Harry Potter: Westeros's Plant Life

The Great Hall buzzed with residual magical energy as students continued their practice duels under the eyes of their supervisors.

"Mr. McMillan, don't be nervous—you're about to snap your wand in half with that death grip," Adrian called out, his voice carrying a mixture of patience and mild exasperation as he observed a trembling Hufflepuff boy whose knuckles had gone white around his wand handle.

The poor student's hands shook so violently that his spell work resembled more of a seizure than proper magic.

Across the hall, another disaster was unfolding. "Mr. Boot, don't throw your wand—it's not a Quidditch Quaffle!" Adrian's sharp command barely prevented a Ravenclaw student from hurling his wand at his opponent like some sort of dart.

The boy caught his wand mid-throw, looking sheepish as several nearby students snickered at his unconventional approach.

From another corner came an even more bizarre scene that made Adrian pause in bewilderment.

"Oh, miss," he said, his voice strangled with disbelief, "wizards don't typically use their teeth when dueling..."

Under the combined supervision of Adrian and Snape, with Lockhart's occasional thoroughly unhelpful interference, the Dueling Club managed to stumble forward like a three-legged dragon trying to flight.

Spell sounds rose and fell throughout the Great Hall, though it was still somewhat chaotic.

Most of the students were still unskilled at casting spells under pressure. Their classroom theory had not prepared them for the adrenaline and performance anxiety of even mock combat.

Wands wavered, incantations were mangled, and more than a few spells went wildly astray, requiring quick intervention from the supervising professors.

But despite the chaos, the frequent mistakes, and the occasional near-disaster, there was an undeniable energy in the air. The students were learning, slowly but surely, and their enthusiasm more than made up for their current lack of skill.

Overall, it had been a decent evening—certainly educational, if not totally smooth.

As the practice session continued to wind down, with students growing tired and their spell work becoming increasingly sloppy, Adrian finally decided it was time to call an end. He raised his hands and clapped them together with a sharp sound.

"Today's Dueling Club ends here," he announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the Great Hall.

Rather than the relieved faces he had expected, the students instead surged forward. Their faces were flushed with excitement and exertion, their eyes bright with the thrill of what they had just experienced. They crowded around Adrian with eagerness.

"Professor, when is the next meeting?" The question came from multiple voices simultaneously.

"Will you come guide us again?" asked a earnest-faced Ravenclaw, pushing closer to the front of the gathering crowd.

"Can we practice the Shield Charm next time?" added a Hufflepuff girl, her voice high with excitement.

The students were clearly reluctant to leave.

Seeing this surge of attention directed at someone other than himself, Lockhart immediately stepped forward. At the same time, Adrian tactfully stepped back after all, this was technically Lockhart's Dueling Club, regardless of who had actually provided the effective instruction.

"Of course it will continue!" Lockhart announced with his usual energetic enthusiasm, his perfect smile blazing like a beacon as he basked in what he hoped would be attention. "If there's sufficient interest, I can certainly arrange to hold these sessions every week—"

"Professor Westeros, will you come?" The interruption came from a small Hufflepuff girl whose quiet voice cut through Lockhart's grandstanding.

Lockhart's smile froze on his face, his mouth twitching unnaturally twice: "Well... of course... I think we'll need to see what Professor Dumbledore thinks about the scheduling..."

Honestly, Adrian had no desire to continue with such large-scale Dueling Club meetings. The evening supervising these energetic but largely unskilled students was exhausting work that drained him more thoroughly than a full day of advanced magical research.

The constant vigilance required to prevent serious injury, combined with the need to provide individual guidance to dozens of students simultaneously, had left him feeling like he'd been trampled by a herd of centaurs.

Small-scale instruction with a select few motivated students would be acceptable—even enjoyable. But managing a crowd of this size, with their varying skill levels and competing demands for attention?

He'd rather face a dragon with a broken wand.

At this moment of uncomfortable silence, Snape's cold voice cut through the lingering awkwardness. His gaze swept over the still-chattering students with obvious disdain before delivering his verdict in tones that could have frozen summer rain.

"There won't be a next time," He said flatly, his words carrying the finality.

Then, he turned his sharp stare on Adrian.

"And you, Professor Westeros," Snape continued, "I believe we're not finished yet."

After saying this, Snape immediately left the Great Hall.

Adrian shook his head helplessly and thought to himself.

'A competitive fellow indeed,'

After Snape had killed what remained of the evening's cheerful atmosphere, the students began to disperse in smaller groups. Their voices gradually faded as they made their way back to their dormitories, still chattering excitedly about the evening's events and speculating about future meetings that now seemed unlikely.

Finally, only Adrian and Lockhart remained in the Great Hal.

"Well then, I'll take my leave, Professor Lockhart," Adrian said with tactful politeness, giving a slight nod. "If you do decide to organize another meeting and require assistance, please don't hesitate to contact me."

Lockhart stood in place, his expression like an overturned potion bottle.

After hearing Adrian's words, he slowly nodded without saying anything.

He seemed simultaneously beaten down and bewildered, like a man who had entered a battle expecting easy victory only to discover he had brought a quill to a wand fight.

Either way, Adrian felt that Lockhart wouldn't be organizing another Dueling Club anytime soon. His performance today could hardly be called outstanding.

After the meeting ended, it was already quite late.

Harry and the others were sitting around the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, discussing the recent duel club.

