The Duelist

"Cassius tells me you performed a Wronski dive on a school broom," a deep but polished voice announced from behind Harry at the Slytherin dinner table.

Resigned to the fact his senses needed fine-tuning for this brave new world, Harry turned toward the wall to face Marcus Flint. His body immediately assumed a respectful posture that didn't just come from the fact he desperately wanted to be on the Quidditch team.

"Yes," Harry answered, assuming it had something to do with the maneuver he used to catch the Remembrall.

"Impressive…or beginner's luck," Marcus said evenly. "I'll need to see with my own eyes."

"When?" Harry immediately asked, ready to get on a broom that second.

"Saturday dawn," Marcus answered. He then walked to the left down the length of the Slytherin table.

"Wait, where?" Harry called out. But Marcus either didn't hear him or ignored him.

Harry spun to face his Slytherin yearmates to see if he would get any help, but one scan of their faces showed they either didn't know— the majority, wouldn't help— Draco, or hated him— Theodore.

Harry couldn't ignore that last one. Now that Theodore had a wand, still looked pale and still twitched every two or three minutes, Harry needed to extend some sort of olive branch or find somewhere else to sleep.

"I…I didn't know that was your mom's wand," Harry started, figuring it had some sentimental value. Maybe it was his mom's first wand? The one she went to school with?

My mom's wand would have been useless to me, but maybe it worked for him?

Theodore's eyes narrowed from across the table.

Mama's boy, but so is Dudley, Harry considered as he kept his face respectful. Mama's boys could be dangerous, even if they were kind of pathetic.

"Look, I'm sorry if she's mad," Harry said with sympathy. Maybe Theodore's mom called him worthless? Told him every way he made everyone's lives worse? Was ignoring him completely? Harry could relate. In many ways, he preferred Sir to Ma'am, even with Sir's beatings. Sir always remembered he existed. And in his own way, Sir was trying to make Harry better. Ma'am just wanted Harry to suffer in silence until he disappeared.

Theodore glowered with rage as his face turned sheet white.

"It'll blow over though," Harry encouraged with a smile, trying to get through to Theodore. "She'll get over it."

Pansy gasped — did she not think Theodore's mom would forgive him?

Okay, sure, Ma'am never forgot whenever I broke something — or the things Dudley blamed me for breaking. But Ma'am wouldn't give me something like that to start with.

"Whaddya say we start fresh?" Harry offered with an inviting smile and outstretched hand.

Theodore's entire body shook as he snarled and glared daggers. Pansy gave Harry a look that seemed to say "stop talking."

Harry ignored it. Never again would he be walked over by some mama's boy and his clique.

"Okay, I tried to be nice," Harry shifted to a harsh tone that reflected his true feelings. "You were asking for it, attacking me from behind. Coward! And what? Mommy said a few mean words and I'm supposed to cry for you?"

"Guess you'd never cry for your mother, huh?" Theodore croaked back, the first words Harry had heard him speak all day.

"Why would I?" Harry responded straight away, having been asked the question many times and in many ways by Dudley.

Then Harry smiled as he remembered his mom was actually a well-respected war hero, not a drunk cultist who got herself blown up in a car crash.

"She died a hero's death against Voldemort, moments before I avenged her," Harry declared with a proud smile. Proud of his mom for the first time he could remember.

"So proud about that, aren't you?" Theodore growled.

"Of course," Harry replied genuinely, but with an obnoxious smirk to upset his enemy.

"You and Dumbledore, you've doomed wizardkind," Theodore rasped. "Traitors! You've taken over the government, the press, entertainment — especially with all your disgusting 'Boy-Who-Lived' folktales — hah! And you've made a mockery of education. But that wasn't enough, was it? Now, you're here to burn this house from within! The last bastion of truth and tradition in this once great nation!"

"Are you done?" Harry sneered with a roll of his eyes.

"You don't fool me, Potter," Theodore — or Nott I guess, looks like we really are going by last names — spat out. "Dumbledore confunded the hat to put you here. But we all know where you'd have gone if you dared sit under it!"

