At eight o'clock, Elijah followed Harry and the others into the Great Hall.
The space had been stripped of its long dining tables, replaced by a gilded stage that ran along one wall.
Hundreds of candles drifted overhead, casting a flickering glow over the packed crowd of students.
"I wonder who's teaching," Hermione said, her voice strained as she jostled for a better view. "I heard Professor Flitwick was a dueling champion. I hope it's him."
"As long as it isn't—" Harry started, but the words died in his throat.
Gilderoy Lockhart stepped onto the stage, resplendent in robes of vibrant magenta.
Beside him, looking like a shadow cast by the man's own vanity, stood Severus Snape. The Potion Master's face was a mask of cold, concentrated loathing.
Harry let out a low, mournful groan.
Hermione, however, let out a tiny gasp of delight. To her, Lockhart's incompetence was merely a charming quirk of his genius.
Elijah watched her with a faint, analytical detachment. Even in the wizarding world, he realized, a handsome face was a potion in its own right.
Tom Riddle had known that better than anyone; the man had been a professional predator, weaving his way through the lives of socialites and schoolgirls with the same practiced ease.
He even charmed ghosts, Elijah thought with a mental sneer. Disgraceful. Then he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a nearby trophy case—the small, delicate features of Ginny Weasley—and shrugged it off. Fine. I can work with this.
"Gather round!"
Lockhart called, energized by the sea of adoring faces.
"Can everyone see me? Excellent. Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Dueling Club. To train you, as I have been trained, in the art of self-defense—for the grisly details, see my published works."
Lockhart flashed a dazzling smile toward his silent partner. "Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape. He tells me he knows a thing or two about dueling himself and has bravely agreed to help with a demonstration. Now, don't worry—I shall return your Potions Master to you in one piece when I'm through!"
"Wouldn't it be better if they both finished each other off?" Ron muttered.
"Lockhart won't last a single exchange," Elijah whispered. "Snape is easily the most dangerous of the four Heads of House."
If the man were allowed to draw upon the Dark Arts he had mastered by age eleven, he would be unstoppable. Harry nodded fervently; he had seen the way Snape's upper lip curled. It wasn't the look of an assistant; it was the look of a predator watching a particularly loud-mouthed mouse.
"Some people live so deeply in their own lies that they forget reality," Elijah murmured.
On stage, the two men faced one another and bowed.
Lockhart gave a series of theatrical flourishes; Snape merely gave an impatient jerk of his head. They assumed the stance, wands held like rapiers before their chests.
"On the count of three," Lockhart announced. "One—two—three—Expe"
"Expelliarmus!"
Snape's voice was like a whip crack.
Bang!
A flash of blinding scarlet light slammed into Lockhart, lifting him off his feet. He soared backward, hit the wall with a sickening thud, and crumpled to the floor.
Malfoy and the Slytherins erupted in cheers. Hermione was hopping on her tiptoes, hands over her mouth. "Is he alright?"
"Who cares?" Harry and Ron said together.
Lockhart staggered back onto the stage, his hat gone and his hair looking like a wind-blown hedge. He was clearly dazed, but his vanity was a powerful restorative.
"Well, there you have it!" he wheezed. "A Disarming Charm. As you see, I've lost my wand—thank you, Miss Brown. An excellent suggestion to show them that, Professor Snape, though your intent was quite obvious. If I had wanted to stop you, it would have been effortless."
Elijah's lip curled. The man was lucky Snape hadn't used Sectumsempra.
"The demonstration ends here!" Lockhart cried, sensing Snape's murderous aura. "Divide into pairs! Professor Snape, if you would help me?"
They moved through the crowd like wolves through a flock. Snape reached Elijah's group first.
"The dream team must be broken up, I think," Snape sneered. "Weasley, go with Finnigan. Potter—" Harry moved toward Hermione, but Snape stepped into his path. "I don't think so. Malfoy, come here. Let's see what you can make of the famous Potter. Miss Granger, you're with Miss Bulstrode."
Then Snape turned his dark, cold eyes on Elijah. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
"As for you, Ginny Weasley... I have just the partner for you. Flint, your turn."
The crowd parted as Marcus Flint, a sixth-year with the build of a mountain troll, lumbered forward. The twins stopped waving; Ron went pale.
"He's gone mad!" Ron blurted out. "He's a sixth-year! She's eleven!"
"Professor, this is unreasonable," Percy added, stepping forward with a deep scowl. "I'll take Flint's place."
"The students have a point, Severus," Lockhart said, shifting uncomfortably. "The goal is to teach resistance, not—"
"I think Flint represents 'danger' quite adequately," Snape countered softly. "Unless Miss Weasley, so fond of her little ambushes, is afraid of a fair fight?"
Elijah stepped around Percy. "He'll do," he said, his voice calm and cold. "He looks the part of a brainless troll. It's a pity Slytherin's standards have fallen so low."
The Hall went silent. Flint's face turned a mottled purple.
"You shouldn't do this," Hermione hissed, grabbing Elijah's sleeve. "We can just leave."
"We're staying with you, Ginny," Ron said, gripping his taped-up wand.
"Don't make it worse," Elijah said, gently pushing them back. He looked at Harry. "Remember what Lockhart taught you. Mobiliarbus."
Harry looked blank. "What? When?"
But Snape was already herding them away. "Your opponents are over there, Potter."
"Face your partners!" Lockhart shouted from the stage. "Bow!"
Elijah performed a sharp, graceful bow, his eyes never leaving Flint. The older boy stayed upright, sneering down at him.
"I don't bow to brats," Flint spat. The Slytherins laughed.
"How disappointing," Elijah said, his voice carrying through the silence. "Even Slytherin used to value etiquette. Bow."
Elijah raised his wand hand high and snapped his wrist downward, pointing the tip at the floor.
"Urg!"
Suddenly, Flint's spine buckled. It looked as though an invisible giant had placed a hand on his neck and forced him down. The laughter died instantly. Flint groaned, his face turning red as he was forced into a ninety-degree bend.
"Enough!" Snape barked, slashing his wand to break the invisible pressure just before Flint hit the floor.
Lockhart, sensing a riot, screamed, "Wands at the ready! One—two—three—"
Flint didn't wait for three. He lunged with a jagged curse, but Elijah didn't even flinch. He swiped the air with a casual flick, deflecting the spell into the ceiling, and countered before Flint could draw breath.
"Levicorpus."
A flash of light hit Flint's ankle.
He was yanked upward as if by an invisible hook, his heavy body flipping mid-air until he hung dangling from the velvet ceiling.
The Great Hall fell into a stunned, horrific silence. Snape stared at the dangling boy, his face turning a ghostly shade of white as a very specific, very unpleasant memory surfaced.
"Finite Incantatem!" Snape hissed.
Flint hit the stone floor with a heavy thud. Snape didn't look at him; his eyes were locked on Elijah, burning with a dangerous, searching intensity.
"Ginny Weasley.." Snape opened his mouth with a gloomy tone. "Where did you learn that spell?"