Sullivan pulled a Colt Python revolver out of his Undetectable Extension Bag and said with a grin, "Actually, I've already done some basic magical modifications to this handgun. Anyone want to test its power?"
"Me!" George and Fred shot their hands up at practically the same moment, practically bouncing with excitement.
"Perfect. You two, come on up and stand over there!" As he spoke, Sullivan flicked his wand. The space around the lectern instantly expanded, turning into a long, narrow dueling platform.
It was a combo of the Undetectable Extension Charm and Transfiguration—maybe a bit rough around the edges in Professor McGonagall's eyes, but it had the kids gasping and cheering.
After a full day of classes, Sullivan had picked up some fresh insights into Transfiguration, and this was the perfect chance to try them out. The results were clearly a hit.
He took one end of the platform while George and Fred stood at the other. Sullivan glanced down at the class and asked, "Anyone else?"
Cedric Diggory, sitting in the audience, couldn't help speaking up. "Professor Sullivan, are you planning to take on all of us at once? No offense, but that doesn't sound easy!"
"Questioning a professor in class? Hufflepuff loses five points. But since it came from a place of honesty and kindness, Hufflepuff gains five points back!" Sullivan seized the chance to dock (and then restore) those Hufflepuff points. "You're right, though—I'm taking on all challengers."
Cedric ignored the point shuffle, feeling a little underestimated. "Professor, we may only be third-years, but we've got some real fighting skills. Don't sell us short."
Sullivan didn't bother explaining. He just waved them up. "We'll see who's selling who short. Come find out!"
Cedric hopped onto the platform. Sullivan called up Tracy Davis from Ravenclaw next. Down below, a Slytherin boy named Flint muttered under his breath, "One against four? Talk about arrogant. Does he think he's the Dark Lord or something? This'll be good."
Sullivan zeroed in on him instantly. "Slytherin loses five points. Since you think I'm arrogant, why don't you come up and prove it?"
Flint's face flushed red when he was called out. He stared at Sullivan, clearly waiting for the points to get added back.
Sullivan smirked. "If you manage to land a spell on me, I'll give Slytherin ten points."
"Deal!" Slytherins cared a lot about pride—or at least about saving face. Flint gritted his teeth and climbed onto the platform.
With all five students in position, Sullivan raised the revolver. "All right, this duel starts now. I'll count to three, then fire Disarming Charms. You guys can do whatever you want."
"One! Two! Three!"
As soon as he hit three, the five kids raised their wands and started incantations.
Sullivan, looking every bit the Wild West gunslinger, aimed the revolver with his right hand, steadied it with his left, and went bang-bang-bang-bang-bang…
The magical gun didn't actually make any noise—the bangs were just a special effect he'd added himself. Five red beams shot out in rapid succession, streaking toward the five young wizards.
At that moment, none of them had even finished their spells. On top of that, they had zero real combat experience and were basically standing still while casting. Every single beam hit its mark, sending them flying backward.
Five wands soared into the air and landed neatly in front of Sullivan. The rest of the class sat there stunned—no one had expected it to end like that.
"Five against one, over in a second? Professor Sullivan is… unbelievable!" A Gryffindor lion jumped up in excitement.
A Slytherin snake looked just as shocked. "No way… even a professor couldn't take down five people in one second. That's not even magic."
The Ravenclaws were totally different. Sullivan was an eagle alum, and he'd awarded their house the most points last week. Seeing him pull this off, they burst into applause and cheers.
The five on the platform were the most stunned of all. They all came from wizarding families—maybe not top-tier magically, but they knew talent when they saw it. Even their own family elders couldn't have disarmed the five of them that easily.
In an instant, the way they looked at the magical revolver in Sullivan's hand turned hungry—full of pure longing.
Sullivan definitely felt those stares. He handed their wands back and said, "Don't get too excited. It's not as amazing as you think."
"First off, the spells it fires are way weaker than ones you cast yourselves. Second, you're still students—relying on it too much would hurt your own spell proficiency."
Then he switched gears. "But… if someone scores top marks in Muggle Studies at the end of term, I wouldn't mind gifting them a magical handgun of their own."
"Yes! That's gonna be mine!" The Weasley twins were the first to leap up, pumping their fists.
The other kids got fired up too, though they were quieter about it—just quietly resolving to study harder.
"All right," Sullivan continued, "next I'm going to show you an American movie called Django Unchained. Hope you enjoy it!"
He pulled out a magical projector and started playing the classic Western right there in the classroom.
Even though the film was over thirty years old and didn't have a single spell in it, the free-spirited, untamed image of the cowboy gunslinger burned itself into every young witch and wizard's mind.
That night, almost every student dreamed they'd become a cowboy, wielding a gun that fired spells and driving dark wizards into retreat.
Over the next week, Sullivan demonstrated the magical handgun in every class from third to seventh year. Talk about him swept through the school like wildfire.
Some students insisted Professor Sullivan was an incredibly powerful wizard who could defeat any enemy with his amazing alchemical gadgets.
Others, judging by how he performed in Transfiguration or Potions classes, figured his personal magic was pretty average. Alchemical items were just tools, after all—they didn't reflect raw skill. So they concluded he was simply a brilliant alchemist, nothing special otherwise.
The two sides argued nonstop. The "powerful wizard" faction was led by George and Fred, who—as Sullivan's prospective apprentices—defended their teacher fiercely.
The "average wizard" side was headed by Marcus Flint, Slytherin's male prefect and Quidditch captain.
Marcus hadn't taken Muggle Studies, so he'd never seen the handgun in action. But he was convinced he could tell just by imagining it that Sullivan had only pulled off some cheap tricks to get attention.