Nott flicked his left-hand into a V gesture aimed behind him toward the Gryffindor table.

"I'm more a Slytherin than you'll ever be," Harry returned cooly. "Also, you're so proud of Voldemort? You wanna talk about how wonderful Voldemort was? Just remember, if you please, he went and got himself blown up!"

I need to thank Ma'am for that line, Harry smiled as his Slytherin yearmates instantly looked down at their food and let him finish his meal in peace.

He also found it amusing how they flinched at their precious Dark Lord's name.

Cowards.

September 3

Harry woke up to tremors from his faithful wand as it sensed dawn's light, even though he couldn't see the beautiful sky for himself due to the lake his ancestor shoved Slytherin students under.

"Thanks, Salazar," Harry grumbled under his breath as he unfolded his arms from his chest, against which he had held his wand, and gathered his supplies for both his morning routine and for the day.

Fortunately, he didn't own much as everything he owned had been purchased on Sunday. And of those, the only two things he really cared about were his wand, which he kept on him at all times, and his owl, who he had to put in the Owlery. He would have loved to have her with him every night, but he feared Nott would kill her the first chance he got.

And thanks to Nott's seething hatred of him, Harry had no choice but to close his eyes only when he knew everyone else was asleep (he found a spell for that in the library the very evening after his discussion with Nott) and to wake up before his roommates.

Luckily, his wand happened to be as intelligent as any sentient being — perhaps more so. When Harry prayed to it for help, the next morning it woke him up at what Harry figured to be dawn when he saw a clock. And given the time was 5:42 a.m., it had done it again.

Finishing his shower, and making sure to be keep his voice down during a certain aspect of his morning ritual, Harry walked out of his compartment dressed in a lightweight silver button-down shirt and black pants underneath a silver belt, a green-and-silver striped tie and the standard black Hogwarts robe with the Slytherin insignia on the left chest.

"So, you're either a swot, or you're afraid of your roommates," Cassius greeted from the sinks as Harry walked toward them.

"I'm not afraid of anyone," Harry defended himself.

"Mm-hmm," Cassius hummed disbelievingly as he gave a pointed once-over to Harry's full school attire.

"Thanks, by the way," Harry shifted the subject. "I never got a chance to thank you for the word you put in with Marcus."

"Best call him Flint or 'the captain' till he gives you permission to use his given name," Cassius corrected.

Gee, what's with wizards and this last name business?

"I see," Harry responded. "By the way, Captain Flint never said where I should meet him on Saturday?"

"He didn't?" Cassius asked with a raised eyebrow as he completed his morning routine.

"Well, I guess I'd find him at the Quidditch practice field, but I don't know where that is," Harry admitted.

"That doesn't matter; we don't use it," Cassius informed as he walked toward the door.

"There's a special Slytherin practice field?" Harry asked.

"We have the wealthiest alumni by far," Cassius answered with a smirk.

"And where is the field?" Harry followed as the older boy exited the shower room.

"The arena location's only given to team members," Cassius shrugged.

"Wait, how am I supposed to get there then?" Harry asked desperately.

"I said the location's only given to team members," Cassius repeated with a conspiratorial smile. "I just so happen to be headed there in four minutes, and you happen to know that."

Oh, Harry realized.

At six on the dot, as Captain Flint marched out his team for their second morning drills of the week, Harry trailed at a quiet jog — finally finding a use for his Hogwarts cloak's hood.

Even better, Flint led the seven-man team through Hogwarts' vast corridors and winding stairways without lights, which gave quite a bit of cover to a small eleven-year-old boy who perfected the art of disappearing from his stronger cousin and his jock friends.

After about a dozen minutes, the Quidditch team walked down a remote backway only to reach a dead end — except it proved to be a false wall.

Harry's eyes widened in marvel as Flint put his hand against a seemingly barren stone wall only for it to hiss!

We recognize this one, Harry heard a female voice rasp.

But he is trailed, a deep male voice hissed. Harry's breath stopped at that.