"So... you were practicing dueling with Professor Westeros all summer?" Hermione's eyes widened, "No wonder your Shield Charm was so proficient—ah, I shouldn't have slacked off during the holidays. But Wait, aren't underage wizards not allowed to use magic during summer break?"

"There are always ways around such restrictions," Harry said confidently, "For instance, in places where adult wizards regularly gather and use magic, the Ministry of Magic can't distinguish between underage and adult spell-casting."

Ron slumped in his armchair, stuffing Bertie Bott's beans into his mouth: "When Harry was at our house during the summer, he was constantly sneaking off to practice his spell work. And he kept trying to drag me along for 'training sessions,' as he called them. Honestly, I thought he was becoming a bit obsessed with it all..."

Harry's expression brightened considerably at this reminder and he turned to face Ron with genuine enthusiasm.

"But you performed well today, didn't you?" He said encouragingly. "Did you notice Crabbe during the sessions? He was behaving like some sort of gorilla, just grabbing at people with his bare hands. You certainly wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in such a way, would you?"

The mental image of Crabbe's approach to dueling struck all three friends as hilarious, and their laughter echoed warmly through the common room.

Their pleasant conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps on the stone stairs leading down from the dormitories.

Neville appeared moving obvious distress. His face was flushed with exertion and anxiety, and he seemed so focused that he failed to notice the furniture in his path.

The inevitable collision occurred with a solid thunk as Neville's foot connected with the leg of Harry's chair.

"Ow—"

Neville painfully crouched down, clutching his toe.

Hermione's leaned forward with concern and asked. "Neville, what's wrong? Why are you rushing about in such a state?"

Neville struggled to regain his footing, tears of pain glistening in his eyes as he hopped awkwardly on one foot. "I... I left my wand behind in the Great Hall,"

He managed to gasp out between embarrassment and physical discomfort.

Everyone fell silent for a moment.

For a wizard to actually leave behind their wand was quite ridiculous.

But considering that this was Neville, the situation became suddenly and sadly understandable.

Harry released a long sigh. "Your memory really is quite problematic, N Neville, this can't continue forever, you'll end up in serious trouble one day."

Neville's response was to scratch the back of his head in a gesture of sheepish embarrassment.

"My grandmother says exactly the same thing; she became so concerned about my forgetfulness that she purchased a Remembrall for me."

Ron looked up from his scrutiny of a suspicious-looking bean, his expression brightening with interest. "Well, that should solve your problem then. Where is this Remembrall?"

Neville answered innocently. "I forgot where I put it."

The response was so Neville that his friends could only shake their heads.

With another sigh, Harry pushed himself up from his comfortable chair.

"I'll go with you, Neville, We can't have you wandering the castle alone at this hour—you'll either get lost or stumble into something dangerous. Remember last time you tried to navigate the corridors after dark? We found you the next morning fast asleep outside the common room entrance, still trying to remember the password."

"Th... thank you, Harry," Neville stammered and he looked very nearly ready to burst into tears of relief.

Hermione glanced at the clock on the common room wall. "You have perhaps thirty seconds before the official curfew takes effect."

Harry gave her a reassuring look. "Don't worry about us. Filch's actual patrol rounds don't begin this early in the evening."

Three minutes later, Harry and Neville were tiptoeing through the dim corridors.

"Are you certain you left your wand in the Great Hall?" Harry whispered. "And not beside your pillow or under your bed or in some other equally obvious location?"

"Definitely in the Great Hall," Neville replied with unusual firmness, nodding his head with more conviction than he typically showed. "I have a very clear memory of placing it on the floor beside my feet. I was trying to tie my shoelaces properly, when two students nearby began arguing quite loudly about something. The sudden noise startled me so badly that I... well, I simply forgot to pick up my wand when I stood up."

'Very much like Neville indeed.'

"Very well," Harry murmured with acceptance. "Just remember to be extremely careful not to be discovered by any of the professors."

Soon, they reached the Great Hall doors.

Just as Neville was about to push the door open, Harry grabbed his collar and stopped him.

Neville was startled: "What?"

Harry put his finger to his lips, softly "shushing," and whispered: "Someone's there."

They immediately held their breath and listened carefully. Footsteps could be heard from inside the Great Hall.

Hearing the footsteps getting closer, Harry quickly pulled Neville to crouch in the shadows of a corner.

"Don't speak a word," Harry whispered. "Don't even breathe loudly."

Neville immediately put both hands over his mouth.

Because they were wearing black robes, hiding in the darkness was no different from using a Disillusionment Charm—they blended perfectly with the environment.

Soon, the Great Hall doors opened.

A figure slowly emerged. In the dim moonlight, golden curls and purple robes revealed his identity—Lockhart.

Harry immediately relaxed.

Lockhart was probably just finishing cleaning up after tonight's dueling club.

Besides, even if Lockhart discovered them, it wouldn't be a big deal—he wasn't as strict as Professor McGonagall.

Just praise him a bit and everything would be fine.

However, Lockhart looked rather angry at the moment, muttering something to himself.

Harry listened carefully and could vaguely make out some words.

"Damn it... didn't you say you could make me win?"

"I don't trust you? How is that possible!"

"Oh, I didn't do anything to sabotage you—that's not my fault, it's your own problem."

Was this talking to himself?

Harry felt somewhat confused.

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