We have a Herbology quiz tomorrow, and I'm not letting a snake-charmer's performance ruin our grades."
As they climbed the stairs to the Ravenclaw Tower, Ashlyn glanced back at the Great Hall. The "theater" was over, and the real nightmare had begun. The script was moving forward, and all she could do was make sure her family remained in the audience.