Yet we know that one, do we not? suggested a tenor-pitched rasp. A spark of relief burgeoned in Harry.

So young, so fresh, sing-songed an icy female voice.

But to be considered another time, a commanding baritone rasp dictated.

Admit. The five voices said in unison, at which moment the wall seemed to take a slightly fluid appearance. It still stood perfectly upright, but it almost seemed as if…

Cassius walked right through it, along with the rest of his teammates with the exception of the captain.

"I believe I said Saturday dawn, not Wednesday sunrise," Flint drawled without turning around.

"Uh…you didn't…say where to meet you?" Harry stammered out while running his hand through his hair.

"Silly me," Flint shrugged dismissively. "And silly you for being such an obvious tail."

Despite the captain still facing the Slytherin Quidditch practice arena's entrance, a casual upward flick of his wand caused an invisible force to seize Harry's left ankle and hoist the eleven year old into the air — upside down.

"I trust you won't blab, now that I've let you see where we practice?" Flint asked.

"No, of course not!" the dangling Harry promised.

"Guess I'll let you hang around then," Flint said with amusement at his pun. The captain then walked through the stone wall itself, at which point it resolidified.

A few seconds later, the invisible grip on Harry abruptly dissipated, leaving him to unceremoniously flop down to the ground flat on his face.

"Ow," Harry bemoaned his broken nose as he rolled onto his back.

"Nice face, Harry," a familiar posh voice said with a chuckle.

"Ha, ha," Harry drily returned as he looked up at his platinum-blond roommate, whose hair seemed silvery in the shadowy passageway.

"Episkey," Draco said while pointing his wand at Harry's nose. The nose immediately righted itself, though not without another wave of pain.

"Ugh," Harry groaned.

"You're supposed to catch yourself on your hands when he does that," Draco informed as he pocketed his wand and outstretched the now free hand. "He might even give a nod of approval if you handspring yourself to your feet. The first time you do it, anyway."

"Thanks for the tip," Harry genuinely thanked as he clasped Draco's hand and the blond helped him up. "So, we back on a first name basis?"

"I was not a good sport about our Monday flying match," Draco acknowledged.

No shit, Harry held back from saying.

"I could have been better too," Harry offered with a shrug. "It…it was fun flying against you," he added.

"You are easily the most skilled of my agemates," Draco complimented. "It would be my pleasure to fly with you."

"The two of us, or…" Harry prompted, figuring Draco had a reason to have followed him at this particular time.

"Also as teammates, in due time," Draco said.

"In due time," Harry repeated drily.

"Next year is the first we will be allowed to try out, and we both know there will be only one opening on the starting line-up," Draco cut to the chase.

"Yes," Harry affirmed.

"But next year will be Marcus' last, meaning he will need a replacement in our third year," Draco continued.

"Hmmm," Harry hummed noncommittally.

"Why should we wrangle over one spot when there will be room for both of us?" Draco asked rhetorically.

"I just want to be on the team," Harry said.

"And you will be," Draco returned earnestly. "Say, I know Marcus quite well. If you like, perhaps I can convince him to take you on as a shadow chaser next year."

"Shadow?" Harry returned discontentedly, not liking the word very much.

"Every team is allowed an official eighth member to act as a substitute in the event that a team member is injured, indisposed or otherwise unavailable at the time of a match," Draco explained. "In theory, the shadow's role is variable, but he is almost always trained for a specific position that will be open the following year."

"Hmmm," Harry hummed again.

"You would attend all team practices, matches, events and retreats, and you would be considered one of us socially," Draco added, as if sensing Harry's thoughts.

Hmmm, that's not so bad, Harry figured.

"You would have the team's full support against the likes of Theodore in addition to my own," Draco promised.

"Do I have yours now?" Harry asked.

"I like you more than I do Theodore," Draco answered. "And I genuinely hope you and I will see each other as friends sooner than later."

I wonder how much that depends on me accepting the shadow role for Quidditch next year.

