Friday night, the full moon on the enchanted ceiling had started to wane.
Tonight was the first official meeting of the new school year for the Dueling Club.
The students were buzzing with excitement, and even the professors had managed to clear their schedules and show up. Ever since Professor Flitwick took over the club, he'd invited several professors for demonstration duels. The one everyone still talked about was Professor Lewinter versus Professor Snape—actual forbidden dark magic had been thrown around.
Flitwick had asked Melvin a few more times after that, but Melvin always brushed it off with "the kids want to see something fresh" and dodged the extra work.
Just like everyone expected, tonight's special guest teacher was the new Defense professor, Remus Lupin. He had no reason to say no. For a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, the dueling club was the perfect stage to prove himself and win the students over.
After a few days, Lupin had settled in and gotten comfortable with the staff.
Dumbledore barely meddled—easy to get along with, as long as you didn't laugh at his terrible dinner-table jokes (they killed your appetite). McGonagall lived for the school; keep out of her way and don't hurt the kids, and she'd approve any teaching supplies you asked for.
Flitwick and Sprout were veteran professors you could actually talk shop with—perfect colleagues.
The elective teachers—Sinistra for Astronomy, Babbling for Ancient Runes, Vector for Arithmancy, Hooch for Flying—weren't close friends, but they were friendly enough. Trelawney? He'd barely seen her. She usually hid away with a bottle.
Hagrid was an old Order friend—same warm heart as always. They'd been too busy at the start of term, but maybe later they could talk about Harry.
Then there was the weird young Muggle Studies professor, Melvin Lewinter. Knew a ton of old secrets, scary-good at magic, specialized in dark creatures, boggarts, and Dementors. Talking shop with him was fascinating—just don't get on his petty side.
First week of term? Practically perfect.
Except for one or two difficult colleagues—like the guy currently warming up on the dueling platform: Severus Snape, Potions Master, former classmate, Order nemesis, self-proclaimed reformed Death Eater.
"Ready…"
Was it just the audience's imagination, or did Flitwick's voice have a hint of eager mischief?
"Severus, I feel I should remind you again—we're here to demonstrate dueling for the students, not to fight to the death."
Lupin eyed the scowl across from him and gave a helpless smile.
Compared to the gaunt, sickly look he'd had at the start of term, Lupin looked a lot better after a few days at Hogwarts—no more hunger, cold, or constant looking over his shoulder. A couple of solid nights' sleep had done wonders.
"I disagree," Snape said coolly. "The Dueling Club should teach students how brutal real combat is. Wizard duels aren't games. Dark wizards and creatures won't show mercy after graduation."
Lupin sighed. "Fine. If you insist."
"Begin!"
The second Flitwick's shout rang out, the duel exploded. Lupin countered vicious curses with basic spells. His only edge was the heightened senses and reflexes from lycanthropy—tiny dodges and lightning-fast casts that saved him in ways no one quite noticed.
It was like two characters from a Muggle fighting game with different stats: one balanced but agile, the other a dark-magic specialist with killer technique but no quick knockout. The fight stayed deadlocked.
The crowd was glued. George and Fred had even opened betting pools.
Because Melvin was friendly with the students (and had actually dueled Snape before), the twins had asked his opinion on the odds. Based on past experience and the fact that Lupin had been living rough until recently, Melvin figured Snape had the edge. He put a silver Sickle on Snape.
Most students hated Snape and bet on Lupin.
Defense professors were supposed to be badass. Lupin had already driven off a Dementor on the train, and his lessons this week had been packed with cool stories from his travels. They were sure he'd make Snape eat dirt.
Because of that bias, the betting was wildly lopsided. George and Fred did some quick math. Sure, they cheered for fellow Gryffindor alum Lupin out loud, but inside they were rooting for Snape to win and fund the joke shop.
The stalemate lasted ten minutes. Then the tide turned.
Snape flicked his wand, sending two crisscrossing spells: Tarantallegra and Levicorpus. Both were classic humiliation curses. Thinking of old schoolyard grudges with the Marauders, Snape's malice made the spells fly faster than usual. Two beams shot forward—one right after the other—straight at Lupin.
Flitwick's high-pitched commentary echoed through the hall:
"Oh! Tarantallegra! Professor Snape has a wicked sense of humor—everyone knows that one makes your legs dance uncontrollably!
"And behind it—Levicorpus! Hangs the victim upside-down by the ankle, completely helpless! A classic embarrassment spell—super popular at Hogwarts for a while!"
…
Fifth year, maybe.
A flash of memory hit Lupin, but he shook it off. Using his werewolf agility, he twisted mid-step, dodging the dance curse that would've boxed him in. He faced the Levicorpus head-on and fired a quick white beam.
A dull thud.
The impact shoved him sideways; he stumbled a few feet but stayed upright. The improved Shield Charm he'd learned from an old Wiltshire wizard had been fast enough. He blocked the curse—no public humiliation, no damage to a Defense professor's dignity.
But the intense fighting had drained him. Years of wandering had left his body frail. A few stable weeks weren't enough to fix that. Unnatural flush rose in his cheeks, limbs grew heavy, and his wand dipped. Anyone could see he was running on fumes.
