Even without Dumbledore's nudge, Snape would have attended anyway. This was a prefect challenge, after all, and first-years could get carried away in the heat of a duel. As Head of Slytherin, he had to supervise.
By the Black Lake, a crowd of students had already gathered, buzzing with anticipation. Snape stood with the other professors, arms crossed, watching intently.
Barton turned to glance at his Head of House. Snape gave a curt nod.
Cassius stepped to the center of the makeshift arena. "Slytherin Prefect Challenge! Challenger: Erwin Cavendish!"
Erwin emerged from the crowd and took position to Cassius's left.
Cassius nodded, then announced, "Challenged: Barton Dru, second-year hidden prefect!"
Barton moved to Cassius's right. A cluster of second-years cheered him on.
"Give it to him, Barton!"
"Yeah, don't let Cavendish walk all over you!"
Laughter rippled through the group.
Barton's face darkened further. The duel hadn't even started, and they were already counting him out? Frustration boiled in his chest. He had to prove them wrong—hold off at least two spells, show he wasn't a pushover. Deep down, though, he knew victory was a long shot.
Cassius waved the two forward. They met in the center, wands drawn. He stepped back.
Erwin and Barton raised their wands to their chests and bowed formally. Then they turned and retreated to opposite ends of the clearing, about twenty paces apart.
As Erwin walked back, a ridiculous image flickered in his mind: Tom and Jerry, facing off like gunslingers in a Western. But while Jerry played fair, Tom snuck a shot from behind. The memory almost made him chuckle—classic lack of sportsmanship.
The two turned to face each other.
Barton opened his mouth. "Protego—"
"Expelliarmus!"
The red jet streaked from Erwin's wand before Barton could finish. It struck true, wrenching the wand from his grip. The wood arced through the air and embedded itself, point-down, in the muddy bank by the lake.
It happened in a blink. Most of the younger students blinked in confusion, stunned silent. Only the fifth-years and professors had caught the full exchange.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with approval. "A flawless Disarming Charm! Such speed and precision—remarkable."
Erwin's basic spells had long since hit advanced levels. With wandless, silent casting, he could refine them to perfection.
Snape's gaze sharpened with faint surprise.
Cassius eyed Erwin appraisingly. He could pull off an Expelliarmus like that too—and just as cleanly. But Erwin's version felt... effortless, almost casual. Yesterday, Cassius had pegged this as a token effort from the first-year, a long shot at best. Now? He wondered if Erwin might actually pull off the impossible.
Barton stared at his empty hand, dazed. Lost? Already? One spell, and it was over?
He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "I yield."
Erwin grinned. "No need for flattery, senior."
Barton snorted. "I wasn't holding back. You're just too good."
Erwin shrugged, letting the modesty stand. The crowd around them deflated; they'd hoped for a drawn-out clash, not an instant rout. Whispers spread, though—Erwin didn't duel like a first-year. The kid was a force.
Cassius approached Erwin. "Well? Ready for the next round?"
Erwin considered it, then shook his head. "Pass for now. Lunch break's short, and I could use the downtime."
Cassius smirked. "Fair enough. Your call—challenge me whenever you're set. I'll be waiting."
Erwin nodded, and the students began to drift away.
Barton, however, lingered. Erwin raised an eyebrow. "Something else?"
Barton hesitated, then blurted, "Could I... train with you sometime?"
Erwin studied him, catching a spark of raw ambition in the second-year's eyes. Intriguing. "You seem driven to improve. Second year and already pushing this hard? What's the rush?"
Barton shifted uncomfortably.
Erwin chuckled. "You've got a story, don't you? If you want my help, stories come with a price. Start with the truth."
Barton sighed. "It's not that. Look, my real name's Barton Yaxley."
Erwin paused. "Yaxley? From the Sacred Twenty-Eight? The ones who trade in potions and creature parts?"
Barton nodded grimly. "That's me."
"But your surname—Dru?"
A wry smile twisted Barton's face. "Illegitimate son. I took my mother's name."
Erwin's interest piqued. A classic tale of noble intrigue—feuds, secrets, the works. "So, what's driving this power grab? Heir's seat? Family fortune?"
Barton blinked, startled by the accuracy.
Erwin rolled his eyes inwardly. Predictable as any Muggle novel or film.
"Not the wealth," Barton admitted. "I just want recognition. No more whispers, no 'bastard' label. I need strength—enough that my brothers have to acknowledge me."
Erwin nodded, seeing the fire beneath the frustration. Not greed, just dignity. A rare angle.
"How can I assist, then?"
"You're powerful. I want to be like that."
Erwin leaned in. "Fair. But why help you? What's in it for me?"
Barton frowned. "I... don't have galleons. No pull in the family vaults."
Erwin laughed softly. "Money's not the issue. I want your loyalty. Swear it, and I'll give you more than respect—I can make you head of the Yaxleys."
...
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