Lockhart's shredded shirt was stuck to the gilded floor tiles, looking an awful lot like a mistletoe wreath trampled by a venomous unicorn.
The witches and wizards of all years gathered around the long table finally snapped out of their daze.
A little witch with twin ponytails clapped her hands over her mouth in horror, her voice cracking as she shrieked, "Oh, Merlin! Hawkwood's killed him!"
As her words sank in, the braver students in the crowd flinched, while the more timid ones immediately covered their eyes.
But there was also a group of boys whose faces flushed with excitement.
"Look at that! The professor who could take down a troll got flattened by Dylan with one spell!"
"Hahaha! No kidding! I didn't believe it at first, but—Dylan really did take out a troll all by himself!"
"Yeah, not many people saw it, but the professors all vouched for it! This guy who can't do anything right in class—I seriously wonder how he even wrote those books!"
The group chattered noisily, pointing and gesturing at Lockhart up on the balcony.
No surprise there—most of the loudmouths were Gryffindors.
A Hufflepuff witch couldn't hide her sympathy. A round-faced boy stepped forward, sounding panicked. "Come on, someone get the school nurse! He's bleeding so much!"
Over by the stands, Hermione's face was a mix of emotions. "He's not actually going to die, right?"
Ron shrugged. "Who cares?"
A faint cry drifted down from the long table.
"My guts—my guts! I can feel them spilling out—where's the doctor? Where's the doctor—I need a doctor!"
Lockhart was sprawled on the ground, warm blood pooling out of him, his lips trembling in terror.
He lay almost flat, too scared to move or even speak loudly, terrified that one wrong twitch might actually make his intestines spill out for real.
His weak pleas for help were drowned out by the chaos around him.
Dylan pressed his lips together. Figuring it was about time to patch the guy up, he stepped forward, ready to cast a spell.
But then Professor Snape swept in, his robes billowing behind him like a storm.
Snape stopped beside Lockhart. His expression was as icy as ever, but Dylan—who'd known him for at least a year—could tell something was off. The professor's mood…
Was he actually enjoying this?
The tiniest smirk tugged at Snape's lips, though it vanished when he glanced down at Lockhart, who was whimpering and muttering nonsense. A flicker of disgust crossed Snape's eyes.
"Oh, the great Lockhart," Snape said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Didn't you tell the students that if we'd been in the same year, Potter's wife might've been yours—and the Chosen One would've been your kid?"
Snape's lips tightened, his jaw clenching as he hissed through gritted teeth, "Only now, it seems you've lost even the admiration of these little witches and wizards around you, haven't you?"
It was phrased like a question, but it carried the weight of a statement.
As he spoke, Snape silently cast a spell to block the surrounding students from hearing him.
Even Dylan was shut out.
But—Dylan was close enough. Snape's silencing charm was strong, but lately, after picking up the languages of various creatures, Dylan had somehow gotten freakishly good at lip-reading.
So he caught the gist of why Snape had it out for Lockhart.
And honestly, he should've seen it coming.
Snape didn't like *anyone*, after all.
But no matter how much he disliked someone, he rarely did anything about it.
The only person who could really get under Snape's skin enough to make him act? That pureblood girl.
Dylan smacked his lips, unsure whether to cast a counter-spell and save Lockhart.
Sure, he hadn't hit anything vital, but too much blood loss could still kill a guy.
Luckily, it seemed Snape just wanted to teach Lockhart a lesson.
After saying his piece, Snape didn't wait for a response. He grabbed Lockhart's head by the hair—like he was hauling a dead pig—and yanked him up.
With his other hand, he pulled out his wand, aiming it at Lockhart's blood-soaked body. His thin lips moved quickly, chanting the counter-spell for *Sectumsempra*.
"*Vulnera Sanentur… Vulnera Sanentur… Vulnera Sanentur…*"
(patreon belamy20)
Snape's voice was low and commanding. The healing spell seemed to charge the air with a strange pull.
As his wand traced rhythmic patterns over the wounds, Lockhart's torn flesh began to knit itself back together. The bleeding slowed noticeably.
The splattered blood around them gathered drop by drop, forming a thin red stream that swirled around the two before seeping back into Lockhart's wounds.
As the blood flowed back in, Lockhart's injuries healed completely—not a single scar remained.
*Sectumsempra* was a brutal spell, but its counter-charm could erase the damage entirely, which was why Snape had created it. It had spread widely as dark magic, yet no one ever called him out for it.
No one stood up and demanded to know why Snape would invent something so cruel.
Without the counter-spell, *Sectumsempra* could leave you bleeding endlessly, the wounds never healing on their own.
But as long as you knew the counter-charm, you could wipe out its effects completely.
When two wizards fought, it came down to who could gain the upper hand with their spells first.
That's why *Sectumsempra* had become so practical—after all, it was hard to die from it.
Still, it was considered "low-tier" magic.
Dylan figured if it didn't have a counter-spell, it could easily rank as a mini Unforgivable Curse.
Bleeding someone out to death? That sounded pretty evil just saying it.
Before long, color returned to Lockhart's paper-white face. The floor was spotless—no blood in sight—and his wounds were gone.
