Aldridge handed Sean a lumpy, plain-looking bag, its stitches uneven like a Weasley sweater gone wrong. "Master, this is the bag I crafted with the Undetectable Extension Charm," he said, his voice steady with pride. "The items you requested are inside. I used the Bulstrode family's connections to commission a local house-elf alchemist. It was a rush job, so the look's a bit… basic. The alchemist was so unhappy with the appearance, he refused to claim it as his work."
Sean ran his fingers over the bag's rough fabric, feeling the faint hum of magic within. "But the quality's top-notch, right?"
"Absolutely, Master," Aldridge assured. "It's sturdy, reliable, and will meet your needs perfectly."
"Thanks, Aldridge," Sean said, slinging the bag over his shoulder.
"It's my duty, Master," Aldridge replied, bowing slightly.
Sean glanced at the charmed pocket watch in his hand—7:30 a.m. "Let's get moving. Don't want to keep them waiting."
The trio—Sean, Aldridge, and Jason—strode through Beauxbatons' corridors, the stone walls glowing faintly under charmed torches that flickered like mischievous pixies. The dueling room wasn't far, but Sean's mind raced. This new opponent, a fifth-year from an ancient wizarding family, sounded formidable. His Troll Strength and Troll Spiked Hide had carried him against Schiller, but his bag of tricks—Vineforge Shield, Stupefy LV1—was thin. The bag Aldridge prepared held his edge, though what exactly was inside, he kept to himself. A Slytherin never revealed his full hand.
They entered the dueling room, its scorched floor and rune-etched walls a stark contrast to the library's calm. Only a handful of students lingered, their whispers buzzing like startled Bowtruckles. In the corner, Schiller stood with three others, their sharp features and haughty postures screaming pure-blood pride, not unlike Slytherin's elite. Sean's eyes narrowed. One of them was his challenger, no doubt.
Schiller spotted Sean and murmured something to his group before approaching. "There won't be many spectators today," he stated, his voice clipped. "The dueling platform's been removed. The entire room is the dueling area."
Sean raised an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "Trying to stop me from pulling the same stunt as last time?"
Schiller's face tightened, a flush creeping up his neck. He hesitated, then said, "Isn't it normal to tweak strategies based on what you know about your opponent?"
Before Sean could respond, Jason jumped in, his tone sharp. "Tweaking strategy is fine, but scrapping the platform? That's not strategy—that's rigging the game!"
Sean raised a hand, silencing Jason mid-rant. He turned to Schiller, his smile easy but pointed. "It's fine. This is your turf. You should use your home-field advantage. I'm good with it. Let's go with your setup."
Schiller shifted uncomfortably. If Sean had argued, like Jason, he might've brushed it off. But Sean's casual acceptance, paired with his nod to Beauxbatons' advantage, stung. It was a classic Slytherin move—agreeing with a jab that made Schiller feel small. His cheeks reddened, and he muttered, "I'm sorry, I don't control this. But I promise, aside from the platform, everything else will be fair."
Sean shrugged, his tone light. "Doesn't matter. It's not about fair or unfair. Just get things ready and don't worry about it."
His words only deepened Schiller's embarrassment. The fifth-year nodded stiffly and hurried out of the dueling room, his shoulders hunched.
Sean led Aldridge and Jason to a bench along the wall, settling in to wait. The three across the room made no move to approach, their gazes cold and distant, like Malfoy sizing up a rival. Sean had no interest in introductions. Getting chummy risked softening his edge—he might go easy if he liked them, and that wouldn't do. His system thrived on duels, each one a chance to extract spells or talents. Stupefy LV1 from Schiller was proof of that. This new opponent, with their ancient lineage, might offer something even better.
He leaned back, the bag resting against his side. Whatever Aldridge had packed, it was his ace. The dueling room's torches cast long shadows, and Sean's mind turned to strategy. No platform meant no charging with a Vineforge Shield, but the open space favored his Troll Strength. He'd need to adapt, fast.
