"Longbottom, Hawkwood, you two are paired up."
Professor Snape tossed the words over his shoulder as he passed Dylan, then strode off to the side without another glance.
Dylan nodded lightly and turned to Neville beside him. "Looks like we're—"
Neville's face crumpled. "W-wait, I have to duel *you*?"
Dylan chuckled, his tone warm and reassuring. "Relax, I'm not gonna treat you like some Irish punching bag."
But his words only made Neville tremble harder. "B-but…"
Before he could finish, Snape and Lockhart had already paired up the rest of the students.
"I declare the duels begin now!" Lockhart's voice rang out. "But first, face your partner and show some gentlemanly—or ladylike—grace! Bow!"
Dylan placed his wand across his chest and gave Neville an elegant, polite bow. "No 'buts' about it, Mr. Longbottom."
Neville swallowed hard and returned the bow, albeit shakily.
It wasn't that he thought Dylan was lying—surely no one would blast a friend with dark magic right off the bat, right? It was just… Dylan's earlier display had been so ruthless, the aftermath so brutal, that it left Neville rattled.
He'd never seen Dylan truly *go for it* before!
It was terrifying!
Neville was already a timid soul, but sharing a dorm with Dylan for a year—watching him sass the heavens, the earth, and everything in between—had rubbed off on him a little. He'd picked up some weird shred of confidence.
Still, after what Dylan had just done, who'd dare pair up with him? Even the other kids had scattered like he was a walking plague zone the moment he stepped forward.
That left Neville standing there alone.
Ron had even ditched him to team up with Seamus instead of risking it with Dylan.
"Alright, kids, wands up—get ready to duel!" Lockhart called, his voice brimming with newfound vigor. The students following his orders seemed to boost his ego again.
"Here's the rule: no offensive spells allowed. You can only use *Expelliarmus* to disarm your opponent!"
"Unlike me, you lot don't have the skills to handle dark, powerful foes," he added. "So neither I nor Professor Snape want to see any accidents!"
"Three, two, one—!"
*Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!*
Lockhart didn't even get to finish the countdown before a bunch of jittery young witches and wizards fired off spells in a panic—first-timers flinging magic at each other without hesitation.
Dylan, though, stayed calm and let Neville go first.
"*Expelliarmus!*" Neville shouted. A red streak shot toward Dylan.
With a casual flick of his wand, Dylan deflected it effortlessly.
*Bang!*
The sudden loud noise that followed made Neville's face go pale. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself.
But after a moment, when nothing happened, he peeked one eye open.
Dylan was looking off to the side. Over there, Ron's hair was sticking up like he'd been electrocuted, faint wisps of black smoke curling from it.
The explosion hadn't come from Seamus, his partner, though—it was Ron's own faulty wand acting up again.
"Sorry, I panicked and fired early—didn't want *you* to blow me up first," Ron said sheepishly to Seamus.
Seamus's spells had a knack for turning into accidental explosions no matter what he cast. But this time, he hadn't been affected by Ron's mishap. Scratching his head, he mumbled, "Uh… no—no worries?"
Dylan snickered, then nodded toward Hermione for Neville to look.
Neville glanced over. Hermione was desperately trying to disarm her opponent, but the other kid had grabbed her wrist, wrestling her in a full-on brawl. She couldn't even get a spell off.
Clearly, her partner had figured out the best way to win wasn't with magic—it was with muscle.
"Hey! You can't just grab my wand like that!" Hermione yelled. "You're supposed to use *your* wand to cast a spell!"
Her opponent ignored her, sticking close and grappling harder.
"See?" Dylan said, turning back to Neville. "Duelling's not that scary. Either you get hurt, or they do."
Neville: "…"
"If you're so worried about your opponent hurting you that you give up before you even start, you've already beaten yourself up worse than they ever could."
Neville blinked, his expression softening as he mulled it over, a thoughtful glint flickering in his eyes.