"I'd like that too," Harry returned honestly. "But, pardon me for asking, but weren't your and Nott's fathers…associates?"

"Years ago, and they never saw eye to eye," Draco answered easily. "The elder Nott then passed his grievances on to his son, as you have seen."

"Mm-hmm," Harry agreed.

"Well, I suppose I should let you get going to the library," Draco said as he suddenly produced the black leather backpack Harry had left behind in a corner of the common room. "But I do hope you will join us for breakfast."

And so Harry had his first Hogwarts breakfast.

"Ahh," Harry sighed dreamily after swallowing a succulent bite from a meaty omelet that could knock the socks off of Gordon Ramsey!

He hadn't wanted to ask out of fear of appearing ignorant, but he could no longer hold it off. He needed to know…

"How does the Headmaster do it?" Harry whispered to Draco.

"Do what?" the blond replied from Harry's left.

Harry nodded slightly toward the meal of the day, which had simply appeared on his plate when he sat down.

"What do you…oh," Draco trailed off as amusement sprang in his eyes, as if he and Harry had just traded an inside joke.

"Well?" Harry pressed.

"I'm sorry, it's just I thought you could do it," Draco said louder than Harry wanted.

"Do what?" Pansy asked from across Draco.

"Conjure our meals of course," Draco answered. "It appears the Headmaster forgot to share that trick with Harry."

"Uh…well…" Harry stammered as he scrambled for ways to redirect this conversation.

Nott snorted with his usual disdain from across Harry.

"We learn this as children," Nott drawled with a sneer.

"Mm-hmm," Pansy affirmed, but not viciously like the boy next to her.

Harry looked around the table and saw a nod from Daphne, who sat on the other side of Pansy, and a haughty smirk from Blaise. Vincent, Gregory and Millicent, seated to the left of Draco in that order, were fortunately too busy eating to add to Harry's humiliation.

All the same, Harry barely kept himself from flushing.

"Of course I can make food," Harry said evenly. "I just want to see your recipe."

"He can make food, he says," Nott jeered. "What are you, an elf?"

If elves exist, how can that possibly be an insult? Harry wondered.

"Maybe I am," Harry returned with a self-assured gaze.

Nott laughed sharply, as did Blaise. Pansy and Daphne laughed as well, but not harshly like the former two. Draco for his part chuckled in a good-natured manner.

"Come, come, Harry," Draco said as he patted Harry's back. "We all know Dumbledore didn't raise you as a servant."

Wait, what? Harry's mind started racing.

Elves are servants? How's that possible?

Wait a minute, what did he mean 'we know Dumbledore didn't raise you as'…

Oh my God, do they think Dumbledore raised me?

They totally do!

THAT's why Nott thinks I'm plotting with Dumbledore to take Slytherin down.

Wait a minute. Why didn't Dumbledore raise me?

Why was I left with a family who hated me, hated magic, and raised me like…a servant?

Oh hell. If the others ever find out, I'm done for.

Wait…what if I "tell" them?

"You're right," Harry smiled back at Draco. "I actually slaved away for a family of muggles."

All the first years laughed at this "joke," including Harry. It felt liberating.

"The worst part…is I could actually see…Dumbledore doing that!" Draco sputtered between laughs. "Don't see how…the old goat…stomachs the competition!"

"Beats me," Harry answered with a toothy smile and innocent shrug.

But his laughter now was as icy as Dudley's mother's heart.

Hagrid better have answers.

Harry's mood took an upturn when he and his yearmates walked toward their first class of the day — Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell.

"You look cheerful," Draco noted as they neared the classroom.

"I think Professor Quirrell's cool," Harry said.

A derisive snort sounded from Nott, as to be expected any time Harry opened his mouth.

"You could use some combat lessons, mama's boy," Harry sneered without turning around.

Damn, it really gets to him, Harry noted smugly as Nott's breathing tensed for a second.

"Of course you would think a Muggle Studies teacher worthy of Defense Against the Dark Arts," Nott bit back after a very quick recompose.

