I took one step forward—slow, measured, like a storm rolling in. The air in the common room thickened, heavy as a hex, and every gawking bystander froze like they'd been hit with a Full Body-Bind. Pathetic little statues, all of 'em.
"Tell me, Towler," I said, tilting my head just a fraction, voice smooth as a dagger's edge, "was that supposed to rattle me? 'Cause if it was, I gotta say—I'm yawning over here. The word 'Underwhelmed' doesn't even cover it."
I let my smirk stretch, slow and deliberate, a razor-thin slice of disdain. "I mean, on a scale from 'decent' to 'total dumpster fire,' I'd slap a big, fat 'pathetic' on that sorry attempt. And maybe scribble 'try harder' in the margins for you."
My words dropped into the room like lead weights, dripping with so much condescension it felt like the walls were sweating under it. I wasn't just talking—I was crushingly insulting, and they knew it. Towler's face twisted up tighter, a mangled mess of rage and shame, his fingers clawing his wand like it was the last thread of his shredded ego. The rest weren't holding up much better—doubt flickered in their eyes like dying candles, but oh, these Gryffindors, bless their reckless little hearts, doubled down with that brain-dead bravado they're so famous for.
Robes rustled like a storm kicking up—wands snapped out, catching the firelight in sharp, desperate glints. Lee Jordan. The Weasley twins. Alicia. Angelina. Towler. Six of 'em, clutching their sticks like a lifeline, banking on the "we've got numbers" card to bail out their fragile pride. Six wands to my one, like that'd somehow scrub away the creeping chill I'd already planted in their spines.
Big mistake. They didn't just pick a fight—they woke up a nightmare, and I was about to show them why you don't mess with someone who's already got you in checkmate position.
I tilted my head—slow, smooth, like a hawk sizing up a nest of shaky mice. My eyes didn't just skim over them—they pierced, weighing every twitch, every bead of sweat. And then—
I laughed.
Not some loud, chest-thumping cackle. Not a "ha, good one" chuckle. Nah, this was colder, quieter—a soft, knowing hum, the kind a wolf lets slip when the deer stumbles right into its jaws.
"Six against one," I said, shaking my head with a fake little pout of pity. "And here I thought Gryffindors were all about that fair-fight hype. What's next—bragging about courage while you're hiding behind your numerical superiority?"
The jab hit like a sucker punch. A couple of 'em squirmed—fingers tightening on their wands like that'd save their dignity—but not one dared drop their guard. Pride's a hell of a drug, huh?
Fred threw a sneer my way, all bravado and bad vibes. "Big words for a guy about to eat a hexes for today's snack."
I arched an eyebrow, smirk locked in place like a steel trap. "Big talk for a pack of scaredy-cats too chicken to step up solo."
That one stung— hesitation flickered, just a heartbeat too long, and I clocked the doubt seeping into their eyes like damp rot. They were cracking, and I hadn't even flexed yet.
I took one step forward. Just one.
Boom—the room jolted like I'd dropped a bomb. They instinctively felt something shot through the roof, their fingers jittering on their wands, breaths catching like they'd forgotten how to breathe. It was almost sad how easy they made it—six big, bold lions trembling at a single shadow.
"Go on then," I murmured, voice sliding out like silk wrapped around a blade. "If you're so dead-set on this, show me what you've got. Prove you god-damned worth."
The challenge hung there, heavy and sharp, daring them to move—and deep down, they knew they were already out of their league.
"Last chance, Ashborn," Jordan sneered, his voice wobbling like a bad impression of tough. "Stand down, or—"
I sliced him off with a laugh—short, sharp, and mean enough to leave a mark. "Or what, Jordan?" I drawled, tilting my head like I was studying a particularly dumb bug.
"You'll cry me into submission? Stomp your feet and pitch a fit?"
My tone continued with innocent fake drama, eyes glinting with a "you're a joke" kind of glee.
That one smacked him hard—Jordan locked up, wand grip going white-knuckle, and I could almost hear the rusty gears in his hollow skull grinding for a comeback. Good luck, pal.
I didn't let him breathe.
"Let's get one thing crystal clear," I said, voice dropping low—smooth, cold, with removal of dramatics, and heavy with menace which somehow changed the atmosphere. And it was felt by them. I then eyed then with a glare which a predator uses on a prey as I said,
"I don't need your pitiful 'chances,' and I damn sure don't bow to a squirming pile of spineless nobodies who think a gang-up makes them hot stuff."
Oh, that one burned them. Faces flushed, eyes twitched—my words didn't just sting, they gutted, leaving their egos bleeding out on the floor. The common room turned into a pressure cooker, air so thick you could choke on it. Someone—didn't care who—finally cracked, their brittle pride snapping like a twig under my heel.
A wand flicked. A spell flew.
Dumbest move they ever made.
They didn't stood a chance.
