Chapter 136: Slytherin's Duel Declarations Ignite the Hall!
Professor McGonagall paused, visibly taken aback. Snape looked equally puzzled, his dark eyes narrowing as he wondered what Charlotte had up her sleeve.
Erwin truly had no idea about this. The original books never mentioned it.
Professor McGonagall recovered first. "It seems Miss Teresa has some knowledge of Hogwarts history. Indeed, the school does have this tradition, though few ever invoke it. Duels are rare, but the rule stands: as long as it's not life-threatening and both parties are of equal standing, conflicts can be settled that way."
Charlotte nodded firmly. "Very well, then. I, Charlotte Teresa, on behalf of Slytherin, challenge Fred Weasley and George Weasley to a duel—in the presence of all the professors!"
Erwin's eyes widened in surprise. Fred and George stared, slack-jawed. The twins exchanged a quick glance.
George whispered, "Reckon we can take her?"
Fred shot back, horrified, "Fight her? Didn't you see what she did to Erwin? We'd be better off snapping our wands and chucking the bits at her!"
George managed a wry grimace. "Can we even say no?"
Professor McGonagall shook her head. "No, a formal duel challenge can't be refused."
Charlotte's voice was cool and steady. "Your brother insulted our prefect, so someone from the Weasley family has to pay the price. Don't worry—you won't be in real danger. I just need to remind everyone that Slytherin prefects aren't to be trifled with."
Erwin opened his mouth to intervene—after all, this wasn't half as entertaining when he wasn't the one stealing the spotlight—but Grodia grabbed his sleeve. "Leave it, Erwin. This isn't just for you; it's for all of Slytherin."
Erwin glanced at him doubtfully. "You lot planned this?"
Draco nodded. "Spot on. Slytherin's been too quiet for too long, and you've been far too laid-back. Someone's got to handle the dirty work you're too idle for."
Erwin got the picture. His run-in was just the excuse. The Slytherins wanted to flex their muscles, pure and simple. Fine by him—let them have their fun.
Professor McGonagall turned to Snape. He rose smoothly. "The challenges are accepted. You'll duel under the supervision of Professor McGonagall and myself."
"As challengers," McGonagall added, "you two may choose the time and place."
Fred and George sagged, looking utterly defeated. They knew they were outmatched. For all their pranks and raw talent, Charlotte was in a different league altogether.
Then another figure stood. "I, Marcus Flint, of Slytherin House, challenge Gryffindor prefect Percy Weasley to a duel—witnessed by all the professors!"
Erwin blinked, turning to Grodia. "This was all orchestrated?"
Grodiaconfirmed it with a sharp nod. "If I weren't in my seventh year, I'd have done it myself. The Weasleys need putting in their place—the whole lot of them."
Erwin couldn't help but feel a flicker of sympathy for little Ginny. Good thing she'd been born a year late; otherwise, that fool Ron's first-year blunder might have dragged her into the crossfire too. As it was, Ron had handed him the perfect opening.
Percy rose, his face set like stone. "I accept."
Marcus flashed a malicious grin, his gnarled teeth glinting under the braces. "Oh, this'll be good."
Erwin muttered, "Can Marcus pull this off? Percy's a prefect, after all."
Grodia snorted. "His badge is just from sucking up to everyone. Strength? Laughable."
Erwin recalled Percy's arc from the books—ambitious to a fault, all politics and no real power. When Dumbledore fell from grace, Percy ditched the Weasleys without a backward glance. Suited Slytherin, that sort of cunning. But dueling? That was uncharted territory.
Grodia leaned in. "Don't sell Marcus short just because you flattened him. He's from the Flint line—descended from Ursula Flint, who married Phineas Nigellus Black, the most reviled headmaster Hogwarts ever had. You know the type: all about Dark Arts, best defense is a good offense. His wife's family ran the same vein. The Flints know curses inside out. Word is, Marcus spends holidays dueling to sharpen his edge. If you hadn't hit him with that binding spell, he'd have made you sweat."
Erwin nodded, seeing Marcus in a new light. The buck-toothed brute wasn't just muscle— he was a blunt instrument, forged in secrecy. Brainless charge, but backed by real bite. If Draco was right, Marcus was the ideal enforcer.
The duels themselves stayed under wraps, as per tradition—private affairs, no spectators beyond the witnesses. Erwin didn't pry into the rules; whether by decree or preference, the details remained hidden.
That evening in the common room, Charlotte slipped back first, serene as ever, settling into her seat like nothing had happened. Marcus followed soon after, robes streaked with dust and a faint limp in his step.
Erwin didn't ask. He had his ways.
Come breakfast the next day, the truth was plain on the Gryffindor table. Fred, George, and Percy sported fresh bruises, purple blooms fading under hasty charms. Slytherin had won—and decisively. It felt like Erwin's first Halloween gift, even if the holiday didn't call for presents.
Classes dragged on without incident. Erwin had long since tuned out Neville's potion mishaps turning cauldrons into fireworks. Ron, meanwhile, had vanished from sight, though not from the castle. Erwin knew Dumbledore wouldn't boot him outright—not for Ron's sake, but the Weasley name carried weight. Out of deference, the headmaster would pull strings. How exactly remained to be seen.
Then, at dinner, Erwin's second bit of entertainment arrived. Earlier that day, he'd summoned a house-elf for a quick bowl of spicy spaghetti—craving something hotter than boiled fish, but faster to wolf down. He hadn't forgotten what Halloween really brought: a troll crashing the feast.