After a moment, he nodded. "I get it, Dylan. Thanks for pointing that out."
Dylan smirked, shrugging lightly. "It's no big deal. You, the Weasleys—you're some of the few friends I've got around here."
Between cramming for studies and diving into research—whether it was hands-on experiments or spellwork—Dylan spent most of his time alone. It took a lot out of him.
So yeah, he usually kept to himself.
The only people he was remotely close to were his dormmates and the Weasley family—folks he could actually call friends.
Truth be told, ever since arriving in this world—before getting his Hogwarts letter or stepping into the wizarding world—Dylan hadn't really felt the urge to make friends.
At most, he'd considered cozying up to Harry and his crew for practical reasons—like getting in good with Hagrid to run errands, or banking on Harry's connection to Dumbledore so the old man might cut him some slack if things ever went sideways.
He didn't want to waste energy on building some big social circle.
To Dylan, having friends nearby might bring a little warmth now and then, but they couldn't face his soul for him.
He'd rather spend that time digging deeper into magic.
Coming from a non-magical world to a real magical one—even if it was mostly mind-based, low-magic stuff—didn't dampen his drive to push further into the craft.
Friends? Even Voldemort himself couldn't stop him from studying!
That said, just because he didn't go out of his way to charm everyone like the Weasley twins didn't mean he didn't need friends at all.
Most of the time, Dylan enjoyed the quiet of his own company, perfectly content in his little bubble. But every now and then, he still needed someone to chat with.
He figured he was a lot more driven now than in his past life—no early mornings or overtime back then had ever gotten this much effort out of him.
Still, he saw himself as a normal guy—not some nutcase like Voldemort, who'd toss everything aside and dive headfirst into darkness just to chase his twisted spell research and grand ideas.
Even Grindelwald needed some emotional connection, after all.
Dylan? He was fine with the occasional casual talk. No way was he turning into Grindelwald—or wanting to.
To him, the wizarding and Muggle worlds didn't have some massive, irreconcilable clash.
Grindelwald's whole deal—stopping Muggle progress to avoid bloody wizard-Muggle conflicts—sure, it was noble in its own way.
But if it were up to Dylan?
He'd probably slap on a shadowy ring, squat nearby while wizards and Muggles beat each other half to death, then step in once they'd croaked. He'd use their bodies and loot for a bit of light research.
They're already dead, right? No harm in turning them into stepping stones for magical and tech breakthroughs.
Didn't they say revolutionary soldiers were like bricks—moved wherever they're needed?
If a war's raging, isn't that a revolution?
Round it up, and whether it's Muggles or wizards, they're all revolutionary soldiers, aren't they?
So, sliding that brick under his own feet didn't seem like a problem.
Dylan casually helped Neville practice casting spells and aiming at opponents.
Up on the platform, Snape watched in silence while Lockhart flitted around the students, yammering away.
"Oh, my goodness! Calm down—don't panic! Trust me, press the wound, use a healing charm—do it yourselves! I told you, no other spells! So if something happens, I'm not stepping in—this is a lesson!"
Lockhart had insisted on *Expelliarmus* only, and aside from Hermione's group—still locked in their wrestling match—most kids stuck to it… for about two seconds. Then they started slinging whatever spells they knew, leading to a few minor scrapes and bruises.
But Lockhart acted like those tiny cuts were life-threatening disasters.
As for Harry, he'd been paired with Malfoy.
Their duel was hands-down the most intense and entertaining of the bunch—curses flying left and right.
Snape, though, stayed close to them on the platform, keeping watch. With him there, nothing too awful went down.
After telling a bleeding student to heal themselves, Lockhart climbed back onto the stage.
"I really ought to teach you properly how to shield yourselves from harmful magic," he declared.
He almost asked Snape or Dylan to join him but caught himself just in time.
"How about a pair of volunteers to help me demonstrate? I think Miss Granger and Miss Bustode would be perfect—"
Snape cut him off. His gaze flicked to Harry at his feet, a dark glint in his eyes, followed by a faint, mischievous smirk.
