Blaise Zabini's worried frown set Sean's senses alight.
Scanning the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, he caught furtive glances from other students—some smirking, others poised to mock.
Trouble's brewing, he thought, his pulse quickening with a mix of caution and thrill. Keeping his face neutral, he flashed a disarming smile and slid onto the bench beside Blaise.
The table groaned with roast chicken, golden potatoes, and steaming pies, the air thick with savory scents. Sean helped himself to a drumstick, chewing thoughtfully.
Sean swallowed, fixing Blaise with a steady look. "Blaise, how was your date this afternoon?"
Blaise studied him. Sean's calm, unruffled demeanor—same as ever—eased his nerves.
A grin broke through. "Not bad. Second-year girls have a maturity first-years lack. Her lips were soft. I liked it."
Relaxing, Blaise dug into his meal, and talked about what happened this afternoon.
"You mean Granger from Gryffindor? She's got her eye on you."
Sean chuckled, shaking his head. Blaise, ever the charmer, could spot a flirt from a mile away while half-listening in class.
With Sean to catch the lecture notes, Blaise never missed a beat. "Hermione's just competitive. She's after an intellectual sparring partner, not a romance. At our age, only you're chasing that, Casanova."
"I matured early. Know more than most," Blaise said, waggling his eyebrows.
"Don't try your girl-charming tricks on me. I'm immune," Sean shot back, smirking.
Blaise laughed, sipping pumpkin juice, then leaned in, his voice dropping as the table's prying eyes drifted away.
"That second-year girl I dated? She's got connections, heard some whispers. Some second-years are gunning for you. Tonight, in the common room, they're calling for a pure-blood duel—Slytherin tradition. If you call yourself Slytherin, you can't refuse. Dodge it, and they'll shun you—no common room, no table, nothing. You'll be an outcast in your own house."
A duel?
Non-negotiable?
Sean's heart leapt. Merlin's beard, this is perfect!
He'd been itching to flex his skills since arriving at Hogwarts, stifled by school rules against private brawls.
With a fifty-point debt already, he'd kept his wand holstered, his talents untapped. If I'd known about this tradition sooner, I'd have challenged a dozen rivals by now!
Outwardly, he kept his cool, shaking his head with feigned resignation. "If refusal's not an option, I'll duel. Have some faith in me, Blaise. Second-years may have an extra year, but I'm not losing. And once I win, anyone else thinking of challenging me will think twice."
And then I'll pick my own fights, he added silently, already plotting.
The pure-blood duel was a golden loophole in Hogwarts' no-fighting rule—a Slytherin custom to settle scores with wands drawn. Others might see a trap, but Sean saw opportunity.
He attacked his dinner with newfound gusto, the chicken vanishing quickly. Blaise, caught up in Sean's confidence, matched his pace.
They cleared their plates in record time, rising to head for the Slytherin common room. As they left, a gaggle of Slytherins—some with mischief in their eyes, others just eager for drama—trailed behind, their whispers buzzing like a stirred-up skrewt nest.
Samuel and Irina, the fifth-year prefects, watched from the table's end. Samuel raised an eyebrow. "Should we step in?"
Irina shook her head, her gaze sharp.
"They're all third-years and below—not true seniors. Our job's to keep the fourth-years and up off Sean's back." She glanced at the departing crowd.
"Besides, this'll show us what Sean's made of. If he handles this, with the talent he's already shown, he's worth our attention—even if he's not a pure-blood Bulstrode."
Samuel nodded. He and Irina, allies since their first year, had grown closer as prefects, quietly plotting their futures. Sean's flair in Potions and Charms had caught Samuel's eye early, but Irina, wary of the Bulstrode family's clout, had hesitated.
A victory tonight could tip the scales, proving Sean a worthy investment despite his squib-born roots.
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In the Slytherin common room, its green-tinged lanterns casting serpentine shadows, Sean moved with purpose. He slipped into his dorm, where Kulkan, his sleek snake from the Magical Menagerie, coiled lazily on the bed. Sean tossed her a vial of shimmering serpent feed, her hiss a soft thanks.
Shedding his formal robes, he donned light dueling robes and sturdy boots—nimble, practical, ready for a wand fight.
He rejoined Blaise at the dorm door, striding into the common room's central hall. A crowd waited, their eyes glinting with anticipation.