Snape narrowed his eyes—no change in that icy, Black-Lake expression. He seized the opening and fired off several more curses in rapid succession, muttering too fast for anyone but Flitwick to catch.
More humiliation spells, no doubt.
Lupin dodged again, but slower this time. The first curse hit home. The beam sank into his chest. A huge force flipped him forward; his back arched as though he'd been yanked upside-down. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Old shame flooded back—decades old.
"Look who it is! Snivellus, you okay? Fail a test and hide to cry?"
"I was watching him during the exam—his nose was practically on the parchment. Bet the whole page is covered in grease. Professor probably can't even read the answers!"
"Expelliarmus—hey, what's wrong? Planning to hex us?"
"Petrificus Totalus—now what, gonna wipe your nose on us?"
He still remembered the scene under the beech tree by the lake. James tossing the Snitch, showing off. Sirius's hair a mess. Their young, handsome faces reflected in the water. Those exact words coming out of their mouths.
Teenage boys with cracking voices could still sound cruel. He hadn't stopped them. He'd been one of them—desperate for friendship, for belonging.
"Anyone want to see what color Snivellus's underwear is? Bet it's black. Let's check—Levicorpus…"
"If you go out with me, Evans, I'll let him down. Date me and I'll never touch a hair on this greasy git's head again."
Stripped and dangled in front of the whole school—especially in front of the girl he loved. Lupin could still feel Snape's pain, like every stare was a knife carving flesh. Hate had poured out of those wounds, sharp enough to make you want to run.
Back then he'd only cared about the Shrieking Shack and the Forbidden Forest paths—running under the full moon with his friends, keeping that friendship forever. The kids they pranked? The pain he inflicted on himself during transformations? He'd ignored it all.
"Oh, Professor Lupin's hit! Tonight's winner is Professor Snape…" Flitwick's squeaky commentary rang out.
Lupin stumbled back, opened his eyes—and realized he wasn't hanging upside-down. Just a lingering ache in his stomach. No humiliation.
"Not Levicorpus?" he muttered, confused.
Snape gave him a contemptuous look—those eyes exactly like the dungeon, dark and murky. He said nothing, bowed curtly to end the duel, and stalked off the platform.
Flitwick hurried over, grabbed Lupin's arm, and turned him to the crowd.
"Professor Lupin just showed us a bunch of regional spell variations—adaptations wizards make for different environments. As you saw, they can be surprisingly effective in duels!"
"Professor…"
"How about Professor Lupin shares a few useful ones with us?"
The hall erupted in cheers. Lupin had no time to dwell—he was dragged back into teaching.
…
At the side door to the Great Hall, a few professors leaned against the wall, watching the distant platform. They stood between two candelabras, bathed in soft candlelight.
"Severus went straight back to the dungeons. Last time he dueled Melvin it was a draw and he still stuck around to chat. Won this one fair and square and he's in no mood to talk," Sprout sighed, worried. "He asked me for a bunch of weird herbs—picrasma, bitter melon flowers, stuff so bitter you can't swallow it. Hope he's not brewing Lupin's potion into poison."
"Severus knows where to draw the line. He stopped in time, didn't he?" silver-bearded Dumbledore smiled. It wasn't even nine o'clock and he was already in starry blue pajamas, cradling hot cocoa.
"First week of term—how's everyone feeling?"
"This year's first-years are way better behaved than the last two batches—real sweethearts. The older kids have grown a lot too. Compared to them, Headmaster, you might want to keep an eye on certain professors?" Babbling said.
"Hmm?"
Dumbledore and McGonagall both turned, puzzled.
The four Heads of House and core-subject professors were swamped—they couldn't track every teacher. Their focus had been on Lupin and Hagrid. What could the elective teachers possibly get up to?
"Sybill's drinking has gotten worse. She's practically invisible lately. Never shows up in the staff room between classes, ends Divination early, and apparently even all that incense in the North Tower can't cover the booze smell."
"Why?" McGonagall frowned.
Sinistra, Vector, and the others laughed and looked straight at the person standing under the candelabra: the Muggle Studies professor.
Melvin gave an innocent, warm smile—young, handsome, and utterly blameless.
"Because of that lesson dissecting prophecy mechanics?" Dumbledore mused. "Prophecies have a self-fulfilling tendency, teachers' expectations guide students, and bad things tend to happen no matter what… Fascinating theory. Sybill might have misunderstood Melvin. I'll talk to her when I get a chance."
"I made it super clear at the end of that class," Melvin said helplessly. "Professor Trelawney's Divination lessons have real value—she's one of the rare true Seers. The kids probably only remembered the first part and repeated it to her."
The elective professors all found it hilarious. After years of putting up with Trelawney's drinking and occasional loopiness, they actually liked her when she was sober.
McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line and said nothing.
Dumbledore chuckled and let it drop. "Muggles always come up with the most interesting ideas. Speaking of which—I hear you and Remus have been researching boggarts. Any breakthroughs?"
"It's more about wizard emotions, magic, and memory," Melvin said. "Remember the discussion about the Longbottoms' condition before the summer? I got some ideas from Dementors, sat in on Lupin's boggart lesson, and we've been brainstorming. We've got some promising leads—I'm working on a treatment plan."
Dumbledore's expression turned serious.
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