Harry frowned at the mention of the subject, but he didn't let it lower his opinion of Professor Quirrell. Even from his passing interactions with the wizard, he felt more at ease with him than he had with anyone else at Hogwarts.

Maybe anyone else period.

So for the first time in four years, Harry willingly sat in the front of the classroom.

"Good morning, students," sounded the cheerful, confident voice of the brunet professor.

"Good morning, Professor Quirrell," Harry and most of the other students cheerily returned.

"Welcome to your first Defense Against the Dark Arts class," the professor introduced. "Now, first things first, I know you are at different starting points. Many of you have been raised among wizards and know quite a bit about wandwork. Or, at least you think you do."

Professor Quirrell's lips lifted into an amused smile at this.

"However, others of you are new to this world and know only what you have seen in textbooks," the professor continued. "And maybe, one or two of you found out you were a wizard just this week."

A small shiver went through Harry's shoulders, but he was immediately calmed by the professor's winning smile.

"So I'll start with something most of you haven't heard much about," Professor Quirrell said. "Wandlore."

"Ugh," Ron softly sighed from behind Harry.

"Now, I know this may seem dull and most of you want to get to the wand-swishing," the professor said with understanding. "And I promise we'll get there. But half of a duel is knowing yourself and your power. And few better measures exist than the type of wands you hold affinity for."

"Now, does anyone know three components of a wand?" Professor Quirrell asked.

Harry didn't need to know where Hermione was sitting to know she had raised her hand.

"Harry?" the professor called.

Harry froze.

"Think about anything Ollivander may have mentioned when you were trying your wand," Professor Quirrell suggested encouragingly.

"Unicorn-tail-hair core, wood of willow, somewhat swishy," Mr. Ollivander told of Harry's mother's wand and its powers. "She was as great a master of healing charms and protective magic as I ever saw."

"A mighty core made from Hungarian Horntail's heartstring," Mr. Ollivander described Harry's father's wand. "Mahogany wood — terrific for transfiguration."

"Here you go, Mr. Potter," Mr. Ollivander said when he finished Harry's wand. "Aspen wood. Fox-Phoenix core. Fourteen inches. Reasonably-supple flexibility."

"There's the core, the center of the wand's power," Harry started. Professor Quirrell nodded encouragingly, prompting Harry to go on.

"There's the wood, which I think affects the wand's abilities," Harry continued. "Like if a wand is better for healing charms or transfiguration."

Professor Quirrell's maple-syrup colored eyes shone warmly.

"And there's how swishy…no, how flexible a wand is," Harry added. "Not the wood, I think, but the power within it. I think that has to do with the personality of the wizard."

Professor Quirrell beamed, and Harry did too in return.

"Very good, Harry. Very good," the professor complimented. "There's also the wand length, but nearly all modern wands fall between ten and fifteen inches. Twenty-five and thirty-eight centimeters for any young folk who prefer metric measures. There is concern that wands longer than that, while certainly stylistic, have ineffective magical flow. And wands shorter than ten inches…well, their owners are considered to have certain deficiencies."

Ron snorted, and he was not alone from what Harry could hear.

"Now, as Mr. Potter described," Professor Quirrell continued without a hitch. "The specifications of the wands you purchased from Ollivander — or inherited, provided they work well for you — reveals much about your mental and magical characteristics. No two wizards are the same, so no singular instruction method should be followed religiously. Understand yourself and your power to understand what techniques you will excel at."

"But this is easier said than done, particularly in a vacuum," the professor stated. "For our first exercise, trade wands with the person next to you and do your best to feel out the differences your partner's wand has from yours."

Both Draco and the kid on Harry's right — Oliver if he remembered correctly — turned toward him, but Draco was faster. Giving Oliver an apologetic shrug, Harry exchanged wands with Draco.

Harry respectfully handled the caramel brown wand Draco handed to him, though he kept track of his precious wand through the corner of his eye.

Unfortunately, he couldn't effectively do two things at once, and thus couldn't glean much from Draco's wand while he still watched his own.

