— — — — — —

Ron had accepted Malfoy's duel challenge on Harry's behalf—and what's more, he even volunteered to be Harry's second.

The entire time, Harry looked completely confused, like he had no idea how he'd ended up in a duel in the first place.

Once Malfoy had left, Harry finally asked, "Okay, seriously—what even is a wizard duel? Why do you need a second? Are there rules or something?"

"Oh, yeah. If you die, your second takes your place until everyone on one side is dead."

Ron said it like it was no big deal, but Harry went pale as a ghost. When he saw how freaked out Harry looked, Ron realized maybe that wasn't the best way to put it. He quickly backtracked.

"I mean—that's the official rule. Not like that's gonna happen between you and Malfoy."

He looked Harry over. "C'mon, do you really think either of you could kill each other?"

Harry's face regained some color, but he still didn't look great. He'd only been at Hogwarts for two and a half weeks, and the number of spells he could actually pull off could be counted on one hand—with fingers to spare.

"…Does punching count as cheating?" Harry asked.

Ron gave it a thought. "Technically, yeah. But if it's just the two of you flinging spells at each other, we'll be here till sunrise and neither of you will have a scratch."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Just aim for his nose. I've been dying to punch that guy for weeks."

Harry actually found himself agreeing. They huddled together, whispering back and forth, trying to figure out a plan.

In the end, their brilliant strategy was to break Malfoy's nose—the one he always looked down it at people with—and maybe yank out his smug platinum-blonde hair. If things got desperate, biting wasn't off the table either.

Hermione had been listening to the whole thing, her brow furrowed so tightly it looked like it might collapse in on itself.

She wanted to step in and shut this madness down—but then Tom's words floated through her mind: "Losing is a big deal."

Against her better judgment, she said nothing.

— — —

"It's eleven-thirty, Harry—we should get going."

The castle was quiet and dark as Harry and Ron dressed carefully, trying not to wake their dorm mates.

They crept out the door and down the spiral staircase into the Gryffindor common room, where only the fire in the hearth still burned. The rest of the room was cloaked in shadow.

"Wait."

They had just reached the portrait hole when a girl's voice rang out behind them, making them both jump out of their skin.

They turned around—Hermione.

"I'm coming with you. To the duel with Malfoy."

"WHAT?" Ron couldn't believe what he was hearing. Wasn't Hermione the rule-follower extraordinaire? Professors loved her almost as much as they loved that Riddle guy from Slytherin.

"I said I'm coming with you to duel." Hermione repeated firmly.

Harry stared at her. "Wait—I thought you'd already gone to report us. Or at least ran off to get a professor."

"Well… that was my plan," Hermione admitted with zero shame. When the boys' faces darkened, she quickly added, "But Tom made a good point. Winning is what really matters."

"You two—be honest—do you even know any spells that work? Are you seriously planning to fight with your fists? You're wizards, not boxers."

Harry and Ron looked more than a little embarrassed, but in the end, they agreed. At the very least, Hermione definitely knew more spells than either of them.

So now they were three.

They'd barely stepped out of the common room when they heard loud snuffling sounds from the hallway.

Harry froze. "Mrs. Norris," he whispered, already halfway turned around to bolt. But the Fat Lady had gone visiting and her portrait was shut tight—they couldn't get back in.

"That's not her," Hermione whispered, squinting through the shadows. "Neville?! What are you doing here?"

Sure enough, crouched in the corner was Neville Longbottom, the same chubby kid who'd been sent to the hospital wing earlier that day.

"Oh, thank Merlin!" Neville looked like he was about to cry. "You finally came for me! I forgot the password, and I couldn't get back in—I thought I was gonna be stuck out here all night!"

Harry and Ron immediately averted their eyes, guilt bubbling up. Neither of them had noticed Neville was missing.

"How's your hand?" Harry asked, trying to change the subject.

"All healed!" Neville held it up with a proud grin. "Madam Pomfrey fixed it right up—she's amazing."

"That's great," Ron muttered, then glanced at the time. "Look, the password is 'Pig Snout.' But the Fat Lady's not back yet, so just wait here, alright? We've got… other things to do."

"Don't leave me!" Neville blurted, hurrying to catch up to them. He was not about to spend another second alone in the hallway.

And just like that, the duel crew grew from two, to three, to four.

Harry tried to comfort himself with the idea that more people meant more strength. If Malfoy showed up with just Crabbe and Goyle, they could definitely give him a proper beating.

They snuck through the castle, every creaking floorboard and twist in the hallway making them jumpy.

Fortunately, they made it all the way to the Trophy Room on the fourth floor without running into anyone.

Unfortunately, Malfoy never showed.

But Filch did—along with his cat—and they were clearly heading straight for the Trophy Room.

"You've been played!" Hermione hissed, furious. Then, without missing a beat, she shouted, "Come on!" and bolted toward the opposite door.

Harry and Ron followed, fuming.

Harry was livid. He'd been so nervous about the duel, terrified he'd flub his spells and embarrass himself in front of Malfoy. And now it turned out the whole thing was a setup.

CLANG—!

A deafening crash echoed through the castle—Ron had knocked over a suit of armor.

"That way! After them, Mrs. Norris!"

"RUN!" Harry yelled, and all four of them tore off without a single glance back. They sprinted through hallway after hallway, hearts pounding.

And just when they thought they'd lost Filch… Peeves showed up.

Of course he did.

The ghost howled with laughter, gleefully shouting out their location like a living burglar alarm.

Back to running.

Hermione's legs gave out first. She tripped over her own feet and stumbled hard.

She clenched her teeth, bracing for the crash—

—but it never came.

Instead, she landed softly, cradled in someone's arms.

She opened her eyes in shock, staring up into the face of the person who'd caught her.

"Tom?! What are you doing here?!"

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