After Care of Magical Creatures, Snape and his friends joined the flow of students heading toward the Great Hall.
As they passed through the entrance hall, they noticed a small crowd gathered noisily around the noticeboard, all talking at once about a freshly-pinned piece of parchment.
Avery had elbowed his way through for a glance and now turned, grinning broadly. "Dueling Club," he said. "First meeting tonight. Hasn't been done in years. Wonder what's got them reviving it now?"
"What's strange is that it hasn't been done all this time," Snape replied, squinting at the parchment. "You think a Death Eater's going to politely ask if you've had enough practice before cursing you?"
Indeed, it was hard to understand why something as practical as a Dueling Club had been shelved for decades at Hogwarts. According to the proper timeline, it wouldn't appear again until Harry's second year, when Gilderoy Lockhart used it as a stage for self-promotion. After that, Dumbledore's Army—an illegal, underground group—would become the only real source of hands-on training, which said a lot about the school's priorities.
"I don't think I'll bother," Pandora said, glancing at the two boys. "Wand-only duels are boring. No challenge."
"What would you use, then?" Avery raised an eyebrow.
"Plenty of things." She patted her pocket and left it at that.
"For everyone's safety, it's probably best you don't enter," Snape said dryly.
While he had little interest in dueling for sport, the idea of being allowed—legally—to hex other students was far too enticing to pass up.
Snape and Avery decided to participate. Pandora, uninterested in fighting, seemed content to observe.
That evening, after a slow stroll by the Black Lake, the trio hurried back inside before eight o'clock.
The Great Hall had been transformed. The four long House tables had vanished, replaced by a broad, elevated platform under a sea of floating candles. Even the enchanted ceiling's stars looked dim beneath the hundreds of flickering lights.
The hall was packed. Nearly every student at Hogwarts had come, their chatter echoing off the stone walls. Most clutched their wands tightly, faces alight with anticipation.
"Make way—quiet down—"
A familiar voice called out from the crowd, but no one could quite see where it came from. The students continued milling about, ignoring the command.
Then, with a collective gasp, the crowd parted like curtains pulled aside by an invisible hand.
Snape spotted Professor Flitwick making his way forward, his tiny legs pumping beneath his robes. Behind him waddled Professor Slughorn, his round belly swaying with each step.
Flitwick tapped his throat with his wand and murmured, "Sonorus."
The effect was immediate—his next words boomed across the hall, silencing every whisper.
"Students! From this day forward, I—Filius Flitwick, former champion of the Eleventh All-Britain Wizarding Dueling Tournament—will be your instructor and referee for live dueling exercises."
"You are fortunate indeed. It was no small matter convincing the Board of Governors to allow this. Enjoy it while you can."
"I'll explain how this will work," Flitwick continued, raising his wand high. "For the first few sessions, excepting seventh-years, each year will hold its own matches. The winner will earn fifty House points."
"Moreover, to encourage realistic self-assessment and provide a challenge to the upper years, the lower-year champions will have the right to issue a challenge to the champion of any year above their own. Upper years may not refuse."
"Any student who wins an inter-year challenge," he said, a firework of color bursting from his wandtip, "will gain that opponent's points. If you're in the same House, well… it's up to you whether to spare your elder's pride."
"Now then," Flitwick said cheerfully, "Professor Slughorn and I shall demonstrate the basics!"
"Horace, if you'd join me?"
Slughorn smiled and lumbered onto the stage. The two professors faced each other at opposite ends, bowed politely, and raised their wands to their chests.
"As you'll see," Flitwick explained, "we begin with the standard stance. On the count of three, Professor Slughorn will cast a spell. I'll demonstrate proper defense."
"One—two—three!"
Slughorn whipped his wand upward and cried, "Incarcerous!"
A rope sprang from the tip like a snake and shot toward Flitwick.
Flitwick responded instantly: "Protego!"
The rope slammed against an invisible barrier with a loud thump, then flopped harmlessly to the floor and vanished in a puff of smoke.
The crowd erupted in applause, students rising on tiptoe to get a better look.
"Thank you, Horace," Flitwick said merrily.
"My pleasure," Slughorn chuckled, patting his stomach and stepping off the stage.
"Oh—and the Headmaster asked me to go over the rules," Flitwick added, conjuring a tall stool and climbing atop it. "First: no highly dangerous curses.
"Second: wands only. No magical creatures or plants allowed. Third: no snapping wands.