"If you're worried about your classmate holding your wand, just remember you're holding theirs," Professor Quirrell supplied to the class. "Besides, claimed wands are rather difficult to break, even for fully-trained wizards. Wand breakage almost never happens by accident, and I would of course intervene if any student attempted the crime of intentionally breaking another wizard's wand for whatever reason."

Oh. Whoops.

Pushing down the revelation he was officially a criminal, and trusting Professor Quirrell to step in if Draco tried any funny business, Harry let go of his wand and synced himself with Draco's.

Or tried to, at least.

There lay a tangible discord within the wand's flow of power, a living contradiction. Like how a mighty storm brought both the nourishment of water and the fire of lightning. Like how Sir yelled at him almost every day, but was the only person willing to give him a home. Like how he was a celebrity among wizards, but found out he was a wizard just days ago. Like…

Like how Voldemort took away Harry's family, yet was the only family Harry had left.

"He who was born as the seventh month died," a lordly voice proclaimed.

Harry looked up to see a tall, cloaked man who seemed to be the personification of a starless night. No, darker. Like a portable black hole, one that sucked all warmth, color, joy and life into himself. Yet Harry somehow found the strength, despite his hammering heart, to look into the dark demigod's only discernible feature.

Half-hidden by a midnight-black hood, his marble-white statuesque face gazed upon Harry expressionlessly. Even so, Harry nearly collapsed from the piercing power emitted by glowing crystal-blue eyes set on vantablack eyeballs.

Barely maintaining consciousness, Harry knew he was looking at death given form.

"Know this brings Lord Voldemort no pleasure," the almost-divine being declared as he leveled a bony wand at Harry's face. "In another life, you could have been a worthy apprentice. But if my most faithful speaks truly, this world does not have room for us both."

"Avada Kedavra," he pronounced as an acidic-green beam of energy consumed Harry's world.

But instead of the searing fire that he feared, Harry instead felt a water-like coolness flow through him and gently guide him to the waking world.

So that's what a unicorn core feels like, Harry realized as the aura of calm tamed his spirit in a way he had never before experienced.

The feeling of conflict remained, but it swirled at the periphery. Like a hurricane raging around him while he sat peacefully at the cyclone's eye.

"Lumos," Harry whispered the spell Professor Flitwick taught on Tuesday in their first Charms class.

An orb of blue-white light shone from the tip of Draco's wand. While not as bright as the one Harry produced yesterday, it took less effort to maintain even output.

"It takes a mighty wizard indeed to comfortably use another's wand," Professor Quirrell suddenly said from directly in front of Harry. "Tell me, how does it feel compared to your own wand?"

Harry felt a guarded but focused stare land on him at that moment. Draco was listening to every word.

And so was the class, given the sudden silence that fell over the room.

"The power conduit is about as flexible as my wand," Harry started. "Not too loose, but not stiff either. There is…a complex dynamic in the wood that channels a range of emotions, and then focuses them."

Kind of like my own wand, except mine sharpens me instead of calming me.

"Focuses into a blade?" the professor asked, his mind clearly on the same page.

"It's more of a center, like the eye of a hurricane," Harry described.

Possibly due to the wand he was holding, Harry felt like he could gauge Draco's emotions and ever so slight reactions like he had known the boy for years. Draco seemed pleased at Harry describing the power of his wand like a hurricane, but seemed a teeny bit disappointed by Harry saying it was not like a blade.

"And how would you describe the core?" Professor Quirrell asked.

Harry knew he didn't hear this, but he could swear all the same that Draco just sharply inhaled.

The core. He doesn't like the core!

But why? It balances the wand perfectly.

Then Harry remembered how power burst from the dragon-heartstring core wand he tried — and how he accidentally sent Mr. Ollivander flying with it. Unicorn tail hair was nothing to scoff at, but Harry knew which core he would pick any day. Especially with his "duelist's disposition."

Harry met Draco's eyes briefly to see if he was on the right track. His gut said yes.

"The core is that of a mighty dragon," Harry told the professor. "Goes with your name, I guess," he added while turning directly to Draco and giving a friendly smile.