I was already gone—wand in hand with a flick so fast it was a blur. Before they could blink—
"Silencio."
The Silencio smashed Towler right in his smug mug before his spell could even dream of taking flight. Instant karma—his mouth flapped like a fish, but nada. Zip. Silent.
I didn't pause to gloat—didn't even blink. No time for showboating when you're this good. My free hand flicked out, casual as you please—
"Accio wand."
Towler's stick ripped free like it was dying to ditch him, zipping through the air in a perfect, "see ya" arc before slapping into my palm like it belonged there. I twirled it in my fingers, giving it a once-over with all the enthusiasm of inspecting a soggy sock—then scoffed, soft and bored, and chucked it aside like the junk it was.
It hit the floor with a sad little clatter, ringing out in the dead-quiet room.
The Gryffindors turned to stone—confidence crumbling, doubt oozing in like a slow leak they couldn't plug.
I tilted my head just a smidge, eyes glinting with something icy and blank—unreadable, untouchable. "Try that again, Towler," I said, voice smooth as glass, calm as a grave—practically daring him.
"Maybe next time, you'll figure out how to keep your toy in your sweaty little paws."
I let that sit—let it burrow deep into Towler's already battered ego, twisting the knife—then tossed in, like it was nothing, "And hey, this time? Try not to flop so hard. It's embarrassing to watch."
My words smacked 'em like a wet rag—sharp, stinging, lighting a fire under their sorry mix of fury and shame.
Spinnet—ego dripping like a busted faucet—snapped first, pure reflex over brains. Her wand jerked up, a Pimple Hex rocketing my way, sloppy with rage, no aim worth a damn.
I didn't even flinch.
One slick shift of my foot—barely a twitch, smooth as silk—and that sad little spell whiffed right past, smashing into a chair like a drunk missing the barstool. Pathetic doesn't even cover it.
My wand was already in play—no words, no fluff, just business.
Expelliarmus.
A red bolt ripped through the air like a gunshot, nailing Spinnet before her tiny brain caught up. Her wand tore free—spinning, flailing, a useless twig—and went airborne.
Her wand didn't even kiss the floor before—
Petrificus Totalus.
The spell Spinnet her like a freight train—her gasp choked off mid-breath as her body seized up, arms and legs snapping tight, spine going rigid like she'd turned to steel. She crashed backward, dropping with a dull, dead thud—a toppled statue, wide-eyed and locked stiff.
The room went graveyard-quiet.
They gaped—jaws slack, eyes bugging. That flimsy, puffed-up confidence they'd been clutching like a lifeline?
Gone. Smashed to bits.
I let out a slow breath, easing my wand down a hair—not 'cause I was worried, but 'cause I was already bored. My sharp blue eyes raked over them, every tick of the clock piling on pressure like a mountain dropping slow. The firelight danced, but it was a weak little glow next to the ice-cold "you're nothing" stare I was dishing out.
"Pathetic," I murmured again, voice cutting through the silence like a knife through warm butter. "That was your big swing?"
Not one of those Gryffindor clowns dared open their mouth. Smartest move they'd made all night.
I stood there, center of the wreckage—untouched, unbothered, cool as a breeze through a crypt. Not a bead of sweat, not a ruffled hair—just pure, eerie calm, like I'd barely lifted a finger.
This wasn't some run-of-the-mill kid they'd picked a fight with.
This wasn't your average lion.
And they'd just gotten the memo—loud and clear. They'd pissed off the real deal, and when a lion's on the prowl, there's no outrunning the claws.
But Towler—wandless, mute, and drowning in that thick-headed Gryffindor "charge first, think never" sauce? He didn't get it.
A silent, furious bellow ripped out of him—well, tried to, anyway. Then he lunged, fists balled up, all rage and no brains.
Stupid. Obvious. Weak as hell.
I didn't budge. Didn't flicker an eyelash.
My blackthorn wand gave a lazy flick, face blank as a slate, and I whispered—
"Impedimenta."
Towler's big, dumb charge imploded on the spot. His raging bull-rush turned into a snail's funeral march—legs dragging, slo-mo style, like he was stuck in molasses. His face locked up, a hilarious mash of fury and "oh crap, I'm toast" dawning slow.
He wasn't charging anymore—he was stumbling straight into his own grave, and I was the one digging it with a smile.
But then the Weasley twins—those sneaky little gremlins—kicked into gear, years of prank synergy flipping into a slick, lethal tag-team.
"Tarantellegra!" Fred fired off.
"Locomotor Mortis!" George piled on.
I twisted—smooth, sharp—dodging the Dancing Feet Jinx by a hair's breadth, but the Leg-Locker nailed me square. My legs slammed together, fused tight like a bad glue job.
The Gryffindors lost it—a wild, whooping cheer tore through the room, buzzing like static. They saw it—their spells sticking, finally landing a hit.
They thought they'd won.
Adorable.