At the center stood Jason, the second-year who'd answered Miles Bulstrode's call for vengeance. Jason sneered, his wand twitching in his hand.
"Wearing those plain robes, you look like some mudblood. It's an insult to Slytherin!"
"If Slytherin's honor hinges on a mere robe, your view of our house is narrower than I expected."
At that moment, Sean suddenly appeared refined and composed in everyone's eyes. Every gesture he made seemed flawless—like the noble heirs of ancient pure-blood families seen at high-society gatherings—exuding grace and elegance.
This was the result of aristocratic etiquette Sean had learned from a wealthy, well-connected classmate at school. Now, as he demonstrated it, the impression he gave others shifted dramatically.
Jason stood facing Sean, a slightly rigid smile on his lips. Even he had to admit—Sean now looked more like a true heir of the Bulstrode family than he did. He exuded the poise and presence of an authentic pure-blood.
But things had escalated too far for Jason to back down.
"I don't want to hear any more excuses. By the rules of Slytherin, I challenge you to a pure-blood duel!"
Pure-blood dueling was a long-standing tradition within Slytherin—reserved exclusively for duels between pure-blood wizards. As long as it didn't endanger lives or involve the Unforgivable Curses, even the use of dark magic was permitted.
But this wasn't just an ordinary duel.
The loser of a pure-blood duel was bound by strict, humiliating consequences. They were expected to concede defeat and acknowledge their inferiority whenever they crossed paths with the victor at Hogwarts. For a pure-blood, this was tantamount to casting their pride to the ground and letting it be trampled.
However, if the loser refused to continue yielding, there was only one way to avoid that constant disgrace—they had to publicly admit surrender, submit to the winner's authority, and become their follower until graduation. It was said the Voldemort, during his time at Hogwarts, had amassed quite a few followers through this very rule. Though, no one had ever dared to verify that story.
Of course, pure-blood duels couldn't be initiated on a whim. There had to be a solid reason, and both duelists needed to be relatively close in strength. Otherwise, the rule could be abused by stronger students to bully the weaker ones.
"So... you're challenging me to a pure-blood duel over the clothes I'm wearing?" Sean asked, arching a brow.
"Of course not," Jason snapped. "I challenged you for a legitimate reason. At the start of the school year, you, a Slytherin, teamed up with two Gryffindors to beat up a fellow housemate. That act cost Slytherin fifty points and indirectly led to another sixty-point deduction—a total of 110 points! That's unprecedented in our house's history. So yes, I'm challenging you, and I have every right to do so!"
Sean had already guessed this would be his excuse.
In truth, if Sean asked himself whether Jason's reasons for the challenge were valid, the answer would be yes. From Slytherin's perspective, his earlier actions had indeed caused a serious problem. Even though he hadn't yet been officially sorted at the time, the trouble he brought upon the house was very real.
If he'd been sorted into one of the other three houses, things might've played out differently. He could've even gained popularity—maybe even fame—by earning those lost points back. But no, the Sorting Hat—cursed thing, probably should've been cremated—placed him in Slytherin. What might've been seen as boldness in other houses became disgrace here. Until he redeemed those points, every Slytherin had a reason to challenge him or hold a grudge.
The Head Girl's protection kept seniors at bay, but Jason's challenge likely had their tacit nod.
Jason's ability to step forward and issue this challenge likely had the quiet approval of certain upper-year students. Many disliked Sean over the incident.
Of course, Sean didn't particularly care about the politics or tension swirling around him.
In his eyes, the more pure-blood duels, the better.
"Alright," Sean said with a shrug, "your reason sounds fair enough. Let's begin the duel. But not here. If we damage anything, I'm not paying for it."
His casual agreement stunned Jason and his group into silence.
Wait… what?
Why did he agree so quickly?
Weren't we supposed to argue, pressure him, guilt-trip him? Weren't we going to threaten him into accepting just to humiliate him?
Why did he say yes right away?!
Everyone exchanged uncertain glances. Jason felt the moment slipping from his grasp.
Still, he managed to regain some composure.
"Well… since you've agreed so readily, there's no point in dragging this out. As for the location—this place is fine. If anything gets damaged, the Hogwarts house-elves can fix it. And for a short duel, we don't need to go elsewhere."
His voice hardened by the end, regaining a touch of confidence. Around them, the crowd instinctively stepped back, forming a makeshift circle around the two.
The stage was set.