Of course, while the counter-spell could heal *Sectumsempra*'s damage, it couldn't fix a shredded robe.
Which meant…
Lockhart was left sprawled on the ground, not a scratch on him.
But his tattered clothes couldn't hide the flabby rolls on his stomach. His pale, doughy skin looked like frozen pork straight out of the fridge—or maybe a boiled chicken.
Lockhart blinked in a daze. When the pain suddenly vanished, his eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet.
"Where's my robe?"
His gaze darted around, searching for his pink robe, but it was nowhere to be found.
With no other choice, he crossed his arms over his chest, pinching the scraps of his shirt together to cover his flabby, exposed body.
Snape gave him a once-over, and Lockhart shrank back.
He still didn't get it—why did Snape always seem to have it out for him?
What did he mean by that comment earlier?
Did Snape want to be the Chosen One's dad too?
Hmph, figures—everyone's the same deep down!
Lockhart grumbled to himself.
Then Snape's voice boomed through the hall. "Hawkwood! You dared to seriously injure a professor in a demonstration duel! I'll have to put you in detention!"
Dylan: *Wait, what?!*
How was this his fault now?
"Professor! Didn't you okay this?!"
Merlin's beard—Voldemort help him!
This sneaky, double-crossing git needed reining in!
Snape had even used an amplification charm for that little speech, his voice echoing through the entire hall.
He'd put extra emphasis on "seriously injure a professor," too.
Lockhart snapped out of it, his eyes bulging.
"Wait, hold on!"
Clutching his tattered shirt, he looked like a duck that'd been assaulted, killed, and then miraculously brought back to life.
He stumbled forward, shaking his head.
Sure, Dylan had beaten him to a pulp, but he couldn't admit that. Instead, he had to stop Snape from punishing the kid.
"He didn't seriously injure me—I mean, Snape, Mr. Hawkwood didn't do anything wrong! I was just… putting on a show!"
"To help the kids build confidence in their spellcasting, I don't mind taking a hit—to my dignity, that is."
"Of course, I'm sure you all know I could've stopped him. Blocking his spell would've been a piece of cake for me!"
"But confidence is key for these kids. If they can't face a crisis or a stronger enemy, how are they supposed to lift their wands and fight back?"
Lockhart stood there—one hand on his stomach, the other on his chest. Despite his sorry state, he didn't seem embarrassed. He carried himself with a breezy calm.
Dylan had to hand it to him—Lockhart, that little weasel, had clawed his way to fame with just one spell. He had something going for him.
Moments ago, he'd been gutted, screaming, begging for help.
Yet here he was, spinning a story to save face in front of everyone, coming up with a halfway decent excuse on the spot.
The crowd below had been stunned, but after hearing Lockhart, some of them even nodded like it all made sense.
*Oh, I get it now!*
*It was all Professor Lockhart's clever plan!*
*Wow, he really went all out!*
Meanwhile, Fred and George slipped through the crowd, snagging the discarded hot-pink robe off the floor.
They exchanged a look, their eyes glinting with galleon-shaped mischief, their smirks slyer than a veela's mating dance.
Snape narrowed his eyes at Lockhart's ironclad excuses, reminded of Hagrid's rock cakes.
Those things had nearly chipped his teeth once.
Then he reined in his thoughts, his lips twitching into a smirk laced with pure malice.
"I had no idea that was just a demonstration. My mistake for stepping in, then. Since it's all a misunderstanding—"
Snape's voice was deep and cold, edged with menace.
Dylan, marveling at how Lockhart's mouth was tougher than Voldemort's Horcruxes, raised his wand again. His eyes locked onto Lockhart's thighs—or, more precisely, what was between them.
Maybe he'd blow something else up this time.
Might cheer Snape up a bit.
Either way, he was Team Snape all the way.
Lockhart froze on the platform, watching the teacher-student duo. His butt clenched in fear.
He was genuinely terrified Snape might make him go another round with Dylan.
That kid was like he'd been raised on steroid potions!
How was he *that* good?!
Lockhart had started this club hoping to make a splash at his debut.
His original plan? Challenge Snape to a duel. Beat the famed Potions genius, and his reputation would soar!
But then he'd worried that humiliating Snape might embarrass the so-called prodigy, so he'd asked the staff to recommend a student instead.
Every professor had pointed to Hawkwood. He'd seen the kid in class and figured—how hard could it be?
No way he, Gilderoy Lockhart, would lose to a second-year brat!
So he'd agreed.
Big mistake. The little punk came at him with zero mercy, slicing him open with vicious dark magic!
And to think he'd planned to go easy, just disarm the kid!
Snapping back to reality, Lockhart cut in before Snape could pit him against Dylan again.
"I think this demonstration's done enough to boost Mr. Hawkwood's confidence, don't you? He did take down a famous professor, after all!"
Lockhart forced a smile, ragged but still charming. "So let's call it here and move on. It's getting late—time for the kids to rest."
He turned to Dylan. "Mr. Hawkwood, you can step down. You did great. I hope my efforts paid off for you."
Then he addressed the crowd. "Alright, come closer! I'll split you into pairs for some basic dueling practice. Professor Snape, care to help me group them?"
"Of course."
Dylan hopped off the platform and joined Neville.
(End of Chapter)