I've got your back if you've got mine.

Draco beamed for the first time Harry ever saw.

"Very perceptive, Mr. Potter," Professor Quirrell complimented. "Such knowledge of young Malfoy will serve you well should you ever find yourself in a duel with him."

"And what say you of Mr. Potter's wand?" the professor asked Draco.

"Well, it is certainly powerful," Draco started. "It seems quite spirited, like Harry himself. In fact, its aura feels very much like his."

"Is that so?" Professor Quirrell asked softly. "May I see?"

Draco handed the wand to the brunet professor, who gingerly ran his left fingers along its shiny ivory-colored length while spinning the wand slowly with his right fingers.

Harry didn't know if he was imagining things, but he felt a sense of recognition emit from his wand toward the professor. Meanwhile, the professor looked at the aspen wand as if it were an old friend he had not seen in years. And though Harry was new to magic, he sensed the energy flowing from the wand and his favorite professor complimented each other near perfectly.

Or maybe even perfectly.

And so Harry felt jealous.

"You own a very fine wand," Professor Quirrell broke the temporary silence with an affectionate yet slightly forlorn smile. "One of Ollivander's best, I dare say. Aspen wood?"

"Yes sir," Harry answered, all feelings of jealousy gone as quickly as they came.

"A wood revered by the great duelists," Professor Quirrell informed approvingly. "A companion told me of an elite dueling club — The Silver Spears — which selects only from those who carry an aspen wand. They're very strict about that, though legend has it yew passes the test."

Harry beamed at this knowledge.

"But however special your wood is, the phoenix core within is truly extraordinary," the professor continued. "It wouldn't be… fox by any chance, would it?"

Harry made another mental note to check what powers the fox-breed of phoenix possessed, but he confirmed his teacher's guess.

"Marvelous, truly marvelous," the professor breathed with wonder. "And if you don't mind me asking, was this custom-made? The fierce loyalty it holds for you feels like you've wielded it for years."

"He was," Harry answered with a smile, subconsciously realizing he just personified his wand.

As if on cue, a snort of disdain sounded from the one and only Nott.

"A truly exquisite wand, Mr. Potter," Professor Quirrell said reverently as he handed the wand back. "I trust you will take care of him?"

"To the very best of my ability," Harry promised the wand, the professor and himself.

Other pairs described their partners wand after that, though no one could quite offer the detail that Harry had been able to for Draco's wand. Professor Quirrell however proved to be a walking encyclopedia of wandlore, and so Harry learned much of his friends and classmates' wands.

Seamus Finnigan fittingly wielded a wand with a Hungarian-horntail heartstring core and spruce wood — which apparently meant he would cast many potent, dramatic spells in the future. Ron wielded an ash wand with a unicorn-tail-hair core, which Professor Quirrell noted would work poorly for anyone besides its true owner. Neville wielded a wand of the same wood, but with a phoenix-feather core.

On that note, phoenix feathers seemed a relative rarity compared to the other core types. The only others with one in their wands were Lavender Brown — one of the girls that kissed Harry after he caught Neville's Remembrall, Anthony, Michael, Susan Bones and, last but unfortunately not least, Nott.

"Ah, Ebony," Professor Quirrell murmured as he handled Nott's wand. "I once had a most faithful…friend…who wielded an ebony wand. He also used a phoenix feather incidentally. One of the most capable wizards I knew, as quick with his wit as with his wand."

Noted, Harry filed away the potential information on Nott. He may be even more dangerous than I. Even if he's stopped twitching.

Also on the list of wands to take particular note of — though Harry took notes on all — was Anthony's blackthorn wand, which marked him as a prodigious warrior, Pansy's black-walnut, dragon-heartstring wand which denoted her as a sharply perceptive and unapologetically ambitious witch, Ernie's red-oak, dragon-heartstring wand which characterized him as an exceptionally fierce if not impulsive wizard, Cho's elm, unicorn-tail-hair wand which epitomized grace and Michael's hazel wand which would apparently act as a direct extension of his emotions.