So on Friday night in the Slytherin common room, Marcus gathered his supporters and launched into a loud speech:
"By now you've all heard about that new professor, Sullivan—a Muggle-born who only teaches that useless elective, Muggle Studies."
"He claims he invented an alchemical device that casts spells without the wizard even saying an incantation. Ridiculous! Hahaha…"
"Hahaha, totally ridiculous…"
"A Muggle-born thinking he's somebody—Dumbledore, maybe? So ignorant and full of himself…"
"That's the funniest thing I've heard all year. Spells without incantations? If that were true, then Squibs could cast magic too!"
His cronies chimed in loudly, laughing along.
"You're the ignorant, arrogant ones," a cool, clear voice cut in. "You're running your mouths about something you've never even seen. Who gave you that kind of courage?"
Everyone turned. The speaker was a girl about 5'5" with shoulder-length blonde hair. Even the oversized robes couldn't hide her striking figure, but there was a faint chill in her eyes.
Marcus Flint was furious that Gemma Farley had spoken against him. His face twisted, making his already prominent buck teeth look even more menacing.
The Farleys were pure-blood, sure, but compared to an old Sacred Twenty-Eight family like the Flints, they didn't measure up. For her to challenge him like this? Marcus stalked over and loomed over her.
"Gemma Farley, what did you just say? You really think a filthy Muggle-born could invent some era-defining alchemical tool?"
"Have you forgotten pure-blood pride? Forgotten who actually leads the wizarding world forward?"
"No wonder the Farley family's falling apart. Why don't you just drop out, agree to an engagement with me, and ride the Flint name? Might save your family yet. Hahaha…"
For a pure-blood, Marcus's words were vicious. Yet none of the onlookers stepped in to help Gemma—they just laughed along with him.
If this had been an ordinary young witch, she'd probably have run off crying or gone to a teacher. But Gemma Farley was no ordinary witch.
Being female prefect in a house like Slytherin, obsessed with blood purity, meant she had real strength.
She didn't get angry. She just looked coldly at Marcus, then swept her gaze across the room. She didn't argue, didn't move—just stared, letting them laugh all they wanted.
Eventually, the laughter died down. When their eyes met hers, that icy disdain made everyone fall silent.
Marcus sensed something was off, but as the ringleader he couldn't back down. He stepped closer and kept posturing.
"What, tempted? Then hurry back to your dorm and write to your father. For old times' sake, I wouldn't mind marrying you."
Finally, Gemma spoke. She gave a cold huff. "We take pride in our name, not in boasting about our status. We value strategy, not underestimating the enemy through impulsiveness. We assess the situation and protect ourselves wisely."
"Looks like you've forgotten Slytherin's motto completely. The wizarding world has never been led by surnames alone, and pure-blood honor isn't defended by belittling Muggles."
"Your words only show your ignorance, weakness, and incompetence. You should thank your ancestors for leaving you a good name—otherwise a fool like you would never have become a Slytherin prefect."
Lies can't hurt; truth cuts deep. Marcus completely lost it. He yanked out his wand, pointed it at Gemma, and roared, "Who do you think you're talking to? One word from me and I could bankrupt your family!"
"Slugulus Eructo!" a voice suddenly rang out. A jet of green light shot from the entrance tunnel and hit Marcus square in the chest.
The next instant, Marcus felt a violent wave of nausea. He opened his mouth involuntarily, and a thick, arm-sized slug slithered out.
Everyone whipped around to see Sullivan striding quickly toward them. "Pointing a wand at a female classmate in the common room isn't exactly honorable behavior. Slytherin loses ten points!"
"Pr-Professor Sullivan… how did you get here?" Gemma stammered slightly, a faint blush rising on her pale cheeks.
Gemma Farley was proud but not arrogant. Plenty of boys at school chased her, but she'd never given any of them the time of day—too shallow and immature.
Snape had always been her idol. She'd decided long ago that her future husband would be someone deep and substantial like him.
Then she met Sullivan. His good looks, humorous teaching style, and vast knowledge of alchemy and Muggle studies had quickly won her over.
Of course, Sullivan had no idea he'd stolen one of Snape's little fangirls. He just smiled and said, "I came looking for you specifically. Come to my office—I've got something to discuss."
"Me?" Gemma pointed at herself uncertainly, her face turning even redder.
"Yep, you. Let's go. You lot—get this guy to Madam Pomfrey."
Sullivan really had come for Gemma. After a week of watching the students, he'd realized how outstanding she was.
Her magical talent outstripped everyone in her year—including Percy Weasley. She stayed calm under pressure, saw the big picture, didn't share the usual Slytherin prejudice against Muggles or Muggle-borns, was open to new ideas, and had serious ambition.
Most importantly, while the Farleys weren't one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they had solid connections in British wizarding society and ran a decent import-export business. Perfect disciple material.
Back in his office, Sullivan got straight to the point. "Gemma, I noticed in class that you're really interested in the magical handgun."
Gemma was just as direct. "Yes, Professor. I believe it's a game-changing invention. It could reshape the wizarding world just like wands did."
"Oh? How so?" Sullivan asked.
Gemma explained, "Professor, do you know how many Squibs there are in Britain? Around three thousand, maybe more. Most end up blending into Muggle society; only a few stay in the wizarding world."
"My uncle is a Squib. He can sense magic, even has some magical power, and he desperately wants to be a real wizard."
"But he can't cast spells. In my grandfather's eyes, he's a failure. My uncle's always been good to me, and I really want to help him. Your magical handgun… it gives me hope."