As eight o'clock drew near, a crowd gathered outside the dueling room, their excited whispers buzzing like a jar of startled Billywigs. Schiller stood at the entrance, arms crossed, blocking most from entering. Some students tried to protest, their voices rising, but Schiller's explanation—that the three inside, likely Felix Varnholt and his allies, wanted a smaller audience—quieted them. Beauxbatons' students, proud and disciplined, respected the wishes of those not easily challenged, even if it stung.
Not everyone was turned away. Fleur Delacour and Barre Garcia glided past Schiller without a word, his posture softening as if under a charm. A few older students, fifth- and sixth-years with confident strides and wands tucked in fine robes, also entered without issue. Schiller addressed the crowd, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "The whole dueling room is the arena today. Spectators must be able to protect themselves. Only those skilled enough can enter."
The excuse was flimsy—everyone knew it was about keeping out the curious while letting in those Felix's group approved. The dueling room's rune-carved walls pulsed faintly, its charmed torches flickering like Weasley fireworks, casting restless shadows over the select few inside.
At eight o'clock sharp, the tallest of the three across the room stood. Felix Varnholt, nearly 1.9 meters with a crew cut and a build like a Bludger ready to strike, strode to the center. His Beauxbatons robes strained across his strong shoulders, his wand gleaming like a polished Snitch in his hand.
Fleur, who'd joined Sean at his bench, leaned close, her voice low and urgent. "Sean, his name is Felix Varnholt, a fifth-year, starting sixth year soon. He's known as the strongest in his year. Be careful. If it's too much, concede quickly. He's fair; he won't hurt you if you give up."
Sean flashed a confident grin. "Thanks, Fleur, but have some faith. I might just win."
Fleur paused, surprised by his assurance, then nodded. "Sorry, I spoke out of turn. I'll be cheering for you to win!"
Her words felt a bit too warm, almost too close. Both froze for a moment—Fleur, realizing she'd sounded overly familiar; Sean, noting the odd tone but shrugging it off. If she believed in him, what did a strange phrase matter? He gave her a quick nod, his focus sharpening on the duel.
Sean stepped forward, eyeing Felix. At twelve, he was tall, 1.7 meters, matching some fourth- or fifth-years. But Felix loomed over him, his bulk intimidating. Without Troll Strength, Sean thought, one hit from Felix could land him in the hospital wing. A sly idea sparked: had Felix been chosen for his size to counter Sean's physical edge? If so, they'd misjudged Troll Strength and Troll Spiked Hide. Magic would decide this, but his talents were his trump card.
"Beauxbatons, Felix Varnholt!" Felix declared, his voice calm but firm.
"Hogwarts, Sean Bulstrode!" Sean replied, matching his resolve.
They bowed, wands raised, and took opposite corners of the dueling room. Schiller's countdown rang out—three, two, one. The duel erupted with a flash of magic.
Both cast "Petrificus Totalus!" Gray-white beams clashed mid-air, bursting in a shower of sparks closer to Sean's side. Felix's spell was faster, his wand a blur of precision. He advanced, steps steady, his wand tracing tight arcs. Spells poured out—Protego, Diffindo, Stupefy—each one sharp, hammering Sean's defenses like a storm of Bludgers.
Sean gritted his teeth, his wand dancing under Felix's onslaught. He layered Protego with his quickest Petrificus Totalus, clashing head-on in a frantic mix of attack and defense. Blue and white halos flared before him, rippling like water struck by endless stones. Each collision pushed Sean back, his boots scraping the scorched floor.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The dueling room thrummed with magic, the spectators' hushed gasps drowned by the spellfire. Sean's back hit the wall, Felix closing in, his wand relentless. Sean's mind raced. Felix's spellwork was leagues above his—without Smoke Rope Curse, a risky play in this tight space, he couldn't match this fifth-year's raw magical skill. In pure magic, Felix was untouchable.
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Author's Note:
See you in the next chapter!