"Exactly," Tom said calmly. "It's not such a bad thing to have some entertainment in the morning. Wizards rely on wands to speak, after all. Believe it or not, even if things end peacefully today, the next time they meet in a match, both sides will fight even dirtier."
Hermione couldn't refute him. Last year, the two teams had nearly beaten each other senseless—if Harry hadn't caught the Snitch at lightning speed, someone would definitely have ended up in the hospital.
"So you're that sure Slytherin will win?" Hermione asked, refusing to give in.
Tom didn't answer. Daphne, however, laughed with thinly veiled glee. "Relax. With just that lot from Gryffindor? Even if Merlin himself blessed them, they wouldn't win."
"Wood and Johnson are good students, and the twins know plenty of spells. Don't underestimate Gryffindor so much," Hermione argued, her voice tight with indignation.
Tom and Daphne exchanged a knowing glance and said nothing more.
Naïve little lioness, their eyes seemed to say. Soon, reality would show her the truth.
The rules were explained quickly, and the first duel began.
As team captains, Flint and Wood were the first to face off. Wood immediately shot an attack spell, but he hadn't noticed Flint muttering the incantation for a Shield Charm while bowing. The moment Wood's spell bounced harmlessly away, his mind went blank.
What now?
The enemy had a Shield Charm—should he still keep attacking?
His hesitation was fatal. Flint didn't wait for him to recover. He shouted two of his best-practiced spells in quick succession.
Wood's legs began to jerk uncontrollably in a ridiculous tap dance, and then an invisible rope wrapped around his throat, slamming him hard to the ground.
Flint strode forward, yanked Wood's wand from his grasp, and gave it a triumphant wave before smugly straightening up.
"That ended quickly," Snape remarked with mock surprise.
Professor McGonagall's face was stormy as she dispelled the curses. Wood staggered to his feet, coughing, head hung low. If the floor had a crack big enough, he would have crawled into it without hesitation. The shame was unbearable.
"Oliver, I'll avenge you," Angelina Johnson declared, stepping out with determination blazing in her eyes. She had spirit—but reality was cruel.
Her opponent, Blatch Drask, was a seventh-year who had once challenged the Invisible Prefect. He might have lost that duel, but his skill was undeniable. Against him, Angelina had no chance. She had zero experience in actual dueling. He defeated her easily.
Two losses in a row. The Gryffindor players already felt their confidence crumbling.
They had always clashed with Slytherin on the Quidditch pitch, but this—this was their first true face-to-face magical duel. How had they lost so miserably?
"We'll go," Fred and George stepped forward, stopping the two remaining girls.
But the outcome was no better. The twins had plenty of tricks and cunning ideas—if this had been an ambush or a prank, their opponents wouldn't stand a chance. But in a straightforward duel? They were quickly beaten.
By now, Professor McGonagall's expression could only be described as spectacular. The colors flashing across her face could have opened a dye shop. Her students—her best students—four matches, four humiliating defeats.
The humiliation cut deeper than losing a hundred house points… or even three hundred.
"Looks like luck is on our side today," Snape said, his tone smooth and full of satisfaction. His normally gloomy face was lit with rare cheer. "Flint, well done. Though remember, they are classmates. Best not to be too harsh."
Slash!
Another knife twisted in McGonagall's heart.
"Well? Why are you still standing here? You're wasting others' training time. Back to the castle, and finish your homework!" she barked furiously. Her voice cracked with frustration, her figure trembling with suppressed anger.
Wood and the others shuffled away with their heads bowed, even the twins stripped of their usual mischief.
"Potter," Malfoy muttered as Harry passed by, "you got lucky this time. Otherwise, I'd have beaten you to the ground."
Harry shot him a sharp glare. "A coward who runs from a duel doesn't deserve to talk tough."
Malfoy's face froze. Harry's mood instantly improved, and he jogged forward to catch up with the others.
"Severus, your students performed admirably," McGonagall forced herself to say through gritted teeth, before turning and leaving. Her retreating figure looked weighed down, almost desolate.
She could tolerate mischievous students. She could even tolerate the less intelligent ones—differences in talent were natural. Not every witch or wizard could be a prodigy.
But Wood, Angelina, the Weasley twins—were they unintelligent? Of course not. Other than Percy and a few exceptions, they were the finest Gryffindor had. And still, they had been utterly, hopelessly defeated.
Was this… proof that her teaching could not measure up to Snape's?
"Professor McGonagall…" Hermione's chest tightened painfully as she watched her Head of House leave.
"Hermione, this is actually a good thing," Tom said quietly. Even he hadn't expected the defeat to be so absolute. He had hoped Gryffindor might at least win a round. But since the disaster had already unfolded, it was up to him to soothe the young witch before she burst into tears.
In a soft voice, he explained, "Professor McGonagall's teaching is beyond question. But she protects her students too much. Think about it—you've been here for over a year now. Have you ever had any real combat practice?"
Hermione shook her head honestly.
Practice? There were barely any places in Hogwarts where students were even allowed to cast spells. Everyone just crammed before exams, grateful simply to pass.
"Slytherin is different," Tom said seriously. "Snape doesn't care about the inner workings of his House anymore. If they want higher standing, they must prove themselves with real skill, real power."
"The gap you saw today wasn't in talent. It was in experience. Flint, for example—he's been acting as Avery's sparring partner for an entire year. Even a fool would eventually develop a set of dueling tactics from that."
"And Wood? And the others? Calling them 'academic duelists' would be too generous. They have no strategy, no concept of combat—just mindlessly firing spells like children."
Hermione fell into deep thought, the sting of defeat dawning on her in full.
Daphne, uninterested in such analysis, drifted away to find Colin and asked him to make her extra prints of the photos he had snapped of Tom.
Astoria tilted her head back, gazing up at the boy. In her eyes, he shone with light.