Yet of course, how could the list not be complete without Hermione's wand? Naturally, since she had to be talented at everything, her vine-wood wand (too special for trees, huh?) meant she apparently sought to change the world or something. Her wand core specifically came from the heartstring of a Hebridean Black dragon — one of the most deadly species of dragon, yet also the most intelligent.

If she just wasn't such a know-it-all, Harry inwardly sulked, still a tad bitter about how obnoxiously she raised her hand while Snape did his best to humiliate him.

Just when the professor finished describing the final pair of wands, Justin Finch-Fletchey's English-oak and Daphne's pine—both sporting unicorn-tail-hair cores, the bell rang.

"How time flies," the professor said. "On Friday, we will discuss why wands became the weapon of choice among wizards, and the advantages and disadvantages they bring."

Harry smiled at the professor, who smiled back with approval and appreciation. It warmed Harry's heart to finally be a student a teacher thought worth paying attention to.

"Ho, Harry," Draco called loudly as the two exited the classroom among the throng of their classmates.

"I'm right here," Harry reminded his rather dramatic friend.

"Say, the professor marked you as a dueling prodigy," Draco continued in an only slightly lowered pitch. "I happen to have great interest in dueling myself, but I have found myself bereft of a challenge among my peers as of late."

A snort of indignation sounded from Anthony two or three meters ahead.

"I was wondering if you would care for a match," Draco said while putting his arm over Harry's shoulders. "The Boy-Who-Lived versus the heir to the Malfoy pedigree. It would be quite the spectacle!"

Suddenly, all nearby conversations evaporated as the pair's classmates watched them with rapt attention.

"Uh, well…" Harry eloquently responded.

"Oh-hoh-hoh, it's about time someone taught you a little humility," Anthony hurled at Draco.

"Harry'll mop the floor with you!" Seamus predicted.

"Maybe you'll be less mean," Neville suggested.

"You're a right pain in the arse," Terry half-whispered.

"Well, what do you say?" Draco asked Harry pointedly.

"Yes. What does the mighty apprentice of Dumbledore say?" Nott added mockingly.

"Yes!" Harry answered more forcefully than intended.

"Duels outside the classroom are strictly forbidden!" Hermione exclaimed in indignation.

"Then we'll have to keep our friendly contest away from unwelcome eyes," Draco replied casually. "How does half past Friday midnight sound? Any upper years left in the hallways will be stumbling back to their houses, and the prefects on patrol will be counting down the minutes till their shift ends."

"12:30 a.m.?" Harry asked for clarification, to which Draco nodded.

"Alright, where?" Harry followed up.

"The third floor of the Grand Staircase tower," Draco said with a smile.

Hermione gasped for some reason, but Harry paid it no mind.

"I'll be there," Harry promised while putting his right arm over Draco's shoulders.

"Perfect," Draco smiled. "Oh, and who will your second be?"

"I will!" Ron exclaimed before Harry even had the chance to ask what that was. Harry nodded at Ron anyhow, assuming Ron was doing him some sort of favor.

"Very well. Mine will be Theodore," Draco said.

Harry looked at Draco, surprised and a bit hurt he would choose Nott.

"Don't worry, Nott will not be hurling hexes at you," Draco assured. "Right?"

Nott flashed a dangerous smile that didn't promise anything.

"It is settled then," Draco determined. "I suppose I can't stop any of the rest of you from wandering near our match — provided you act with honor, of course."

Some muffled laughs and snorts sounded among the first years, but the group quickened pace toward their next course with a bounce that wasn't present before.

"I must say, I look forward to you knocking Malfoy down a peg or ten," Ernie said with a pat on Harry's back, not minding that Draco was just to Harry's right.

"I hedge my bets on you, chap," Justin offered his confidence.

"Good luck, though you prob don't need it," Oliver added with a fist bump.

Harry couldn't help his wide smile; his yearmates' faith and support felt nice. But there was just one problem.

Harry didn't know how to duel.