"Fourth: no deliberate verbal abuse of your opponent!"
"Now then—first-years, step forward!"
The youngest students surged forward in a jumble of limbs and noise. Flitwick had to hop off his stool and wrangle them into pairs before the matches could begin.
"I feel like those rules were aimed directly at me," Snape muttered to Pandora. "Still, those cabbages you conjured came in handy. Got anything new?"
The first- and second-year duels were more entertaining than threatening. The first-year champion was a swift little girl with impeccable aim and a devastating tickling charm. Most of her opponents lost while collapsing in fits of laughter.
Because of the sheer length of each match, only first- and second-year duels were completed that day. The third-year tournament began the following evening.
Snape expected more of the same… until Gilderoy Lockhart stepped onto the stage.
He was clad in an immaculate lilac robe. His golden curls gleamed in waves, every lock artfully arranged to catch the candlelight.
Instead of bowing to his opponent, Lockhart turned and beamed at the audience. A few younger girls actually squealed.
Snape's eyes narrowed.
"Something's off," he muttered. "That idiot never does anything without a performance…"
Sure enough, clouds of violet smoke billowed around the hall, and portraits of Lockhart appeared along the walls, smiling with infuriating charm.
He ignored the boos and smiled wider.
"Ladies and gentlemen—permit me to—"
But before he could finish, his red-faced opponent shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!"
A flash of white. Lockhart froze mid-sentence, his arms snapping to his sides. He toppled from the stage like a statue.
Shrieks of laughter and horror erupted.
Flitwick scrambled down from his stool and rushed over to inspect him.
"Gryffindor wins, but no points!" he declared. "That wasn't sporting."
"It wasn't fair!" the student shouted. "It was his fault!"
"Yes, yes, his fault," Flitwick muttered as he reversed the spell. "Still. He's your classmate."
The boy stormed off, frustrated.
Lockhart, now released from the spell, remained on the floor, his smile still plastered stiffly in place. Only the alternating flush and pallor in his cheeks proved he was alive.
"Get up, Gilderoy," Flitwick said, prodding him with his wand. "We're not finished."
That incident sparked an increase in tempo. The fourth- and fifth-year matches flew by in under an hour.
The fourth-year champion was Bartemius Crouch Jr., a master of spells who left opponents disarmed within seconds.
The fifth-year victor was Dirk Cresswell of Hufflepuff, famed for his defensive spells and disarming charm. He rarely needed to finish a duel—his opponents usually surrendered.
At last, it was time for the sixth-years.
Snape was in the seventh pairing, and his first opponent was Remus Lupin.
They stepped onto the stage, bowed, and raised their wands.
They faced off, eyes locked.
Lupin struck first, a Stunner flashing red through the air. Snape deflected it effortlessly.
"Moony," Snape drawled. "Been a while. No need to rush."
"Severus," Lupin replied evenly, circling. "Incarcerous!"
Snape knocked it aside, almost lazily.
"Why don't you strike back?" Lupin asked. "Don't you want to win?"
Snape smiled coldly. "You always think you're innocent, don't you? Always watching, never acting. You cover your ears and eyes and pretend that keeps your conscience clean."
"There's a comic," Snape went on, "from a little-known wizarding press far to the East…"
"Impedimenta!" Lupin shouted, trying to cut him off.
Snape sidestepped.
"In it, the strongest character always bullies the weakest. But the worst ones… are those who stand by and pretend to read."
"Professor, he's goading him!" came James Potter's voice from the crowd.
"He hasn't insulted his opponent, Mr. Potter," Flitwick said calmly.
Lupin continued casting, but Snape deflected every spell.
"I can block your curses, Lupin," Snape said, eyes gleaming. "But can you block the fear of being left behind by your friends?"
That hit home. Lupin let out a strained noise and sent a barrage of fire-charmed candles flying at Snape like missiles.
Snape drew a circle with his wand. The fire transformed mid-air into silver-white orbs and shot back.
Lupin stumbled and fell backward off the stage.
"Being a prefect doesn't mean standing still, Lupin," Snape said icily.
"Out of the way!"
James and Sirius shoved through the crowd to help Lupin up. Pettigrew trailed behind, peering eagerly at the stage with a sick smile.
"Professor," James said, teeth clenched, "am I allowed to go next?"
Pettigrew shifted to get a better view, clearly hoping to witness something… explosive.