"No need to drag the ladies up here. Why not have Potter and Malfoy show us instead?"
His voice was icy, but Lockhart let out a huge sigh of relief.
As long as it wasn't that Hawkwood kid, he was golden.
"Absolutely!" Lockhart agreed, waving Harry and Malfoy up. "Everyone, step back—watch out for stray spells!"
The crowd shuffled away from the platform.
Lockhart clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Pay attention—when Draco points his wand at you, do *this*!"
He'd somehow sweet-talked another robe off a student during his rounds, draping it over himself to look less pathetic.
But as he raised his arm, wand poised for some dazzling spell—
*Clatter.*
His wand slipped right out of his hand and hit the floor.
Snape loomed over him, watching him scramble to pick it up, disgust practically oozing from his eyes.
Harry hadn't had much chance to chat with Dylan lately, but he'd heard from Hermione about Dylan's earlier take on Lockhart.
Recalling how Dylan had flattened the guy in one hit, Harry pressed his lips together. "Professor, what are you—?"
"Ahem, perhaps I shouldn't have tested that powerful spell beforehand—it's got my wand a bit too excited," Lockhart said, flashing his signature grin. "Alright, let's get started, Harry! Remember what I showed you!"
"What, you mean dropping your wand on the ground?" Harry asked, bewildered.
Lockhart acted like he hadn't heard, waving his arm dramatically to kick off the duel.
Harry barely had time to react before Malfoy snapped his wand up. "*Serpensortia!*"
A flash burst from Malfoy's wand tip.
A black snake shot out, thudding onto the floor with a heavy *whump*.
*Hiss, hiss.*
It reared its head and slithered toward Harry.
Caught off guard by Malfoy summoning a snake, Harry locked eyes with it for a moment, then looked back at Lockhart.
"Professor, you said you'd demonstrate—so what do I do now?"
"I…" Lockhart started.
Before he could finish, the snake lunged forward, picking up speed.
"Professor?"
"Can't stop it? Fine, I'll handle it!" Lockhart yelped, leaping in front of Harry.
He tried casting a spell at the snake—and botched it. Instead of vanishing it, he provoked it further.
*Hiss, hiss!*
The snake sprang off the ground, coiling around Lockhart's neck.
"Cough—wait, this isn't—cough—supposed to happen!"
It bared its fangs, ready to strike.
Snape, inwardly cursing Lockhart's idiocy, furrowed his brow and raised his wand to deal with it.
But Harry stepped closer—not to Lockhart, but to the snake—and started speaking in a strange, hissing tone.
Dylan, who'd recently caught a snake in the Forbidden Forest and refined its soul, could understand basic snake language.
He caught every word of Harry's hissing.
The snake did too. After glancing at Harry, it slowly unwound itself from Lockhart and slid to the floor.
"Hmm. I can understand snake speech after refining that snake's soul, but I can only chat with them. Harry, though—he seems to actually *command* snakes, and they listen," Dylan mused, rubbing his wand thoughtfully.
"Harry's soul… it'd be pretty valuable for research."
By refining a species' soul through the "Soul-Seizing Tongue" method, he could master that creature's language.
But Harry, with his Parseltongue—could Dylan inherit that ability if he refined *Harry's* soul?
"Now *that's* a dangerous, wild idea," he thought, chuckling to himself.
It was just a passing notion, though.
Using Soul-Seizing Tongue on a living person wasn't something he'd ever seriously consider.
Unless, of course, he'd already taken them out with a Killing Curse.
Once they were dead, extracting their soul wouldn't weigh on his conscience.
But Harry was his friend now—how could he even think of using such a wicked curse on a buddy?
"Still… if I could figure out a counter to the Unforgivable Curses—make them *forgivable*—then wouldn't it be reasonable for a good friend to volunteer their soul to help my research along?"
*(End of Chapter)*